Chloe burst through the revolving doors of the Plaza Hotel, the morning breeze whipping her bare arms. She flagged down the first yellow taxi, stumbled into the back seat, and breathlessly gave her Brooklyn address. The taxi sped off, a chill running down her spine—she hadn't used any contraception. Her stepmother's scheme, tequila, and that stranger. No protection whatsoever. Not a single bit.

“Pull over!” she yelled at the driver, noticing the pharmacy sign at the same time. “There, stop!”

She threw the cash across the seat, ran into the store, and grabbed a box of emergency contraceptive pills from the shelf. At the checkout, her hands trembling, she paid, tore open the packaging, and swallowed the pills dry in the aisle. Only then did she dare to breathe a sigh of relief.

Three weeks later, Chloe felt nauseous every morning, constantly plagued by fatigue. She sat in the cold examination room, her paper hospital gown rustling with each shallow breath. The doctor's words struck her like a heavy blow.

"Miss Prescott, you are pregnant."

“Impossible. I took emergency contraception that day,” Chloe said sharply, her voice trembling.

"It's not 100% effective. But the test results are crucial."

The world seemed to tilt. She was pregnant. The father was a stranger, whom she mistook for a male prostitute. The irony pierced her heart like a sharp blade.

Chloe's phone, which was in her wallet, suddenly vibrated violently. It was Judith Prescott calling, her stepmother.

The voice pulled Chloe back to reality. She replied, her voice hoarse and raspy, "What?"

“Chloe, don’t talk to me like that,” Judith’s condescending voice came through the loudspeaker. “You ’re at the Country Club at eight o’clock the day after tomorrow . Chet Tucker is waiting for you. And try to dress presentably. He’s already done us a big favor by even considering this arrangement.”

Chloe's fingers gripping the phone turned white. "I'm not your property, you can't just trade me for yourself. I'm not leaving."

Judith's laughter was sharp as a knife. "Oh, of course you will. If you don't come, I'll call an emergency board meeting tomorrow morning and propose the immediate liquidation of Aura Beauty. Your mother's company will be broken up and sold to the highest bidder. You know you don't have enough votes to stop me."

Chloe's veins burned with a primal, fiery rage. This was the legacy of her mother, all she had left. And now, she had another child—a life she had never planned for, yet one she now desperately wanted to protect.

“You can’t touch my mother’s company,” Chloe said in a dangerous, low voice.

“Give it a try,” Judith said softly, and then hung up.

Chloe sat motionless, phone still pressed to her ear, the doctor's pregnancy test report crumpled in her other hand. She was fighting on two fronts, a war. She needed a shield, she needed leverage, she needed a husband—not a real husband, but a deal.

Back in her apartment, Chloe opened her laptop and entered a secret, encrypted forum used by the wealthy for unconventional transactions. Her fingers flew across the keyboard.

We are currently seeking a financially independent consultant with a one-year marriage contract. No emotional or physical contact will be involved. The candidate must have a history of sexual dysfunction. Confidentiality will be strictly maintained. The candidate must be presentable and willing to attend family and company events as required.

Then she saw the compensation portion. She hesitated for a second, thinking of the trust fund her mother had left her, which Judith couldn't touch. She took a deep breath and entered the number.

One million US dollars.

She pressed the submit button before she even had a chance to hesitate.

The screen refreshed, showing her post was awaiting approval. Chloe leaned back, the laptop light illuminating the line of her jaw. She had just put a price tag on a man's life for a year.

Chloe had no idea that she was trying to buy the only man in the world who was not for sale.

Chloe's post triggered an alarm on Axel Sharp's tablet. He walked straight into Julian Sterling's office without knocking. Julian stood by the window, the crumpled hotel note still on the desk, his anger brewing, gradually turning cold and dangerous.

“Sir, we’ve found her.” Axel handed over the tablet. “Chloe Prescott. She posted this an hour ago. Looking for a contract husband. One year. One million dollars.”

Julian's cold gaze swept over the text on the screen. A muscle in his jaw twitched. The humiliation of that night was still vivid in his mind—two hundred dollars, a three-star rating. That woman mistook him for a male prostitute , paid, and disappeared. Now she wanted to buy another man.

A slow, predatory smile curled at the corner of his lips. "She wants to buy a husband. Let's see how she feels after she's been bought."

“Sir?” Axel frowned. “We can blacklist her from all legitimate companies before noon. That’s a more effective approach.”

“Efficient, but unimaginative.” Julian returned the tablet, a cold smile flashing in his eyes. “No. I want to see her expression when she realizes this nobody she hired is the one she's humiliating. I want her to understand that she's trapped herself. Prepare a new identity. Julian Sterling isn't suited for this. Portray me as a mid-level wealth manager bankrupt from a divorce. From a prestigious background, ruined by circumstances. I need to be presentable enough to pass her screening, yet poor enough to need her money. I need a decent coat, but nothing else. That way, she can fire me without worry after the contract ends.”

Axel hesitated. “Sir, if things don’t go well—”

“No.” Julian’s voice turned cold and firm. “She played a game with me. I’m going to end this game.”

Two days later, Chloe sat in a dimly lit café in the West Village, her third cup of black coffee already cold. The first applicant had stared at her chest for ten minutes. The second applicant had asked for a $50,000 advance for dental surgery. Her phone buzzed. Judith: Chet's here. Three hours later .

Despair tore at her throat like sharp claws. She covered her eyes with her hands, suppressing the urge to scream. Considering the travel time and the time needed to get the certificate, if she couldn't find someone else after the interview , she would have to return to the lion's den alone.

The door to the coffee shop rang.

A man walked in. He was tall and broad-shouldered. He wore a charcoal gray overcoat, well-tailored but noticeably worn at the cuffs—the kind of garment a man might wear when his fortunes have faded. There were no designer labels, and no trace of wealth. Yet, his unhurried, composed demeanor made the room feel even more cramped. His gaze immediately locked onto the corner booth where Chloe was, as if he had known she would sit there all along.

He approached. His shadow fell on Chloe's table.

Chloe looked up and held her breath. He was handsome—angular cheekbones, jet-black hair, and eyes as blue as a winter sky. A memory surfaced in her mind, a ghost she couldn't grasp. But the drugs had almost completely erased her memory of that night, and the man before her only possessed a calm, professional demeanor.

He pulled out a chair and sat down, uninvited. His gaze was fixed on her, a meaningful smile playing on his lips. It was neither warm nor safe.

"I heard you're looking for a husband."