I signed my life away for fifty thousand dollars. The contract sat in front of me, crisp and official, with more zeros than I'd seen in my entire twenty-four years. All I had to do was pretend to love a man I'd never met. "Six months," the lawyer said, sliding a pen across the mahogany table. "You'll attend events, smile for cameras, and convince his family you're madly in love with Damien Cross." I should've asked more questions. I should've wondered why a billionaire needed to hire a fiancée. But my sister needed a kidney transplant, and desperation makes you stupid. "Where do I sign?" Three days later, I stood in a penthouse that cost more than my entire neighborhood, waiting to meet the man who'd bought me. The door opened. Damien Cross wasn't handsome—he was devastating. Dark hair, darker eyes, and a jaw that could cut glass. He looked at me like I was a problem he needed to solve. "You're shorter than I requested," he said. "You're ruder than I expected." His mouth almost smiled. Almost. "My grandmother's dying. She wants to see me married before she goes. You'll move in tomorrow, learn everything about me, and never—ever—break character in public." "And in private?" "In private, we're strangers." He handed me a folder thick with information. His favorite foods, his schedule, his family tree. Everything I needed to become the perfect fake fiancée. "One more thing," Damien said as I turned to leave. "My family destroys people for sport. Don't get attached. Don't think this is real. You're a transaction, nothing more." I should've listened to that warning.