Chapter 1
Avery
This was a complete and utter Valentine's Day Eve disaster.
"Hey sweetheart, how 'bout another round of tequila!"
The drunk at table four waved his empty glass like he was conducting an orchestra.
I looked away, took a deep breath, and glanced at the clock on the wall—eleven PM.
Valentine's Eve. Every couple in the world was out on some sweet date, and here I was, Avery Morris, serving a bunch of wasted assholes in this upscale bar.
Perfect. This was my life.
"Coming right up." I tugged at my too-low V-neck, forced on my professional smile, and wove through the crowd with my tray. The bar reeked of perfume, alcohol, and that suffocating heat that made it hard to breathe.
I shouldn't have been here tonight. This was Sarah's shift, but she had some "important date"—probably another loser who'd vanish in three months. So I took the shift because I needed the money.
God, I needed money so badly.
James Morris, that goddamn gambling piece of shit.
The bastard owed five hundred grand in loan shark debt. Five. Hundred. Thousand. And then what? He just peacefully checked out, kicked the bucket, waltzed off to heaven, leaving Mom and me to drown in this mess.
Thanks, Dad. Really fucking appreciate it.
Thinking of Mom made me sigh again. Her condition was getting worse—her heart could give out any second.
Every month, the hospital hounded me for bills, stacks of them piling up, and the surgery cost was astronomical.
All I could do was dodge the debt collectors like my life depended on it, work three jobs a day, and daydream about paying off the debt, saving enough for Mom's surgery, so we could scrape by together for the rest of our lives.
As for my acting dreams?
Forget it. Dreams weren't for poor people.
"Hey, gorgeous!" That familiar, nauseating tone interrupted my rare moment of zoning out. Shit—the drunk from table four grabbed my thigh with his greasy hand as I set down his drink.
My body went rigid.
"Get your filthy hand off me." My fake smile was cracking. The words ground out through my teeth, the rage I'd been suppressing all night bubbling up like lava.
"Aw, don't be like that," he leered, his hand creeping higher. "Have a drink with me, baby. I'll double your tip."
Okay. You asked for it.
My hand was already gripping the bottle. Seriously, I'd aimed for his greasy head, ready to swing for the fences.
But then—
A long, strong hand suddenly clamped down on the drunk's wrist.
"Sir," a deep, magnetic voice said, "I suggest you remove your hand. Now."
I looked up.
And my brain short-circuited.
The man standing in front of me... Jesus.
I mean, Jesus Christ. He was maybe six-three, silver hair gleaming under the dim lights, charcoal suit tailored to perfection, showing off a lean, powerful build.
But what really stopped me cold was his face—sharp features, a jawline that could cut glass, deep blue eyes currently locked on the drunk with ice-cold precision.
"Who the fuck are you! Let go of me! Ow, ow..." The drunk tried to turn around and teach this guy a lesson for killing his vibe, but his wrist was caught in a vise.
I watched his face turn purple like a liver. Hilarious.
Fucking satisfying.
"Leave."
Just one word. But the drunk scrambled up like he'd seen a ghost and bolted without even settling his tab.
Watching the chaos unfold, I felt weirdly exhilarated. I even whistled.
"You okay?"
Silver-hair turned to me, and when those blue eyes locked on mine, I felt like some apex predator had me in its sights. But strangely, I wasn't afraid. What I felt was... electricity—a goddamn current running from where his gaze touched me straight down to my belly.
This man was hot. I'd bet money I hadn't seen anyone this stunning in all my twenty-two years. Damn, I must look like an idiot right now.
Get a grip, Avery! You can't fall for some pretty face! Men are all trash—remember that asshole ex?
Fuck, it'd definitely been too long since I'd gotten laid.
"I'm fine," I cleared my throat, looked up, and plastered on my signature fake smile. "I could've handled it."
The corner of his mouth lifted in a barely-there smile—dangerous as hell. "I could tell. You were about to brain him with that tequila bottle?"
"Maybe," I shrugged, setting the bottle back on the tray. "Either way, he's paying for it."
He laughed—this low, sexy sound that cut through the noise of the bar like it was right in my ear. My stomach tightened again.
Dammit, was this man releasing pheromones or something? I'd bet even an eighty-year-old grandma would get her groove back hearing that voice.
"Interesting. I like your style," he said, extending his hand. "Patrick Winchester."
I took his hand—warm, firm, with this power that made me want to submit. "Avery Morris."
"Avery," he repeated my name, voice carrying something I couldn't quite place, like he was tasting it. "Suits you. Fiery."
I rolled my eyes and pulled my hand back. My palm still burned where he'd touched it. Damn. "If you're here to hit on me, Mr. Winchester, I gotta tell you, I'm not in the mood tonight. And my shift's not over—"
"I want to offer you a job."
I froze. "What?"
He gestured for me to sit. He settled onto the stool across from me with the grace of some big cat. "I'm the CEO of Winchester Group. You might've heard of us."
Winchester Group? Of course I'd heard of them. One of the biggest business empires in the city—real estate, finance, tech... Basically, if he wanted to, he could buy every bar on this block and hire us all to work in Afghanistan for the rest of our lives.
My internal alarm was screaming.
"So?" I asked warily, crossing my arms. "You're hiring waitresses? Or janitors? Because honestly, I've done both."
"No," his gaze pinned me, so deep I could drown in it. "I need a wife."
I almost fell off my chair. "Are you fucking kidding me?"
"A fake wife," he corrected, completely unfazed by my language. In fact, his mouth curved slightly. "For one month. Afterward, I'll pay you two million dollars."
I stared at him, waiting for him to say, "Surprise, it's a prank show, cameras are over there."
But he didn't.
He just watched me calmly, like we were discussing the weather.
"You're insane," I finally found my voice. "Why not get one of those socialites? They'd line up to marry you. God, they've probably already planned the wedding on Instagram."
"Because I need someone real," he said, leaning forward slightly. The distance between us suddenly shrank. I could smell his faint woody cologne, edged with something dangerous. "Not some lying social butterfly. And—"
He paused, his gaze sharpening.
"You need money, don't you?"
My heart slammed.
"How do you know—"
"Avery Morris. Twenty-two years old. Father committed suicide over gambling debts, leaving behind five hundred thousand dollars in debt.
Mother has heart disease and needs expensive surgery.
Former theater major, dropped out due to family crisis.
" He recited it like a grocery list, every word stabbing into me. "Am I wrong?"
I felt my blood freeze.
"You investigated me? How dare you?" The words scraped out of my throat, laced with fury.
"Business requires knowing your partners," he leaned back, posture relaxed, but those sharp eyes told me this man was dangerous. "I need someone with a clean background, desperate for money, and controllable. And you, Avery, check all the boxes perfectly."
"Controllable?" I laughed coldly. "What am I, merchandise?"
"No," he shook his head, mouth quirking. "You're the perfect partner. This is a deal. A fair deal."
He pulled something from his jacket pocket, placed it on the bar, and slid it toward me.
I looked down.
My heart stopped.
It was a check. The number made my vision go black.
One hundred grand.
The check said $100,000.
Holy shit, I'd never seen this much money in my life.
Fucking rich people.
"This is in advance," he said, voice calm as if he were talking about pocket change.
"One month. You cooperate with filming, play my wife.
In return, you get the rest when it's over.
This money's enough to pay off your father's debts, cover your mother's surgery, with plenty left over.
You can go back to school, chase your acting dreams, live the life you want. "
I stared at that check, my fingers trembling beyond my control.
This was what I'd been dreaming of. Freedom. Security. A chance to save Mom. And... and the dream I thought had died.
But...
"Why are you doing this?" I looked up, forcing myself to meet his eyes. "You could get anyone. This world's full of broke girls just like me. Why me? What's the real reason?"
He was silent for a moment, something unreadable flickering in those blue eyes.
"Because you're talented. When you were in theater school, you had top grades and were first in your program." He finally said. "I watched recordings of your performances. I trust your acting ability. So you're the one I'm looking for. My most qualified 'wife.'"
This bastard had even dug up my transcripts.
I stared at him, trying to read something from that sculpted face. "That's it? Just because I can act? This city's got a thousand better actors than me, they'd definitely—"
"But none of them are as desperate as you." He shrugged, the gesture infuriatingly elegant.
"So I'm your perfect tool?"
"Yes," he admitted without hesitation. "But this benefits you too, doesn't it?"
I bit my lip. He was right. This did benefit me. Hugely. I could save Mom, pay off the debts, start over.
But at the same time, my instincts were screaming. Danger! This man was dangerous!
"I..." I started, my voice shaking.
"You don't need to answer now," he cut me off, standing up. He pulled out a business card from his pocket and placed it next to the check. "Think about it. Tomorrow, three PM, this address. If you decide to accept, we'll sign a formal agreement and discuss details."