The interior of the Maybach was silent as a tomb. The partition was up, separating them from the driver.

Clara sat as close to the door as physically possible. Her hands were clenched in her lap, twisting the fabric of her dress.

"I can explain," she started, her voice breaking the silence. "About last night. I thought... I meant to text someone else. It was an accident."

"I don't care about the text," Sebastian said. He was looking out the window, watching the city blur by. "I care about the debt."

He picked up a manila folder from the seat between them and tossed it into her lap.

Clara opened it. It was a medical dossier. Martha Miller. Stage 4 Renal Failure. Outstanding Balance: $158,000. Projected Cost of Transplant: $1.5 Million.

Clara gasped. "How did you get this? This is private."

"In this city, privacy is a luxury you can't afford," Sebastian said coldly. "You have three banks chasing you for defaulted loans. Your mother has two weeks before they stop dialysis treatments due to non-payment."

"I'm handling it," Clara lied.

"You're drowning," he corrected. "And I'm offering you a life raft."

The car pulled up to the curb of Sterling Tower. Sebastian turned to her.

"Come to my office tomorrow morning. 8:00 AM."

"Why?"

"To discuss the terms of your employment. And your marriage."

Clara choked. "My what?"

"Get out, Clara."

Clara didn't sleep. She sat on her sagging couch, the medical file open next to her.

She Googled him. She had to know.

She typed Sebastian Sterling 0825 into the search bar.

Nothing came up in the official news. But then she switched to image search. A photo from Instagram appeared. It was from the account of Vivienne Vance-the socialite daughter of a senator, and Sebastian's ex-fiancée.

The photo was dated three years ago. It showed Vivienne in a stunning white gown, standing on a balcony in Paris. Sebastian stood behind her, his arms wrapped around her waist.

The caption read: The day everything changed. My forever. The timestamp on the post was August 25th.

Clara felt sick. 08/25. It was their anniversary. Or the day they got engaged.

He was still in love with her. Vivienne had moved to London a year ago, supposedly for a "break," but everyone knew they were the golden couple.

Clara looked at her reflection in the dark window. She had the same dark hair as Vivienne. The same pale skin. From the side, in the dark... she could be a copy.

A substitute.

She felt a wave of nausea. He had slept with her because she looked like the woman he actually loved. The woman whose date was branded over his heart.

The next morning, Clara walked into the CEO's office.

Henderson was gone. His desk was empty. A security guard was packing up a box.

"What happened?" Clara asked the receptionist.

"Mr. Sterling fired him," the receptionist whispered. "Something about 'creating a hostile work environment.' He was escorted out ten minutes ago."

Clara swallowed hard. She walked into the inner sanctum.

Sebastian was standing by his desk, on the phone. "I don't care what the board says, Mother. It's done."

He hung up when he saw Clara.

He didn't say hello. He slid a contract across the mahogany desk.

"Prenuptial Agreement and Marriage Contract," Clara read the title. Her hands shook.

"One year," Sebastian said. "You will act as my wife in all public and private capacities. You will live in my home. In exchange, the Sterling Foundation covers all medical expenses for your mother, past and future."

"Why me?" Clara asked, her voice barely a whisper. "Because I look like her?"

Sebastian stiffened. "Who?"

"Vivienne," Clara spat the name out. "The tattoo. 0825. It's her date, isn't it? You want a placeholder until she comes back."

Sebastian walked around the desk. He moved with a predatory grace, closing the distance between them until he was looming over her.

He reached out and gripped her chin, tilting her face up. His thumb pressed into her skin, hard enough to bruise.

"Stop thinking, Miller. It doesn't suit you," he growled. "You are the most convenient option. You are desperate. And you are here."

"I won't be your doll," she said, tears pricking her eyes.

Her phone buzzed. A text from the hospital.

URGENT: Martha's vitals dropping. Need confirmation of funds for emergency procedure immediately.

Sebastian saw the message. He released her chin.

"You have twenty-four hours," he said, turning his back on her. "Sign it, or watch her die. Your choice."

Clara stood in the sterile hallway of the hospital, watching through the glass as doctors swarmed around her mother. The machines beeped in a chaotic rhythm.

She needed the money. She needed to sign.

But first, she had a massive problem.

The Vanguard contract. The original copy with the wet signatures-the only copy that was legally binding for the merger-was missing. She had taken it home to proofread two nights ago.

She retraced her steps. The party. The hotel.

She must have left the file folder in Suite 1501.

If that contract was lost or leaked, the deal would collapse. Sterling Group would lose millions. Clara would be fired, sued, and possibly jailed for corporate negligence.

She couldn't call him. She had to go there.

She took a cab to the address listed on the company directory for Sebastian's private residence. It wasn't an apartment. It was an estate in the Hamptons. He had flown there by helicopter after work; she had to take a three-hour train ride and a cab.

It was raining when she arrived. The gate was massive, iron, and intimidating.

She pressed the buzzer. "Clara Miller. I... I left something."

The gate clicked open instantly.

She walked up the long driveway, soaked to the bone. The front door opened before she reached it. A butler ushered her into a library that smelled of old paper and scotch.

Sebastian was there. He was wearing a silk robe, deep navy, tied loosely at the waist. He held a glass of amber liquid in one hand and a blue folder in the other.

The Vanguard contract.

"Breaking and entering?" he asked, swirling his drink.

"I didn't break in. You let me in," Clara shivered. "That's company property. I need it."

"This?" He tapped the folder against his leg. "This is evidence of gross incompetence. You left confidential merger documents in a hotel room."

"I was distracted!"

"By what? My sheets?"

Clara flushed. "Please. Give it to me."

"Sign the marriage agreement," he said calmly. "And I'll forget this ever happened."

"I can't," Clara blurted out. Panic made her irrational. She couldn't be bought. She couldn't be the substitute. "I have a boyfriend."

The room temperature seemed to drop ten degrees.

Sebastian set the glass down. The sound echoed in the large room.

"A boyfriend," he repeated. His voice was dangerously soft.

"Yes," Clara lied, her heart hammering. "He... he teaches at a community college. Mark. His name is Mark. We're very happy. He wouldn't like this."

Sebastian moved. He was across the room in two strides. He grabbed her by the waist and slammed her back against the heavy oak desk.

"Mark?" He leaned in, his nose brushing hers. "Does Mark touch you?"

"Yes," Clara squeaked.

"Does he know you moan when your neck is kissed?"

Clara gasped.

"Liar," Sebastian hissed.

He crushed his mouth to hers. It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a claiming. He bit her lower lip, forcing her mouth open, his tongue sweeping inside with an arrogance that made her knees buckle. He tasted of whiskey and rage.

Clara tried to push him away, but her hands just curled into the silk of his robe. Her body betrayed her; she melted against him.

He pulled back abruptly, breathing hard. His eyes were wild.

"Your body doesn't seem to remember Mark," he sneered.

He opened the desk drawer and pulled out a check. He slammed it into her hand.

"One million dollars," he said. "Take it. Pay for your mother. And get out."

Clara looked at the check. It was heavy in her hand.

"But the contract..."

"The contract stays," he said. "And if you don't sign the marriage papers by tomorrow, your Mark is going to find himself very unlucky."

The rain was coming down in sheets now. Clara stood outside the heavy oak doors of the manor, the check clutched in her wet hand.

It was enough money to save her mother. It was enough to walk away.

But she couldn't.

Her phone buzzed. It was a news alert. Vanguard Merger on Shaky Ground due to Rumored Data Breach.

He had leaked the rumor himself. He was sabotaging his own deal just to corner her. If she walked away now, she would be the scapegoat. He would destroy her reputation. She would never work in finance again.

She turned around and pounded on the door.

It opened. Sebastian was standing there, leaning against the doorframe, looking bored.

"Forget something else?"

Clara walked past him, dripping water onto the pristine marble foyer. She marched into the library, grabbed the pen from his desk, and signed the marriage contract.

She threw the pen down. "Done. I own you for a year."

Sebastian picked up the paper. He checked the signature. A slow, satisfied smile spread across his face. It didn't reach his eyes.

"Technically," he said, "I own you."

He pressed a button on the intercom. "Mrs. Higgins, show my wife to the guest suite. And burn those clothes. She looks like a drowned rat."

The guest suite was larger than her entire childhood home. A hot bath was drawn. On the bed lay a silk nightgown that looked like it cost more than a car.

Clara scrubbed herself in the tub, trying to wash away the feeling of his kiss. It still lingered on her lips, a phantom burn.

She put on the nightgown. It fit perfectly. Too perfectly.

She stepped out into the bedroom. Sebastian was sitting in the armchair in the corner, watching her.

Clara crossed her arms over her chest. "The contract... it didn't specify... conjugal duties."

Sebastian stood up. He walked toward her. Clara backed up until her legs hit the edge of the bed.

"Relax, Clara," he said dryly. "I don't force women."

He reached out. Clara flinched.

He simply took her shoulders and turned her around. His cold fingers brushed her spine as he pulled her hair out from under the collar of the gown.

"I have patience," he whispered to the back of her head. "Sleep. We have a press conference at 9:00 AM."

He walked to the door. Before he left, his phone rang. He answered it on speaker.

"Seb, you crazy bastard," a male voice laughed. It was Julian, his lawyer and best friend. "Did you actually catch the little sparrow?"

Sebastian looked at Clara, his eyes dark.

"She's not a sparrow, Julian," he said. "She's my wife. And if anyone looks at her wrong, I'll bury them."

He slammed the door shut.