The sun peeked through floor-length silk curtains, spilling golden light across the massive bed. Brooklyn blinked against it, confused for a moment about where she was. The ceiling above her wasn't cracked like her dorm's. The sheets beneath her didn't scratch like thrifted cotton.
It hit her slowly — like the soft crash of a tide.
She was in Damien Carter's penthouse. As his wife.
She sat up in bed, heart pounding. The air smelled like fresh linen and lavender. The city buzzed below her, muted by thick glass windows that framed the Los Angeles skyline like art.
On the nightstand, a small white box sat with a note taped to it:
> "Breakfast will be served downstairs at 9 a.m. Wear this. — D."
Brooklyn frowned and opened the box.
Inside was a silky navy-blue dress — high neck, sleeveless, simple but elegant. Beneath it, a silver bracelet glittered in the soft morning light. No label, but she could tell: it was expensive.
So this was what it meant to be Mrs. Carter. A wardrobe curated by someone else. A schedule dictated by a man who rarely smiled.
She got out of bed and padded to the closet. It was filled top to bottom with designer shoes, bags, and outfits — all her size. Neatly labeled drawers. Jewelry organized like a store display.
She stared at it for a full minute.
This wasn't her world. But for the next 364 days... it would have to be.
---
9:05 a.m. — Breakfast Table
The kitchen and dining area looked like something out of a celebrity magazine: marble island, glass cabinets, and a long wooden table that seated ten. Damien sat at the head, dressed sharply in a white button-down and grey slacks, scrolling through his tablet.
Two places had been set. Crystal water glasses. Fresh fruit. Pastries. Eggs. Bacon. Coffee.
Brooklyn hovered near the kitchen entrance, unsure.
"You're late," he said without looking up.
She blinked. "It's nine-oh-five."
"Which makes you five minutes late," he replied calmly. "In this house, punctuality is expected."
Brooklyn's lips parted, but she bit back the sarcasm. She wasn't about to start a fight over five minutes on day two.
She slid into the seat across from him. "Thanks for the dress," she said finally.
He nodded once.
They ate in silence, the clinking of cutlery filling the awkward space between them.
Finally, Damien set his tablet down. "Today, we're being photographed."
Brooklyn choked on her juice. "Photographed?"
"A feature in Modern Life Magazine. They're doing a spread on power couples in tech and business. We're attending the shoot together at their studio downtown."
"I didn't agree to this."
"You agreed to be my wife — publicly and privately. This falls under that category."
She stared at him. "You didn't mention magazine shoots when you made your offer."
He leaned forward slightly. "If you're uncomfortable, tell me now. We can renegotiate. Or cancel the agreement altogether."
Brooklyn's stomach dropped. Her mother's hospital bills flashed in her mind. The baby she hadn't told him about twisted inside her like a silent scream.
"No," she said softly. "I'll do it."
Damien nodded. "Good. After the shoot, my stylist will begin prepping your wardrobe for upcoming events. You'll attend three with me this month: a gala, a board dinner, and a charity fundraiser."
Brooklyn looked down at her half-eaten toast. "You've planned everything already."
"I don't leave room for surprises," he said.
She bit back a smile. If only he knew how ironic that was.
---
11:30 a.m. — Modern Life Studios
The studio buzzed with camera clicks, makeup artists, and assistants carrying wardrobe racks. A woman with a headset introduced herself as Mara, the editorial coordinator.
"Mr. Carter, Mrs. Carter — we're so excited to have you here," she gushed, shaking Damien's hand. "We have you down for a couple of solo shots and a joint shoot for the cover option."
Brooklyn's eyes widened. "Cover?"
Mara laughed. "Of course! You two are trending. Everyone's obsessed with your secret wedding last week. You're mysterious. Iconic."
Brooklyn faked a smile. If only they knew the truth.
She was whisked into makeup while Damien discussed angles with the creative director. An hour later, she was dressed in a long red gown, lips painted the exact shade to match. Damien wore a black tux — timeless, perfect. Together, they looked like they belonged in a fragrance ad.
"Touch her waist," the photographer instructed. "Now tilt your face toward his. Almost kiss — but don't. Tension!"
Brooklyn's breath hitched as Damien's hand brushed her hip. He didn't flinch. Didn't hesitate. His eyes locked onto hers like he'd done this a thousand times.
But she hadn't.
Her heart thundered. His cologne wrapped around her. Clean. Sharp. Masculine.
"Hold it — perfect," the photographer said.
Click.
---
3:00 p.m. — Back in the Car
The shoot was over. The makeup was wiped. The dresses were packed away.
They sat in the back of the Bentley again, headed back to the penthouse in silence.
Brooklyn glanced at him. "Do you ever get tired of pretending?"
He didn't look at her. "Pretending is easier than being disappointed."
Her throat tightened.
Damien turned his head slightly. "You looked... convincing today. Like you belonged there."
She laughed under her breath. "You mean fake rich?"
"I mean composed. Confident."
She blinked. That almost sounded like a compliment.
Damien's voice dropped slightly. "I've been in this game long enough to spot people who break under pressure. You didn't."
Brooklyn stared out the window, trying not to feel something at those words.
She wasn't here to earn his approval. She was here for survival.
And yet… she couldn't ignore the flutter in her chest.
---
That Evening
Back at the penthouse, Brooklyn went straight to her room. She peeled off the dress, took a long shower, and changed into a T-shirt and shorts. For once, she wanted to feel like herself again.
She padded barefoot into the kitchen for a glass of water — and nearly jumped when she saw Damien leaning against the counter, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, sipping bourbon.
"I didn't know you were out here," she said.
He nodded toward the second glass beside him. "Didn't think you'd want to stay cooped up either."
She hesitated, then walked over and picked up the glass.
The bourbon burned down her throat, but the warmth it left behind was strangely comforting.
"I guess we're married now," she said quietly, eyes on the glass.
"For now."
"What happens after the year is over?" she asked. "Do we just... vanish from each other's lives?"
Damien stared into his drink. "That's the plan."
Brooklyn's voice softened. "Have you ever been in love?"
He looked at her then. Really looked.
"No. Have you?"
She hesitated. "I thought I was. Once. But... he left when I needed him most."
Damien didn't press. He just nodded.
They stood in silence for a moment, the city glowing behind them. Two strangers bound by paper, sharing pain they didn't speak aloud.
Then Damien said, "There's one more rule you should know."
Brooklyn raised an eyebrow. "There's more?"
He stepped closer. Not touching her. But close enough to feel the heat between them.
"In this house... don't lie to me."
Her breath caught.
Because suddenly, the secret in her stomach felt heavier than ever.