I was broke.
Like, beyond broke.
The kind of broke where you start counting coins and asking the universe if it accepts ramen as rent.
So when I got a message from her—
"Come to my penthouse. Urgent."
—I should've deleted it.
Instead, like the idiot I am, I went.
Because deep down, some sick part of me was curious.
And also, I didn't have enough gas to drive anywhere else.
I stepped into her apartment and instantly regretted it.
Marble floors.
A chandelier that looked more expensive than my entire existence.
And the air smelled like vanilla, money, and judgment.
"You're late," she said, standing in the middle of her overpriced living room like she owned the planet.
Which, knowing her family, she probably did.
Let me explain something real quick.
Her name is Aurora Zhang.
Heiress. Perfectionist. Devil in heels.
Also the girl who once got me almost expelled in high school over a prank I didn't even do.
We've hated each other ever since.
Well—
I hated her.
She just looked at me like I was some unfortunate peasant who wandered into her line of sight.
"Nice to see you too, Princess," I muttered, dragging my tired legs across her stupidly shiny floor.
She didn't smile.
Of course not. She never did.
Even her photos on social media looked like she was silently judging the world.
"We don't have time for jokes," she said, flipping her hair like this was some kind of movie scene.
I looked around.
Luxurious couches. Art on the wall that I couldn't tell if it was modern or just upside-down.
And a weird, glowing fish tank in the corner. Probably cost more than my kidney.
"What, your designer clock running out of time?" I asked.
"Sit."
She pointed to the couch like I was some poorly trained dog.
I sat, mostly because my legs were giving up.
"Okay, let's get this over with. You lured me here. What do you want?"
She didn't answer right away.
Instead, she walked over to the glass table in front of me, pulled out a folder from her ridiculously expensive leather bag, and slammed it down.
"I need a husband," she said.
I blinked.
Once. Twice. Maybe three times.
Then I laughed.
Loudly. Probably too loudly.
"You?" I asked.
"You want to marry me? What—did you lose a bet?"
"Fake marriage," she said smoothly.
"Three months. You get paid."
I stared at the folder like it was a bomb.
"Wait… are you serious?"
She didn't even blink.
"You'll live here. We act like a couple in public. Attend a few events. Smile for cameras. After three months, we divorce. Clean and simple."
"And what do you get out of this?"
She walked to the window, back facing me, arms crossed. Classic drama pose.
"Freedom," she said.
"And maybe a little peace."
I didn't respond.
Because honestly?
I didn't know what to say.
"Why me?" I asked eventually.
She turned around, her expression unreadable.
"Because you're desperate, unemployed, and stupid enough to say yes."
Wow.
She really hadn't changed.
I reached for the folder and flipped it open.
Page one: Contract of Temporary Matrimony
Page two: details.
Rules. Payment. Timeline. Clauses about "no physical intimacy without consent" and "no emotional entanglement."
That last part made me snort.
"You think I'm gonna fall for you?"
She raised a brow.
"I'd be more worried about myself, honestly."
Cocky. Cold. Confident.
Exactly how I remembered her.
"So what's the catch?" I asked.
"You secretly pregnant? Hunted by the mafia? Hiding a second head under that hair?"
She rolled her eyes.
"My father wants me married off to a business partner's son. It's arranged. Political. Boring. I need a distraction. A scandal with a poor boy sounds more exciting."
"Wow. Thanks for making me sound like the help."
She smirked.
"You are the help."
I should've walked out.
I should've stood up, flipped her fancy glass table, and left dramatically like they do in movies.
But instead, I flipped to the last page of the contract.
$30,000.
Upfront.
Plus expenses.
Plus bonuses if I played the part right.
My brain screamed "run."
But my bank account whispered, "We need this."
So I said the dumbest thing I've ever said in my entire life.
"When do we start?"
She smiled.
And that's when I realized—
She was enjoying this.
Every second of it.
"Now," she said.
She reached into her bag again and handed me a pen.
"Sign it. Or you're not leaving this apartment alive."
And that, my friend,
is how I ended up marrying the girl who once tried to ruin my life.
For money.
God help me.