The Maybach glided smoothly onto the Long Island Expressway. The moment the tires hit the asphalt, the thick soundproof partition behind the driver's seat hummed as it rose, sealing the rear cabin into an absolute, private void.

Aimee felt as if the invisible strings holding her upright had been violently severed. Her spine collapsed against the plush leather seat. She completely shed the gentle, refined persona of Eveline Butler.

She reached down, her fingers fumbling with the straps of her cheap heels. She kicked the shoes off. Her feet were throbbing, the skin on her heels rubbed raw and blistered from standing in the stiff material for hours. She pulled her aching legs up, tucking her feet beneath the hem of her skirt, completely ignoring the billionaire sitting less than two feet away from her.

Cameron turned his head slightly. His icy blue eyes swept over her curled-up posture. The muscle in his jaw feathered. He despised lack of decorum.

"Is this how you normally behave?" Cameron asked, his voice laced with a thin layer of disgust.

Aimee felt the weight of his stare. She turned her head and met his gaze head-on. Her eyes were bloodshot from exhaustion, but she didn't flinch.

"I am off the clock, Mr. Fox," Aimee said, her voice dry and raspy. "I read the contract thoroughly. It does not include private performances when your grandmother is not present."

Cameron's breath hitched slightly, choked by her blunt audacity. He let out a harsh, cold scoff, turning his face toward the tinted window. He didn't speak another word.

The silence in the cabin grew thick and suffocating.

Aimee dug into her purse and pulled out her phone. The screen lit up her pale face. There was a new text message from her workshop's assistant manager. It was another frantic update about the loan sharks threatening to show up at dawn. The familiar, sickening knot of anxiety twisted violently in her gut.

She bit down hard on her lower lip, tasting a faint metallic hint of blood. She turned her head to look at Cameron's sharp profile. She forced herself to take a deep breath, pushing down the massive wave of humiliation rising in her chest.

"When will the ten million dollar injection hit the workshop's account?" Aimee asked. Her voice wavered slightly, betraying her desperation.

Cameron tapped his long, manicured fingers against his knee. The rhythmic tapping sounded like a countdown in the quiet car.

"The disbursement of the trust funds is entirely dependent on the stability of your performance," Cameron stated, his tone dripping with oppressive authority. "If you slip up, the money stops."

Aimee's chest burned. The humiliation was a physical weight pressing down on her lungs. But logic forced her to swallow the anger. She needed him.

"I will fulfill my duties perfectly," Aimee forced the words out through gritted teeth.

He pulled his phone from his pocket. His thumbs moved rapidly across the screen. He knew the exact amount that would keep her desperate enough to stay, yet relieved enough to perform flawlessly. He was buying her absolute, unwavering compliance, ensuring she understood that as long as she played her part perfectly, he held the keys to her salvation. A few seconds later, Aimee's phone buzzed violently in her hand.

She looked down. It was an alert from her banking app. A deposit of one hundred thousand dollars had just cleared into her personal checking account.

Aimee stared at the long string of zeros. Her eyes widened in pure shock. She looked up at Cameron, her brow furrowed in confusion.

Cameron didn't even bother to look at her. He kept his eyes fixed on the passing streetlights. "That is your bonus for successfully deceiving my grandmother tonight," he said, his tone making it sound like he was tossing scraps to a stray dog. "And to ensure you buy clothes that don't smell like machine oil."

Aimee gripped her phone so tightly her fingers cramped. One hundred thousand dollars was life-saving money right now. It could pay off the immediate interest to the loan sharks and buy her father some time. She took her fragile pride, threw it on the floorboards, and crushed it.

"Thank you, boss," Aimee whispered, her voice hollow.

That single word-boss-reeked of transactional desperation. It hit Cameron's ears and sparked a sudden, inexplicable surge of irritation in his chest. He reached up and aggressively loosened his silk tie. He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the headrest, pretending to sleep.

Aimee rested her forehead against the cold glass of the window. The adrenaline that had kept her going all night completely evaporated. The crushing weight of the impending bankruptcy, her father's failing health, and the sheer terror of this fake marriage crashed over her all at once.

The amber lights of the highway flickered across her face in a hypnotic rhythm. Aimee's eyelids grew impossibly heavy. Her breathing slowed, deepening into a steady, rhythmic cycle.

The Maybach descended into the subterranean tunnel leading into Manhattan. The ambient light in the cabin vanished, plunging them into darkness.

Cameron opened his eyes. Without the distraction of the passing city, his gaze was drawn involuntarily to the woman sitting beside him.

Aimee was completely unconscious. As the heavy car navigated a slight curve in the tunnel, her body lost its balance. Her head bobbed once, twice, and then she slumped sideways, falling directly toward Cameron.

Cameron's muscles instantly coiled. His instinct was to raise his hand and shove her back to her side of the seat. He hated physical contact. He hated the invasion of his personal space.

But the moment his fingertips brushed against the fabric covering her shoulder, his hand froze in mid-air.

Aimee's head landed softly against his bicep. She let out a tiny, unconscious sigh. She rubbed her cheek against the expensive wool of his suit jacket, instinctively seeking out the warmth, and settled into a comfortable position.

Cameron's entire body went rigid. His breath caught in his throat. A faint scent drifted up to his nose-a mixture of cheap vanilla body wash and the distinct, metallic tang of industrial machine oil. It was a scent that absolutely did not belong in his pristine world. It made his chest feel tight.

He looked down at her. In the dim light, he could see the dark, bruised-looking circles under her eyes. The harsh, defensive mask she wore while awake was completely gone. In sleep, she looked incredibly fragile, like a glass ornament on the verge of shattering.

Cameron's mind flashed to the background check Clara had handed him. It detailed how this woman had been working eighteen-hour days, trying to single-handedly save a sinking factory to protect her father's property. The icy contempt that usually resided in his eyes melted away, replaced by a strange, unsettling quiet.

The Maybach emerged from the tunnel. Up front, the chauffeur glanced into the rearview mirror, preparing to announce their arrival.

The driver's eyes met Cameron's in the reflection. Cameron's gaze was lethal. He shot the driver a look so full of dark warning that the man instantly snapped his mouth shut.

The driver immediately eased off the gas pedal, bringing the massive vehicle to a crawling, perfectly smooth pace as they entered the underground parking garage of the Upper East Side penthouse.

The car glided into its designated spot. The engine cut off with a soft click.

The cabin was dead silent. The only sound was the soft, even intake of Aimee's breath.

Cameron did not wake her. He sat perfectly still, his back ramrod straight, his arm trapped beneath her weight. In the gloomy lighting of the concrete garage, he simply stared at this foreign invader who had crashed into his meticulously controlled life.

A sudden chill from the garage air seeped into the car. Aimee shivered in her sleep. She unconsciously shrank closer to the heat radiating from Cameron's body. Her hands moved, her fingers curling tightly into the fabric of his suit jacket near his waist.

Cameron looked down at her hands. He saw the small, rough calluses on her palms and fingertips-the physical proof of her manual labor.

A strange, unfamiliar sensation fluttered deep within his chest cavity. It was a tiny, rhythmic pulse of something that felt dangerously like empathy.

The low, mechanical hum of the underground garage's ventilation fans vibrated through the floorboards of the Maybach.

Aimee shifted in her sleep. The fabric pressed against her cheek felt unusually scratchy, entirely different from her cheap cotton pillowcases at home. She let out a soft groan and slowly fluttered her eyes open.

As her vision cleared, the first thing she saw was a expanse of dark grey, bespoke wool. Then, a sharp, clean scent invaded her senses-cedarwood and expensive bergamot.

Aimee's nervous system violently snapped awake. Panic flooded her veins like ice water. She jerked her head up so fast that her forehead slammed directly into the solid, sharp angle of Cameron's jaw.

A deep, guttural grunt of pain ripped from Cameron's throat. His thick eyebrows crashed together. He brought a hand up to massage his jaw, his icy blue eyes glaring down at the woman who was currently scrambling away from him like a terrified rabbit.

"I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to-" Aimee gasped, pressing her back against the opposite car door.

But the apology died in her throat. Her eyes darted to the spot on his shoulder where her head had just been resting.

There, on the shoulder of his Savile Row custom suit jacket-a garment that easily cost more than her car-was a distinct, dark, wet patch.

She had drooled on him.

All the blood in Aimee's body rushed to her face, burning her cheeks with a heat so intense she thought she might spontaneously combust. Her stomach plummeted to her shoes. This was the absolute pinnacle of social death. She wanted to claw a hole through the floor of the Maybach and bury herself in the concrete.

Cameron followed her horrified gaze. He looked down at his shoulder.

When he registered the wet stain, his face turned the color of a thundercloud. His severe germaphobia flared, making his skin crawl. The air pressure inside the cabin seemed to drop to absolute zero.

He clenched his jaw so tightly the muscles ticked. He fought the overwhelming urge to rip the jacket off and hurl it out the window.

"Get out," Cameron commanded. The words were clipped, sharp as broken glass.

Aimee didn't need to be told twice. She fumbled blindly for the door handle, shoved it open, and practically tumbled out onto the freezing concrete floor of the garage. She stood there barefoot, holding her cheap heels, her hands shaking with mortification.

Cameron stepped out of the car with terrifying grace. His face was a mask of pure fury. He shrugged off the ruined suit jacket, not even sparing it a second glance, and tossed it directly into a nearby industrial trash can.

He didn't wait for her. He turned and strode toward the private elevator, his long legs eating up the distance.

Aimee stared at the trash can, her heart aching at the sheer waste of money. She quickly slipped her blistered feet back into her heels and jogged to catch up with him, slipping into the bright, mirrored elevator car just as the doors began to close.

The ride up to the penthouse was agonizingly silent.

The doors slid open to reveal a massive, minimalist foyer. Martha, the head housekeeper, was standing at attention. She stepped forward and respectfully took Cameron's leather briefcase.

Martha's eyes flicked between Cameron, who was now standing in just his crisp white dress shirt and vest, and Aimee, who looked like she had just survived a natural disaster. Martha was far too professional to ask questions.

"Would either of you care for a late-night snack?" Martha asked smoothly.

Aimee hadn't eaten a single bite of food at the Long Island estate. Right on cue, her empty stomach let out a loud, aggressive growl that echoed off the marble walls of the foyer.

Cameron stopped dead in his tracks. He slowly turned his head and looked at her as if she were an alien species.

Aimee instinctively wrapped her arms around her stomach, her toes curling inside her shoes. She wanted to die.

"Prepare two sandwiches," Cameron ordered Martha, his voice flat. He turned on his heel and marched straight toward his study, slamming the heavy oak door shut behind him.

Fifteen minutes later, Aimee was sitting on a high stool at the massive, cold marble island in the open-concept kitchen. She was ravenously devouring a gourmet ham and gruyere sandwich, practically swallowing the pieces whole.

The study door clicked open. Cameron walked out. He had changed into a pair of dark grey cashmere sweatpants and a fitted black t-shirt. He walked to the refrigerator, poured himself a glass of iced water, and stood on the opposite side of the island.

He leaned against the counter, silently watching her chaotic eating habits.

Aimee felt the weight of his stare prickling her skin. She forced herself to slow her chewing, picking up a napkin to dab at her mouth, desperately trying to salvage whatever tiny shred of dignity she had left.

Suddenly, the screen of her phone, which was resting on the marble counter, lit up. It buzzed aggressively. Three iMessage notifications popped up in rapid succession.

Aimee glanced at the screen. The sender was "Dad."

Her forced calm shattered. She dropped the half-eaten sandwich onto her plate.

She opened the messages. Burt's texts were furious. He was demanding to meet the "bastard" who had convinced his daughter to elope out of nowhere. He was questioning if she was being scammed or held hostage.

Aimee pressed her fingertips hard against her forehead. A dull ache throbbed behind her eyes. She knew her father's stubborn, blue-collar pride. If she didn't bring Cameron to Brooklyn, Burt would absolutely take the subway to Manhattan and kick down the doors of the Fox Group.

She took a deep, shaky breath. She lifted her head and looked across the marble island at Cameron.

"Mr. Fox," Aimee started, her voice trembling with a desperate, pleading edge. "Are you... are you free this weekend? Could you please come back to Brooklyn with me?"

Cameron paused with the water glass halfway to his mouth. He slowly lowered it. His icy eyes narrowed.

"Clause seven of our contract," Cameron stated, his voice a cold, unyielding wall. "I am obligated to perform for the Fox family. I am not obligated to entertain your relatives."

"My father's health is failing," Aimee pleaded, leaning forward over the counter, her hands clasped together. "He has a bad heart. He can't take the shock of thinking I'm in trouble. Please. Just one dinner. I'll deduct your hourly rate from the hundred thousand you gave me."

The mention of money flashed like a warning light in Cameron's eyes. His jaw tightened. He hated that she constantly reduced everything to a transaction, even though that was exactly what this was.

"Absolutely not," Cameron said coldly. He turned his back on her and walked toward the master bedroom corridor.

Aimee slumped against the high stool, the fight completely draining out of her.

Her phone buzzed one last time.

Burt: If I don't see this husband of yours by Saturday, I am calling the NYPD.

Aimee buried her face in her arms against the cold marble counter. Surrounded by tens of millions of dollars worth of luxury, she had never felt more suffocated and entirely alone.

Aimee locked the door to the guest bedroom. The heavy click of the deadbolt echoed in the quiet room. She collapsed onto the edge of the king-sized bed, staring blankly at the glowing screen of her phone.

Her thumb hovered over the screen, then mindlessly tapped the Facebook icon.

She scrolled through her camera roll until she found a faded, digitized photograph. It was a picture of her mother, taken years ago under the Brooklyn Bridge. Her mother was laughing, her hair blowing wildly in the wind.

Today was the anniversary of her mother's death.

Aimee typed out a short caption: Another year without you. I'm trying to be strong for Dad, but everything feels so heavy today. I miss your laugh.

Set the entire line to be visible only to Cameron. She hit post.

The emotional exhaustion finally caught up to her. Her skin felt grimy from the sweat of panic and the lingering smell of the workshop. She needed to wash the day off. She stood up, stripped off her cheap clothes, and walked into the en-suite bathroom.

She turned the shower dial all the way to hot. The scalding water battered against her shoulders, turning her pale skin pink. Thick, heavy steam quickly filled the small space, fogging up the mirrors. Under the roar of the water, Aimee finally let her guard down. Her chest heaved, and she sobbed silently, the tears mixing with the shower water streaming down her face.

Meanwhile, in the study down the hall, Cameron was aggressively flipping through a quarterly earnings report. The numbers on the page were blurring together. His mind kept flashing back to the look of absolute despair in Aimee's eyes when she was sitting at the kitchen island.

He picked up his phone to check an email from Clara. As he unlocked the screen, a Facebook notification popped up.

Cameron tapped the notification. Aimee's post filled his screen.

He stared at the picture of the smiling woman. He read the caption. I'm trying to be strong for Dad, but everything feels so heavy today.

The words hit him like a physical blow to the sternum. The cold, impenetrable armor he wore around his heart cracked just a fraction. He remembered the suffocating pressure of his own family trust, the way he had been forced to sacrifice his own freedom for the Fox empire. For the first time, he looked at Aimee not as a greedy opportunist, but as a daughter desperately trying to keep her family afloat.

He needed an excuse to check on her. He grabbed a tax exemption form from his desk that required her signature. He stood up and walked down the long hallway to her guest room.

He knocked twice. There was no answer. Assuming she was asleep, he turned the handle. The door opened.

Cameron stepped into the room, intending to leave the file on the nightstand.

At that exact second, the sound of running water stopped. The bathroom door handle clicked.

The door swung open, unleashing a massive cloud of thick, humid steam into the bedroom.

Aimee stepped out.

She was dripping wet. Her hair was plastered to her collarbones. She was wrapped in a single, stark white hotel-style towel that barely covered her. The hem stopped dangerously high on her thighs. The hot water had flushed her skin a deep, rosy pink, and beads of water traced paths down her bare legs.

Cameron froze. He turned his head, and his eyes collided with the sight of her.

His pupils dilated instantly. The breath was violently knocked out of his lungs.

Aimee looked up. She instinctively crossed her arms over her chest, gripping the edges of the towel in a death grip. The sudden movement caused the bottom of the towel to hike up another inch. She took a panicked step backward, her bare feet slipping slightly on the hardwood floor.

Cameron's Adam's apple bobbed hard. A sudden, intense heat flared in his lower abdomen. He immediately averted his eyes, spinning around so his back was facing her.

"I... I brought the tax forms," Cameron said. His voice was completely unrecognizable-rough, gravelly, and strained with the effort of keeping his physical reactions in check.

"Get out!" Aimee stammered, her face burning so hot she felt dizzy. "Please, just get out!"

Cameron took a long stride toward the bedroom door. His hand grasped the brass handle.

But as he pulled the door open, the reality of her father's threat pierced through Aimee's blinding shame. Logic violently overrode her modesty. If he walked out that door, she lost her only chance.

"Wait!" Aimee cried out. She took two steps forward, her voice cracking with a desperate, raw edge. "Please, Cameron. Just this weekend. Please reconsider and accompany me home to meet my father."

Cameron stopped. He closed his eyes, taking a deep, shuddering breath, forcing the vivid image of her wet, flushed skin out of his mind.

He turned his head slightly, keeping his gaze firmly fixed on the wall above her head, refusing to look down.

"One time," Cameron said, his voice rigid but lacking its usual cruelty. "I will do this exactly one time. Put some clothes on before you ruin the hardwood floors."

Aimee's eyes widened. The crushing weight on her chest vanished, replaced by a dizzying rush of relief. Hot tears spilled over her eyelashes. She nodded frantically, clutching the towel tighter. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

Cameron felt that irritating flutter in his chest again at the sight of her tears. He pulled the door open to leave.

He paused in the doorway. He didn't turn around. He kept his broad back to her, his posture stiff.

"What does your father like to eat?" Cameron asked, the words sounding awkward and foreign on his tongue. "I will have Martha prepare something."

Aimee stood frozen in the middle of the room. She stared at his retreating back as the door clicked shut. Her heart, which had been racing from fear, suddenly skipped a beat, fluttering wildly against her ribs at the unexpected, jarring gentleness of his question.

Aimee lay in bed and silently deleted the post that was only visible to Cameron.

If she judgment is correct, did he soften his heart after reading the post?It seems that he is just indifferent on the surface, but actually much better than imagined.