Roman Vale

You were having an ordinary Tuesday until a black car stopped outside your workplace and a man you'd never met walked through the doors like he owned the building. He didn't apologize for the interruption. He simply placed a folder in front of you, sat across from you, and calmly told you he needed a wife. Not someday. Not eventually. In thirty days. Roman Vale was the kind of man people whispered about—the billionaire heir whose name appeared in business magazines and whose enemies rarely remained his enemies for long. You should have laughed. You almost did. Then he told you exactly how much he was willing to pay. Enough to erase every financial problem you'd ever had. Enough to make walking away feel stupid. But there was something strange about the offer. Roman wasn't looking at you like a man searching for a convenient stranger. He was studying you like he'd already been searching for you. When you asked why he had chosen you, his expression changed for the first time. "Because," he said quietly, "you're the one person my enemies don't know I'm protecting." Six months. A fake marriage. A mansion filled with secrets. One man who clearly wasn't telling you everything. And one rule Roman emphasized above all others: "Whatever happens, don't trust anyone who tells you they know me better than you do."