The document lay flat on the polished glass table, its pages thick and heavy, as though they carried more than just printed words.

Amelia Hart stared at the bold title at the top of the page.

Marriage Agreement.

Her fingers tightened around the strap of her worn handbag as her heart pounded loudly in her chest. She had read the contract three times already, yet it still felt unreal.

Across from her sat Ricardo Kingsley.

Cold. Composed. Untouchable.

He leaned back slightly in his chair, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, his long legs crossed with effortless authority. His sharp features were calm, unreadable, and his dark eyes held no warmth as they settled briefly on Amelia—then away again, as if she were merely part of a business transaction.

Which she was.

The silence in the private law office stretched until it became suffocating.

“This contract is simple,” Ricardo finally said, his voice low and firm. “We get married. You play the role of my wife in public. In return, you get financial support.”

He paused, then added without emotion, “Nothing more.”

Amelia swallowed.

The lawyer beside them cleared his throat and slid the pen toward her. “Miss Hart, once you sign this document, the agreement will take effect immediately.”

Her eyes flickered down to the papers again.

Five years.

That was how long the marriage would last.

No love.

No emotional involvement.

No expectations beyond appearances.

Ricardo leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. “I want to be very clear,” he said, his tone sharp but controlled. “There will be no feelings attached to this marriage. What we are doing here is strictly business.”

Amelia lifted her head and met his gaze.

“I understand,” she replied quietly.

“Good.” His eyes hardened. “Because I won’t tolerate complications.”

The words stung more than she expected.

She nodded anyway.

You knew this would happen, she reminded herself. You agreed to this.

Amelia drew in a slow breath as her mind drifted back to the reason she was sitting here in the first place.

Her tuition fees.

The eviction notice slipped under her apartment door.

The nights she spent staring at the ceiling, wondering how she would survive another month.

She had no wealthy family to rely on. No one to rescue her.

This contract wasn’t a dream—it was a lifeline.

This is not about love, she told herself firmly. It’s about survival.

Ricardo straightened and pushed the document slightly closer to her. “If you have doubts, now is the time to speak.”

She hesitated for a brief second—then shook her head.

“No,” she said. “I’ll sign.”

The lawyer exhaled in relief.

Amelia picked up the pen, her fingers trembling as she lowered it to the paper. Her name stared back at her from the blank line, waiting.

With one final breath, she signed.

The sound of the pen scratching against paper echoed loudly in the room.

Ricardo took the document next and signed without hesitation.

Just like that, it was done.

Amelia Hart had become Mrs. Kingsley—on paper.

Ricardo rose to his feet immediately. “The wedding will be small. Just family. No unnecessary attention.”

She stood as well. “Alright.”

“You’ll move into my mansion today,” he continued. “Your room is already prepared.”

Her heart skipped.

“So soon?” she asked before she could stop herself.

Ricardo’s expression remained indifferent. “This marriage starts now.”

She nodded again. “I understand.”

He turned toward the door, then paused. “One more thing.”

Amelia looked up at him.

“Don’t forget your place,” he said calmly. “You’re here to fulfill an agreement, not to interfere in my life.”

The words were clear.

Sharp.

Final.

“I won’t,” she replied softly.

Ricardo walked out without another glance.

The Kingsley mansion loomed before her like something out of a dream—or a warning.

Amelia stepped out of the car slowly, her suitcase in hand as her eyes took in the massive iron gates, the towering structure, and the manicured gardens stretching endlessly on both sides.

This was no longer her world.

A uniformed staff member bowed slightly and led her inside.

The interior was grand yet cold, every surface polished, every detail perfect—but lifeless.

“This will be your room, Mrs. Kingsley,” the maid said, opening a door on the second floor.

Amelia stepped inside.

The room was large, elegant, and beautiful—yet it felt empty.

As the door closed behind her, Amelia placed her suitcase down and sat on the edge of the bed.

She wrapped her arms around herself.

Five years, she reminded herself. Just five years.

No matter how lonely it felt.

No matter how cold he was.

No matter what her heart might foolishly want.

She had made her choice.

And this mansion—this loveless marriage—was now her reality.