I woke to sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows and the unfamiliar weight of an arm draped across my waist.

For a moment, I couldn't remember where I was. Then it all came rushing back. The Vault. The gallery. The sculpture. Xander.

Oh God. Xander.

I turned my head carefully. He was still asleep, his face relaxed in a way it hadn't been last night. Without the intensity of his gaze, he looked younger. Almost vulnerable.

My body ached in places I'd forgotten could ache. Pleasant soreness, the kind that came from being thoroughly used. The sheets were tangled around our legs, and I could see marks on my skin. Bruises on my hips where his fingers had gripped. A faint bite mark on my shoulder.

Evidence of what we'd done.

Multiple times.

My face burned with a mixture of embarrassment and something else. Something I didn't want to examine too closely.

I needed to leave. Now. Before this became something complicated. Before he woke up and we had to have the awkward morning-after conversation.

What was this? What are we doing? Should we exchange numbers?

No. This had been exactly what I needed. One night of forgetting. Of feeling something other than misery. Of being someone other than Diana Pembroke, disgraced events manager.

But it couldn't be more than this.

I carefully extracted myself from his arm, holding my breath when he shifted slightly. But he didn't wake. Just rolled onto his back, one arm flung above his head.

I slid out of bed as quietly as possible, my feet sinking into plush carpet. My dress was somewhere in the living room. My underwear scattered across the bedroom floor. My shoes by the bed.

I gathered my clothes quickly, moving like a thief. Which was ironic, considering what I'd been accused of.

In the bathroom, I caught sight of myself in the mirror and froze.

I looked destroyed. Makeup smeared. Hair a tangled mess. Lips swollen. The bite mark on my shoulder visible above the neckline of Maya's dress. And my eyes, bloodshot from lack of sleep but also something else.

They looked alive.

For the first time in weeks, I looked like a person instead of a ghost.

I cleaned up as best I could with a washcloth. Fixed my hair into something approximating presentable. There was nothing I could do about the dress, wrinkled beyond redemption, or the unmistakable look of someone who'd spent the night having sex.

Maya was going to have questions.

I slipped back into the bedroom. Xander was still asleep, his breathing deep and even. For a moment, I stood watching him, this stranger who'd made me forget, who'd seen my rage and my need and matched both with his own intensity.

I should leave a note. Something. But what would I say?

Thank you for the best sex of my life?

Last night was a glorious mistake?

Please don't call me because I can't afford complications?

In the end, I left nothing. I grabbed my clutch from the nightstand where I'd dropped it at some point during the night. The business card he'd given me at The Vault was still inside.

I should throw it away.

I slipped it into an inner pocket instead.

The penthouse was silent except for the hum of the air conditioning. I let myself out quietly, closing the door with barely a click.

The elevator ride down felt eternal. I kept expecting someone to stop me, to ask what I was doing leaving a penthouse suite at seven in the morning wearing last night's clothes. But the lobby was mostly empty. Just staff moving quietly, preparing for the day.

I walked out into the bright morning, immediately regretting the heels. My feet screamed with every step. I pulled out my phone and ordered a car, waiting on the corner like someone doing the world's most obvious walk of shame.

The driver who picked me up was mercifully silent. I slumped in the back seat, exhaustion crashing over me now that the adrenaline of escape had faded.

What had I done?

I'd slept with a stranger. Multiple times. In ways I'd never slept with Leo in three years of being together.

And I'd liked it.

More than liked it. I'd craved it. Every touch, every kiss, every moment of losing myself in sensation instead of thought.

But it couldn't happen again. Men like Xander Lockwood didn't want women like me beyond a single night of entertainment. And I couldn't afford distractions. I needed to focus on rebuilding my life, finding a job, proving I wasn't a thief.

Last night had been an escape. A beautiful, necessary escape.

But now it was morning, and reality was waiting.

The car dropped me at Maya's building. I climbed the three flights of stairs slowly, dreading the interrogation waiting for me.

Maya was awake, sitting on the couch with coffee and her laptop. She looked up when I walked in, and her eyes went wide.

"Oh my God."

"Don't."

"Diana. You look like you got hit by a sex truck."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Too bad. We're talking about it. Sit." She patted the couch beside her. "Coffee first. Then details."

I collapsed onto the couch, accepting the mug she thrust at me. The coffee was strong and hot and exactly what I needed.

"Did you at least text me like you promised?" Maya asked.

I checked my phone. Dead battery. "My phone died."

"Diana."

"I'm fine. I'm here. I'm alive. Nothing bad happened."

"Except you had sex with a billionaire you met six hours ago."

"I needed to forget for a while. He helped me forget."

Maya studied my face. "Was it good?"

Despite everything, I felt myself smiling. "It was incredible."

"Okay. Okay, I can work with incredible. Are you seeing him again?"

"No."

"No? Di, the man looked at you like you were the only person in the room. And clearly the sex was good. Why not see where it goes?"

"Because I don't have the bandwidth for complicated right now. I need to focus on finding a job. Rebuilding my reputation. Getting my life back on track."

"Or, hear me out, you could let yourself have something good for once."

"Good things don't happen to me, Maya. Good things get taken away. Leo. My job. Everything." I set down the coffee. "Last night was perfect because it was one night. No expectations. No promises. No disappointments. I'm not ruining it by trying to make it more."

Maya looked like she wanted to argue, but she just sighed. "Fine. But for the record, I think you're making a mistake."

"Add it to the list."

I showered, washing away the evidence of the night. The hot water stung the bite mark on my shoulder, and I found myself touching it gently, remembering.

Then I forced myself to stop remembering.

I needed to move forward, not backward.

After the shower, I changed into comfortable clothes. Top. Jeans. Hair in a neat bun. Makeup carefully applied to hide the exhaustion. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw Diana Pembroke, events manager.

Not Diana Pembroke, woman who'd spent the night screaming a stranger's name.

I spent the rest of the morning on my laptop, applying to every job I could find. Event coordinator at a hotel chain. Catering manager for a corporate firm. Wedding planner assistant at a boutique agency.

By noon, I had fifteen applications submitted.

By two, I had three rejection emails.

By five, I had twelve.

Thank you for your interest, but we've decided to move forward with other candidates.

We appreciate your application, but your qualifications don't match our current needs.

After careful consideration, we've decided not to proceed with your candidacy.

The rejections all said different things, but they meant the same thing: We heard about Veridian. We don't hire thieves.

"Nothing?" Maya asked, looking over my shoulder.

"Nothing. It's like I've been blacklisted industry-wide."

"Have you tried reaching out to former clients? Someone who knows your work?"

"And say what? 'Hi, remember how I managed your perfect wedding? Please ignore the theft allegations and hire me?'"

Maya winced. "Okay, maybe not. What about something outside events? You have transferable skills. Project management. Client relations. Budgeting."

"I've been applying to those too. Same result."

My phone buzzed. Another rejection email. This one from a position I'd been excited about. Events director at a museum. Perfect blend of culture and logistics.

We regret to inform you...

I closed my laptop before I threw it across the room.

"I need air. I'm going for a walk."

"Di-"

"I'll be fine. I just need to clear my head."

I grabbed my jacket and walked out before Maya could stop me. The afternoon was cool, autumn settling over the city. I walked without direction, letting my feet carry me through Brooklyn streets.

Former colleagues passed on the other side of the street. I recognized a woman I'd worked with on the Morrison gala, the one before everything went wrong. She saw me, and her eyes widened. Then she quickly looked away, pretending she hadn't seen me.

The message was clear. I was tainted. Toxic. Someone to avoid.

I found myself in Prospect Park, sitting on a bench watching people jog and walk dogs and push strollers. Normal people living normal lives, unburdened by scandal and shame.

My phone buzzed again. I almost didn't check it, assuming another rejection.

But it wasn't a rejection. It was a text from an unknown number.

"You left without saying goodbye."

My heart stopped.

Xander.

I stared at the message, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. I should delete it. Block the number. Maintain the boundary I'd set this morning when I snuck out.

But I found myself typing instead. "I didn't want to wake you."

The response came immediately.

Xander: "I would have appreciated the chance to make you breakfast."

Me: "I needed to get home."

Xander: "Or you needed to run."

The observation was too accurate, too sharp. Just like everything else about him.

Me: "It was one night. A good night. But one night."

Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again.

Xander: "If you say so."

Me: "I do."

Xander: "Then I won't bother you again. But Diana, for what it's worth, I don't regret last night. I hope you don't either."

I stared at the message. I should tell him I did regret it. Should lie and create distance and make sure this ended cleanly.

"I don't regret it," I typed. "But it can't happen again."

Xander: "Understood. Take care of yourself, Diana Pembroke."

The conversation ended. No arguing. No trying to convince me otherwise. Just acceptance.

Which was exactly what I wanted.

So why did it feel like losing something I'd barely had a chance to hold?

I walked back to Maya's apartment as the sun set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. My phone stayed silent. No more texts from Xander. No more rejection emails.

Just silence.

Back at the apartment, Maya had ordered Pizza. We ate while watching trashy reality TV and not talking about the fact my life was a disaster.

"Tomorrow will be better," Maya said, though she didn't sound convinced.

"Tomorrow I'll keep applying. Someone will give me a chance eventually."

"What if they don't?"

"Then I'll figure something else out. I always do."

But lying in Maya's guest bed that night, staring at the ceiling, I wondered if I was lying. I'd always had a plan. Always had structure. Always knew the next step.

Now I had nothing. No job. No prospects. No path forward.

Just the memory of one perfect night when I'd forgotten to be broken.

And the business card still tucked in my clutch, a reminder of the man who'd made me feel alive.

I fell asleep thinking about gray-green eyes and the way he'd said my name like it was something precious.

Fell asleep telling myself I'd made the right choice.

Fell asleep trying to believe tomorrow would be different.

But deep down, I knew the truth.

Nothing was going to change until I changed it myself.

And I had no idea how to do something like this anymore.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

A week passed in a blur of rejections and silence.

Twenty-three applications sent. Twenty-three rejections received. The responses came faster now, as if my name had been flagged in some industry-wide database. Unemployable. Do not hire.

I'd stopped checking L******n after seeing my former colleagues posting about successful events at Veridian, carefully avoiding any mention of me. Simone had been promoted to senior events manager. My position. My title. Given to the woman who'd waited like a vulture for me to fall.

The money situation was becoming critical. My checking account had dwindled to four hundred dollars. Maya kept saying I didn't need to worry about rent, but I saw the way she looked at her own bills. Her art sales were inconsistent. She couldn't afford to support both of us indefinitely.

I'd applied for unemployment. For food service positions. For retail jobs. Anything to stop the bleeding.

Nothing.

Even a coffee shop had rejected me. Apparently, being accused of theft made you unsuitable for handling a cash register.

I spent my days on the couch with my laptop, sending résumés into the void. My nights were restless, filled with dreams of bronze sculptures and gray-green eyes and the way Xander had said my name.

I hadn't heard from him since that text in the park. Hadn't expected to. We'd both agreed it was one night. A perfect, isolated incident filed away under "glorious mistakes."

So when someone knocked on Maya's door at seven on a Tuesday evening, I didn't think twice about answering it.

Maya was in the shower. I was in sweatpants and one of her oversized shirts, hair in a messy bun, no makeup. The epitome of someone who'd given up on appearances.

I opened the door.

Xander Lockwood stood in the hallway.

He looked exactly as I remembered. Expensive suit, perfectly tailored. Dark hair styled with casual precision. Those eyes that saw too much. But there was something different about his expression. More serious. More calculated.

This wasn't a social call.

"Hello, Diana."

My mouth opened. Closed. No sound came out.

"May I come in?"

"I... how did you find me?"

"You told me you were staying with your friend Maya in Brooklyn. There are only so many Maya Rossis in the borough who are artists. The rest was simple research."

Simple research. Right. Because tracking down someone's address was normal behavior.

"What are you doing here?"

"I have a proposition for you. May I come in, or would you prefer to have this conversation in the hallway?"

My brain finally caught up. "Maya is home."

"Good. I'd prefer a witness for this conversation anyway."

He walked past me into the apartment before I could protest. I stood frozen for a moment, then closed the door and followed.

Xander surveyed the small space with the same analytical gaze he'd turned on me at The Vault. Taking in the canvases stacked against the walls. The mismatched furniture. The life Maya had built on passion and perseverance.

"This is cozy," he said.

"It's small."

"I said cozy, not small." He turned to face me, and the intensity in his eyes made my breath catch. "How have you been?"

"How have I been? You show up unannounced at my friend's apartment after a week of silence and want to make small talk?"

"Fair point." He set his briefcase on the coffee table. "Is there somewhere we can sit?"

The bathroom door opened before I could answer. Maya emerged in a cloud of steam, wrapped in a robe, hair dripping. She stopped dead when she saw Xander.

"What the hell?"

"Maya Rossi, I presume. I'm Alexander Lockwood. We met briefly at The Vault." He extended his hand.

Maya stared at it like it might bite her. "I know who you are. What I don't know is why you're in my apartment."

"I'm here to make Diana an offer."

"An offer." Maya looked at me, then back at him. "What kind of offer?"

"The kind I'd prefer to discuss while sitting down." His tone was polite but firm. A man accustomed to being obeyed.

Maya gestured stiffly to the couch. "Fine. Sit. But if this gets weird, you're leaving."

We all sat. Xander in the armchair, projecting calm authority. Maya and I on the couch, a united front of suspicion.

Xander opened his briefcase with deliberate precision. The click of the latches was loud in the quiet apartment. He reached inside and pulled out a leather-bound folder, thick with papers, the kind of document lawyers spent hours drafting.

He set it on the coffee table between us.

The leather was expensive, embossed with gold lettering I couldn't quite read from where I sat. It looked official. Legal. The kind of document changed lives.

"What is this?" Maya asked.

Xander didn't answer her. He looked at me. Only at me.

His gray-green eyes locked onto mine with an intensity made my heart hammer against my ribs. He leaned back in the chair, fingers steepled under his chin. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

Then he leaned forward, pushing the leather folder across the coffee table until it rested directly in front of me.

"Diana Pembroke," he said, his voice low and deliberate. "I want you to be my wife."​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

The words hung in the air like a physical presence.

I want you to be my wife.

For a moment, nobody moved. Nobody breathed. The apartment was so quiet I could hear the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, the distant sound of traffic outside.

“I’m sorry,” I said finally. “What?”

“You heard me correctly.”

“No. No, I don’t think I did. Because it sounded like you just proposed marriage.”

“I did.”

I laughed. The sound came out high and strange. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

“You have to be joking. People don’t just show up at someone’s apartment and propose marriage with a contract. This is… this is insane.”

“This is business.” Xander’s expression remained calm. Infuriatingly calm. “Diana, I understand this is unexpected—”

“Unexpected?” My voice climbed. “Unexpected is running into an ex at the grocery store. This is… I don’t even have words for what this is.”

Maya had gone very still beside me. Not speaking. Just watching Xander with an unreadable expression.

“Take a breath,” Xander said. “Let me explain.”

“Explain? You want to explain why you showed up here with a marriage contract?” I stood up, needing to move. “We slept together once. Once. And now you want to marry me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I need a wife, and you need resources. It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

“Mutually beneficial.” I repeated the words like they were in a foreign language. “You’re talking about marriage like it’s a business merger.”

“All marriages are business mergers. Most people just don’t acknowledge it.” He gestured to the couch. “Sit. Please. Let me explain my situation, and then you can decide if you want to hear the terms.”

I didn’t sit. I paced instead, my mind spinning. “This isn’t real. This can’t be real.”

“Diana.” Maya’s voice was quiet. “Maybe hear him out?”

I spun to face her. “You think I should hear him out?”

“I think you should at least understand what he’s offering before you throw him out.” She looked at Xander. “Though I reserve the right to throw you out if this gets any weirder than it already is.”

Xander nodded. “Fair enough.”

I sat down slowly, feeling like I’d stepped into an alternate reality. “Fine. Explain. Why do you need a wife?”

“My father died twelve years ago. He left me controlling interest in Lockwood Industries, but with conditions.” Xander’s voice was measured, professional. Like he was giving a business presentation. “Specifically, I must be married by my thirty-fifth birthday, or control of the company reverts to a board of trustees headed by my mother.”

“When is your birthday?”

“January tenth.”

I blinked. “That’s… that’s in nine months.”

“Yes.”

“So you have nine months to get married or you lose your company.”

“Correct.”

“And you decided the solution was to track down a woman you slept with once and propose a contract marriage.”

“Yes.”

I laughed again, the sound bordering on hysterical. “This is insane. You know this is insane, right?”

“I know this is unconventional.”

“Unconventional? This is—” I stopped, pressing my hands to my face. “I need a minute. I need to process this.”

“Take your time.”

I stood again, walking to the window. Brooklyn stretched out below, normal and real and making sense in a way this conversation didn’t.

Xander wanted to marry me. With a contract. Because he needed a wife to keep his company.

“Why me?” I asked without turning around. “You’re Alexander Lockwood. You could marry anyone. Models. Actresses. Women who actually know you.”

“Because everyone else would want something more. To complicate something meant to be simple.”

I turned to face him. “And you think I won’t?”

“I know you won’t. You made that clear when you left my penthouse without saying goodbye. When you told me in text messages it couldn’t happen again.” His eyes held mine. “You understand boundaries. You don’t confuse one night for a relationship. Those qualities make you perfect for what I need.”

“What you need. What about what I need?”

“You need money. Stability. A way to rebuild your reputation and your career. I can provide all of those things.”

“In exchange for pretending to be your wife.”

“Yes.”

I sat back down, my legs suddenly unsteady. “This is insane,” I whispered.

“You’ve said that several times now.”

“Because it keeps being true!” I looked at Maya. “Tell him this is insane.”

Maya was quiet for a moment. “It is insane. But Di… he’s not wrong about your situation.”

“So you think I should consider this?”

“I think you should hear all the details before deciding anything.” She looked at Xander. “What exactly are you offering?”

Xander pushed the leather folder toward me. “Open it. Read the first page.”

My hands trembled as I reached for the contract. The leather was cool, substantial. Real.

I opened it.

“MARRIAGE CONTRACT

Between: Alexander James Lockwood and Diana Elizabeth Pembroke

Duration: Two years from date of marriage

Effective Date: To be determined, no later than January 10, 2027”

My eyes scanned the words, but they didn’t feel real.

“Keep reading,” Xander said.

I turned the page.

“Article I: Compensation

Annual stipend of $500,000, paid monthly.

Full health insurance.

Legal representation.

Wardrobe allowance.

Completion bonus of $500,000.

Business startup capital up to $1,000,000.”

The numbers swam. I read them again. Then again.

Two million dollars total.

“This can’t be real,” I breathed.

“It’s very real. Keep reading.”

“Article II: Obligations

Public appearances. Cohabitation. Discretion. Public persona as devoted spouse. Physical displays of affection in public.

Separate bedrooms provided unless mutually agreed otherwise.

Physical intimacy optional and mutually consensual.”

I closed the contract, my heart hammering. “You want me to pretend to be your wife. In public. At events. In front of your family.”

“Yes.”

“For two years.”

“Yes.”

“While living with you.”

“In separate bedrooms if you prefer. But yes, we’d share a residence. The marriage has to appear real.”

“Why?” The question came out sharper than I intended. “Why does it have to be real? Why can’t you just get married on paper?”

“Because my mother isn’t stupid. Neither is my board of directors. They’ll be watching. Scrutinizing. Looking for any sign this is fake. We need to be convincing.”

“Convincing how?”

“Attending events together. Appearing affectionate in public. Spending holidays with family. Living like a married couple in all the ways anyone can observe.” He leaned forward. “Diana, I’m not asking you to fall in love with me. I’m asking you to play a role for two years. You’re excellent at managing events, at meeting impossible expectations. This is the same skill set.”

“Events don’t involve lying to everyone I know.”

“Read Article Three. The discretion clause.”

I opened the contract again, flipping pages until I found it.

“Article III: Discretion

Both parties agree to maintain absolute confidentiality regarding the contractual nature of the marriage. Violation results in immediate termination and forfeiture of all compensation.”

I sighed.

“So I can’t tell anyone this is fake.”

“Correct.”

“Not even Maya.”

“Especially not Maya. But unfortunately, she’s here and since you’re staying at her apartment, she needed to know. The fewer people who know, the lower the risk of exposure.” He glanced at Maya. “No offense.”

“Plenty taken,” Maya said dryly.

I kept reading, my mind struggling to process the words.

“Article IV: Fidelity

During the term of the contract, both parties agree to refrain from romantic or sexual relationships with third parties….

You want me to be faithful to a fake marriage.”

“I want both of us to avoid complications. If either of us is seen with someone else, it damages the illusion.” His expression was unreadable. “Two years of celibacy is a small price for what you’re gaining.”

“Unless we…” I couldn’t finish the sentence.

“Unless we choose otherwise. Which is covered in Article Two. Physical intimacy is optional. If both of us want it, fine. If not, separate bedrooms. No pressure. No obligation.”

My face burned. We were discussing sleeping together like it was a contract addendum.

“There’s more you’re not telling me,” I said. “There has to be. Men like you don’t offer this kind of money without a bigger reason.”

Xander was quiet for a moment. “You’re right. There are other factors.”

“Tell me.”

“My ex-girlfriend is causing problems. Seraphina Vale. She’s a model. We dated for two years. I ended things six months ago. She didn’t accept it.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means she shows up at my office. My apartment. My events. She tells people we’re reconciling. Gives interviews implying we’re getting back together.” His jaw tightened. “It’s affecting my business relationships. Making me look unstable. A wife sends a clear message.”

“So I’m a solution to your ex-girlfriend problem.”

“You’re a solution to multiple problems. Seraphina is one of them. My mother’s meddling is another. She has candidates she wants me to marry. Women from appropriate families. A sudden marriage circumvents her interference.”

“Appropriate families.” The words tasted bitter. “And I’m not appropriate.”

“You’re intelligent, beautiful, and currently in a position where this arrangement benefits you significantly.” His eyes held mine. “I don’t care about appropriate. I care about effective.”

I closed the contract, setting it on the coffee table like it might explode.

“This is too much. I can’t… I need time to think.”

“Of course. That’s why I’m giving you a week.”

“A week? You want me to decide whether to marry you in a week?”

“I need time to plan a wedding if you say yes. We need to establish how we met, how I proposed, why we’re marrying quickly. Every detail has to be perfect.” He stood, straightening his suit. “Read the entire contract. Think about what this means for your future. Consider what you’re gaining versus what you’re sacrificing.”

“What am I sacrificing?” I asked. “You make this sound like I’m getting everything.”

“Two years of your life. Two years of living a lie. Two years of being scrutinized by my family, my colleagues, the media.” His expression was serious. “This won’t be easy, Diana. But it will be lucrative. And at the end, you’ll have the resources to build whatever life you want.”

He walked toward the door.

“Wait,” I said. “I have questions. So many questions.”

“Write them down. When you call, I’ll answer all of them. But tonight, you need time to process.” He paused with his hand on the doorknob. “One week, Diana. My contact information is on the last page of the contract. Call me when you’re ready to discuss this further.”

“What if I’m not ready in a week?”

“Then I move on to other candidates. But I don’t think I’ll need to. I think you’ll call.”

“You’re very confident.”

“I’m a good judge of character. And I think you’re someone who makes hard choices when they’re the right ones.” He opened the door. “Read the contract. Think carefully. Then decide if you’re willing to be my wife.”

He walked out, closing the door softly behind him.

The apartment fell silent.

Maya and I stared at the leather folder on the coffee table.

“Did that just happen?” I whispered.

“I think so. But I’m not entirely sure I didn’t hallucinate the last twenty minutes.”

I picked up the contract again, opening to the compensation page. The numbers were still there. Five hundred thousand dollars per year.

“This is real,” I said. “This is really happening.”

“Are you going to do it?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything right now except my brain is screaming and I feel like I’m in some weird fever dream.”

Maya pulled me into a hug. “Take the week. Read everything. Think about it. Don’t decide anything tonight.”

“He wants me to marry him, Maya.”

“I know.”

“For money. With a contract.”

“I know.”

“This is insane.”

“You’ve mentioned that.” She pulled back, looking at me seriously. “But Di, crazy or not, he’s offering you a way out. And right now, you don’t have many of those.”

“So you think I should consider it?”

“I think you should read the contract. Understand what he’s really asking. Then make a decision based on facts, not panic.” She squeezed my hand. “Whatever you decide, I’m here. Always.”

I looked at the contract again.

One week to decide if I was willing to marry Alexander Lockwood.

One week to decide if I was desperate enough to sell two years of my life.

One week to figure out who Diana Pembroke really was.

The girl who played it safe and ended up with nothing.

Or the woman who took the dangerous choice and fought her way back.

I didn’t know the answer yet.

But I had seven days to find out.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​