The CEO's Reluctant Bride

Ava stirred awake to the faint aroma of coffee wafting through the penthouse. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting golden streaks across the room. For a moment, she let herself sink into the warmth, the softness of the sheets, the fleeting peace... until her phone buzzed again.

Rolling over with a groan, she glanced at the screen. No new threats, just an early morning reminder for a work presentation she was definitely not attending. Right... fake wife, real chaos.

Dragging herself out of bed, she padded into the kitchen to find Adrian already dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms that should be illegal. He moved with effortless precision, pouring coffee like it was part of some morning ritual she wasn't invited to.

"You always this put together before 8 AM?" she muttered, rubbing her eyes.

"Discipline," he said. "You should try it."

"Mm. Tempting, but I enjoy sleeping in and disappointing people." She reached for a mug but found him holding one out to her, perfectly fixed—just the way she liked it. Wait... when did he—

"You memorized my coffee order?" she asked, brow arching.

"You complained enough times for it to stick."

Her lips twitched. "Touching."

They settled into a comfortable silence until she glanced at him, curiosity piqued. "So... yesterday's text? Are we just ignoring that, or—?"

"I'm handling it."

"Yeah, well, I'd like to know what 'handling it' looks like. You know, since I'm apparently part of this circus."

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "There are things I can't tell you yet."

"Adrian—"

"It's not about trust," he cut in, softer now. "It's about timing."

Her gaze lingered on him, catching the flicker of something—guilt? Worry? He wasn't as impenetrable as he liked to act.

Changing tactics, she leaned on the counter. "Fine. Keep your billionaire secrets. But... why me?"

He looked at her, confused.

"Why me, Adrian? Of all the people you could've dragged into this mess... why rope me into a marriage contract?"

A beat of silence stretched between them. His jaw tightened, eyes flickering with unspoken words. Then, quietly: "Because you needed help. And whether you like it or not... I needed you too."

Her breath caught. Damn him. Emotional landmines weren't supposed to be part of this deal.

"You're infuriating," she whispered.

"I've been told."

And just like that, the moment thickened—charged, fragile. His gaze dropped to her lips before he caught himself and stepped back, breaking the spell.

"Get dressed," he said, voice gruffer. "We've got a meeting."

"With who?"

"You'll see."

Two hours later, they stepped into a high-rise office, the view overlooking the bustling city below. A sharply dressed woman greeted them, her smile too polished to be genuine.

"Mr. Sinclair, Ms. Carter—so lovely to see you both," she cooed.

Ava shot Adrian a look. What is this?

"She's handling some aspects of our... arrangement," Adrian murmured.

Great. More secrets.

Throughout the meeting, Ava played the dutiful wife, nodding when needed, offering small smiles. But inside, her mind swirled. Why did this feel bigger than a contract?

As they exited, Adrian's phone buzzed. His expression darkened. Without a word, he handed it to her.

"Tick tock. How long before she finds out the truth about you?"

Her stomach twisted. "Adrian..."

"It's nothing," he said quickly. Too quickly.

"You keep saying that, but your face says otherwise."

His gaze softened. "I said I'd protect you, Ava. That hasn't changed."

"But at what cost?" she whispered.

Silence hung heavy between them.

That night, back at the penthouse, she sat by the window, city lights flickering like distant stars. Adrian stood a few feet away, nursing a glass of whiskey.

"I didn't sign up for this," she said quietly.

"I know."

"And yet... part of me thinks I'd do it again."

His head snapped toward her.

"Not because of you," she added quickly, then paused. "Maybe not just because of you."

He set his glass down, closing the distance. "Ava..."

Her heart thudded. Don't look at me like that.

"You said you'd protect me," she murmured. "But who's protecting you?"

For a heartbeat, neither spoke. Then, without thinking, she reached up, fingers grazing his jaw. Soft. Warm. Human.

His hand covered hers, rough against her skin. "I don't need—"

"You do," she cut in. "You just don't know how to let anyone in."

A muscle ticked in his jaw. Slowly, painfully, he leaned down—until they were close enough to feel each other's breaths.

"I can't afford to want this," he whispered.

"Me neither," she breathed.

But when his lips brushed hers—soft, tentative—everything else fell away.