Blaire emerged from the subway station onto the bustling pavement of Fifth Avenue. The early autumn sun broke through the skyscrapers, hitting her directly in the eyes. She raised a hand to shield her face, squinting against the harsh glare.

She hadn't walked more than two blocks when an elderly woman in a plain beige trench coat stumbled directly in her path.

The woman let out a sharp cry of pain. Her body pitched sideways. A canvas grocery bag slipped from her grasp, hitting the concrete. Red apples spilled out, rolling across the dirty sidewalk.

Blaire's body reacted before her brain did. She lunged forward, her hands shooting out to grip the old woman's frail arms, catching her just before her knees hit the pavement.

"Are you okay?" Blaire asked, her heart hammering against her ribs. She carefully helped the woman steady herself, then crouched down, her hands moving quickly to gather the bruised apples back into the canvas bag.

The Brewer Matriarch looked down at the girl. A sly, calculated gleam flashed in her aged eyes, but she instantly masked it with a look of overwhelming gratitude. "Oh, thank you, sweetheart," she gasped. "You are such a rare, good girl."

To show her "appreciation," the old woman clamped her fingers around Blaire's wrist with surprising strength. She pulled Blaire toward a wooden bench sitting just inside the entrance of Central Park.

Once they sat down, the old woman let out a heavy, theatrical sigh. She stared at the passing crowds and began to complain about her "useless" grandson.

Tears welled up in the old woman's eyes. She spun a tragic tale, claiming her grandson was a dirt-poor sales rep, drowning in mortgage payments, and working himself to the bone. Worse, his dying grandfather was forcing him to get married before he passed away.

Blaire listened, her stomach twisting. The mention of being relentlessly forced into marriage struck a raw nerve. She thought of Sharon's suffocating demands. A strange, sympathetic ache bloomed in her chest for this unknown man.

Sensing the shift in Blaire's demeanor, the old woman reached into her pocket. She pulled out a printed photograph and shoved it into Blaire's hands. "Please," she begged, her voice cracking. "Just help him. A fake marriage. That's all."

Blaire's mouth opened to deliver a firm, absolute rejection. But the words died in her throat. Her eyes locked onto the photograph.

The man in the picture was wearing a plain white button-down shirt. His eyebrows were dark and straight, his eyes piercing. His jawline was so sharp it looked like it could cut glass, and the curve of his throat-his Adam's apple-was devastatingly masculine.

Blaire swallowed hard. Her heart skipped a massive, undeniable beat. As a hopeless victim of good looks, her body betrayed her logic. Heat crawled up her neck and settled in her ears.

She stared at the photo, a chaotic war raging in her mind. With a face like that... is a fake marriage really a loss?

The Matriarch didn't miss the flush on Blaire's cheeks. She immediately doubled down. "You won't have to interfere with each other's lives," she promised quickly. "Just act like a couple in front of the elders occasionally. That's it."

Blaire's phone chimed loudly. It was a voice message from Sharon. The shrill audio played out loud, echoing around the park bench: "If you don't find a husband today, don't ever call me your mother again!"

The ultimatum hit Blaire like a physical blow. Her lungs constricted. She curled her fingers into tight fists, her nails digging into her palms. She took a deep, shuddering breath.

She lifted her head. The hesitation in her eyes hardened into desperate resolve. She looked at the old woman and nodded. "Okay. I'll meet him."

Instantly, the old woman's frail demeanor vanished. She stood up with the speed of a marathon runner, pulled out a smartphone, and dialed a number.

Through the receiver, Jude's voice sounded like cracking ice, irritated and impatient. The Matriarch ignored his tone, barking an absolute command for him to get his ass to the south entrance of Central Park within ten minutes.

Exactly ten minutes later, a beat-up, black Toyota Camry screeched to a halt against the curb.

The driver's door swung open. A pair of incredibly long legs stepped out. Jude walked toward the bench, his face set in a dark, thunderous scowl. A suffocating, low-pressure aura radiated from his body.

Blaire stood up. The physical impact of seeing him in person was a hundred times more intense than the photo. Her stomach did a nervous flip. Her fingers instinctively clamped down on her purse strap.

Jude's razor-sharp gaze swept over Blaire. His eyes were full of hidden scrutiny and deep-seated defense. He instantly categorized her as just another gold-digger his grandmother had dug up to steal his wealth.

The Matriarch grabbed Blaire by the shoulders and pushed her forward. "This is your future wife," she announced, leaving no room for argument.

Jude's jaw ticked. He opened his mouth to reject the absurdity, but his eyes caught Blaire's. Her gaze was clear, open, and completely devoid of the calculating greed he was so used to seeing.

He needed to stop his family's endless, suffocating blind dates. He weighed the pros and cons in a fraction of a second. He looked at Blaire and spat out a single word: "Let's go."

Blaire froze. She pointed a trembling finger at him. "Go where?"

Jude pulled open the passenger door of the Camry. His voice was completely devoid of emotion. "City Hall. To get the license."

Blaire's breath hitched. The sheer, ruthless efficiency of his demand paralyzed her. But under the Matriarch's aggressive shoving, she forced her legs to move, sliding into the worn passenger seat of the cheap Toyota.

The Toyota Camry merged into the congested, honking traffic of Manhattan. Inside the car, the silence was so thick it felt like a physical weight pressing against Blaire's chest.

She nervously twisted her fingers together in her lap. From the corner of her eye, she studied Jude in the driver's seat. His hands gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles prominent and sharp.

Suddenly, Jude pressed a button, rolling down his window completely. The biting autumn wind rushed into the cabin. He needed the freezing air to clear the suffocating, nauseating panic that always crawled over his skin whenever a woman was in close proximity.

Blaire shivered as the cold air hit her. Thinking he was too hot, she leaned forward, her hand reaching toward the center console to turn on the air conditioning.

"Don't touch me!" Jude barked, his voice cracking like a whip.

Blaire violently yanked her hand back. Her heart slammed against her ribs. Heat flooded her cheeks, burning with intense embarrassment. She pressed herself against the passenger door, thinking this man had the worst temper she had ever encountered.

Jude realized his reaction was extreme. He forced his breathing to slow, fighting the physical palpitations of his haphephobia. He stared straight at the road and laid down his first absolute rule. "Do not touch me without permission."

Blaire bit her lip. Ugh, what a creep, she thought. But outwardly, she gave a stiff, jerky nod.

The car rolled to a stop at a red light. Jude slammed his foot on the brake. He turned his head, his piercing eyes locking onto hers, and began to outline the boundaries of their contract.

"This marriage is nothing but a piece of paper," he stated, his voice flat. "It's to get my family off my back. We do not interfere in each other's private lives."

He leaned slightly closer, his gaze hard. "Do not get any ideas about me. In exactly one year, we divorce."

Blaire listened to his intense, overly defensive speech. She remembered the old woman's story about his crushing mortgage and his miserable sales job. A bubble of ironic amusement rose in her throat.

She straightened her spine, refusing to be intimidated. "Don't worry. I have absolutely zero interest in your assets."

A flicker of dark mockery passed through Jude's eyes. He thought she was playing hard to get. He had heard that exact lie from a dozen women before.

Determined to prove she wasn't a leech, Blaire made her offer. "Since we're going to be roommates, we split the rent and living expenses down the middle. Fifty-fifty."

Jude's hands jerked on the steering wheel. He snapped his head toward her, his eyebrows crashing together in pure shock.

As the CEO of a multi-billion-dollar empire, the concept of splitting a grocery bill with a woman had never once existed in his universe.

He narrowed his eyes, searching her face for the punchline, looking for the crack in her acting. But all he saw was stubborn, earnest determination.

When he didn't answer, Blaire assumed he was stressed about the money. Her sympathy flared again. "If your sales commissions are low this month, I can cover a little more of the utilities."

A muscle feathered in Jude's jaw. For the first time in his life, his ability to provide was being questioned. A bizarre sense of offense burned in his chest.

He ground his teeth together. To maintain his fake identity, he forced the words through his tight lips. "No. I can afford it."

The light turned green. Jude stomped on the gas pedal. The old Camry let out a loud, struggling groan and lurched forward aggressively.

The sudden momentum threw Blaire backward. Her shoulders slammed into the seat. She let out a short gasp and scrambled to grip her seatbelt tightly across her chest.

Jude caught her panicked expression in the rearview mirror. The irrational irritation in his gut dissipated slightly, but he kept his profile locked in a cold, unreadable mask.

They navigated the streets near City Hall. Finding parking was a nightmare.

Jude spotted an impossibly tight space between two SUVs. With sharp, aggressive spins of the steering wheel, he parallel-parked the Camry perfectly on the first try. Blaire watched his hands move, secretly impressed by the raw competence of the maneuver.

They stepped out of the car and walked up the massive stone steps of City Hall. All around them, couples were holding hands and kissing. The physical distance between Blaire and Jude felt like a gaping canyon in comparison.

As they passed through the security metal detectors, Blaire fumbled with her purse. It slipped from her fingers, hitting the floor. Her lipstick and compact powder spilled out, rolling across the dirty tiles.

Jude's body reacted instantly. He took a distinct half-step backward, his hands retreating into his pockets. His haphephobia and intense germaphobia paralyzed him. He stood there, staring blankly, offering absolutely zero help.

Blaire crouched on the floor, frantically gathering her makeup. Her face burned. She looked up at his indifferent posture, and the filter of his extreme good looks shattered into a million pieces. He is gorgeous, but he is absolute trash, she thought.

She stood up, aggressively dusting off her skirt. Without waiting for him, she marched past the security guards toward the registration hall, her back stiff with anger. Jude's eyes darkened, and he followed her inside.

The marriage bureau inside City Hall was packed and echoing with loud chatter. Blaire and Jude held their paper queue ticket. They sat on a long wooden bench in the waiting area. Blaire pressed herself against the far left armrest. Jude sat on the far right. A massive, empty gap remained between them.

Beside them, a Latino couple was making out aggressively. Blaire felt her face heat up. She awkwardly averted her eyes, her gaze drifting downward until it landed on Jude's long, muscular legs stretched out in front of him.

Jude felt the weight of her stare. He turned his head and shot her a look so cold it could freeze water. Blaire flinched, snapping her head up to stare intensely at the ceiling tiles, her heart hammering like a caught thief.

The automated voice called their number. They both stood up simultaneously and walked to the clerk's window. The clerk slid the Marriage License application across the counter.

Jude reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. His fingers closed around his custom Montblanc fountain pen. He pulled it halfway out before his brain caught up with his fake identity. His hand froze.

Blaire saw him struggling. She quickly dug into her purse, pulled out a chewed-up, one-dollar ballpoint pen, and shoved it toward him. "Here. Use mine."

His obsessive-compulsive disorder prevented him from reaching for the pen, but for now it seemed to be the only option. The corner of Jude's mouth twitched. He slowly took the cheap plastic pen from her hand.

When he reached the section for 'Occupation', Jude didn't even blink. He scribbled Sales Representative in block letters. Blaire peeked at the form out of the corner of her eye. Seeing it in writing cemented her belief. Just a struggling salesman.

"That will be thirty-five dollars," the clerk announced.

Blaire instantly reached for her wallet, operating on her strict fifty-fifty rule. But Jude's hand shot out faster. He slapped a plain, standard debit card onto the counter, beating her to the punch.

"Okay, look at the camera," the clerk instructed, pointing to a small webcam. "You need to stand closer together."

Jude's entire body went rigid. His muscles locked up like stone. Seeing his hesitation, Blaire took a deep breath and took a step sideways. Her shoulder brushed directly against his bicep through the fabric of his shirt.

Jude's lungs stopped working. He braced himself for the violent wave of nausea, the crawling sensation of bugs under his skin that always accompanied a woman's touch.

But nothing happened.

His chest remained calm. His stomach didn't churn. A violent shockwave of disbelief crashed through his brain. He stared down at where her shoulder pressed against him, his eyes wide with confusion.

Before he could process the impossibility of it, the camera flashed, permanently capturing their stiff, awkward proximity.

They were ushered into a small room for the brief ceremony. The judge stood behind a podium and asked them to exchange rings.

Because it was a spontaneous decision, neither of them had rings. The air in the room grew thick with awkwardness.

The judge smiled, clearly used to this. "That's perfectly fine. We can proceed directly to the vows."

Jude looked at Blaire. His deep, magnetic voice vibrated through the quiet room. "I do." The sound of it sent a physical jolt down Blaire's spine, making the tips of her ears burn hot.

Blaire swallowed the lump in her throat. She repeated the words. When the judge handed her the thin, official marriage certificate, her fingers trembled slightly. The reality crashed down on her-she was legally bound to this stranger.

They walked out of City Hall. The autumn wind whipped around them. They stood on the steps, staring at the traffic, neither knowing what to say.

Jude checked his watch. His tone shifted back to a cold, business-like clip. "I need to go back to the office and beg my manager for some time off. I'll pick you up later to move your things."

Blaire nodded, feeling a pang of pity that he had to go grovel to a boss on his wedding day.

Jude turned and walked toward the corner of the building. The second he stepped into the shadows, completely out of Blaire's line of sight, his posture changed. The defeated salesman vanished. His spine straightened, his aura turning lethal and commanding. He pulled out his primary phone and dialed his executive assistant, Emanuel Stanley.

"Emanuel," Jude ordered, his voice dripping with absolute authority. "Find a standard, cheap apartment in Queens immediately. Two bedrooms. Make sure it looks lived-in."

Emanuel stuttered through the speaker, utterly bewildered. "Queens? A standard apartment? Boss, are you not returning to the Hampton estate?"

"Shut your mouth and do exactly as I say," Jude snapped. "And clear my entire schedule for the rest of the day. I am 'moving'." He ended the call, shoving the phone back into his pocket.

Blaire returned to her cramped, depressing studio apartment. She threw her clothes into a battered suitcase.

Her phone rang. A video call from Sharon. Blaire took a deep breath and answered. She lied through her teeth, claiming she had found a new female roommate and was moving to Queens to split the rent.

Sharon scowled at the screen, furious about the failed blind date, but the mention of saving money pacified her slightly. "Just don't forget you still need to find a husband," Sharon warned before hanging up.

Blaire dragged her heavy, broken suitcase out of her building. Jude's Toyota was already idling by the curb.

Jude stepped out of the car. He looked down at her suitcase, noting the wheel that was practically hanging off by a thread. A microscopic frown pulled at his brow. Without a word, he reached out, grabbed the handle, and easily hoisted the heavy bag into the trunk.