AVA MONROE'S POV
They say desperation makes you blind, but I knew exactly what I was doing the moment I signed that contract.
I wasn't blind. I was broke, humiliated, and tired of pretending I still had control over my crumbling life.
Marrying him, Ethan Kingsley, billionaire, ruthless corporate tyrant, and the man who once humiliated me in front of an entire
ballroom, wasn't just a mistake.
It was the beginning of a decision that would unravel everything I thought I knew about hate, love,
and myself.
I didn't walk into Kingsley Enterprises that day looking for
a miracle.
I walked in wearing my last decent blouse, heels that pinched, and pride tucked deep into my
pocket.
The receptionist looked at me like I didn't belong, like the scent of desperation I carried was somehow contagious. And maybe it was.
Maybe that's why Ethan saw me in the reflection of the conference room glass and decided I was the perfect candidate for his ridiculous proposition.
"You're late," he said without looking up. Just like that, without even checking if I was who he was expecting.
He just assumed, as always, that the world rotated to his script. "Close the door."
I did. And that's how it began. The door to my old life closed with a soft click, and a new, chaotic one creaked open.
He sat there, cold and calculated, in a chair that probably cost more than my rent.
A man with too much power, too little patience, and eyes that saw through every wall I had ever built. And still, I walked toward him, the contract he would slide across the table waiting to entrap me.
"I need a wife. You need money. Let's not waste time pretending this is about anything else."
His bluntness stung more than it should have.
I bit back the urge to lash out, to remind him that once upon a time, I wasn't just some disposable option in his empire.
I was Ava Monroe, top of my class, full scholarship, and engaged to a man who adored me.
That was before the scandal.
Before the betrayal. Before my father was arrested, my mother disappeared, and my name turned to ash in every headline.
"I'll need conditions," I said, lifting my chin.
He laughed, a low, cruel sound. "You think you're in a position to negotiate?"
"Yes."
He leaned forward. "Go on."
"I won't sleep with you."
His eyes didn't flicker. "Understood."
"There's an exit clause."
"Two years minimum."
"And you don't get to control me. Not outside the terms of the contract."
"That will depend on how convincingly you play the part."
I signed the contract anyway. With a hand that didn't shake, and a heart that thundered.
Because sometimes, survival means marrying the enemy.
And Ethan Kingsley? He was a devil in tailored suits.
But I had been through worse.
Or so I thought.