THE CEOS FAKE BRIDE: CONTRACTUALLY BOND TO MY EX
The men from Crestline Bank didn’t browse.
They didn’t admire the gowns or comment on the lacework that had once made Kay Couture famous. They stood in the middle of my boutique in charcoal suits, clipboards tucked under their arms, eyes sharp and detached, already deciding what would be taken.
“You have thirty days,” the older one said calmly.
My fingers tightened around the edge of the glass counter.
“Thirty days for what?”
“To clear your outstanding loan,” he replied. “Or the bank will begin repossession proceedings.”
Repossession.
The word echoed louder than the soft hum of the sewing machine behind me. Louder than the bell over the door that hadn’t rung for a real customer in a week.
They walked around the shop slowly, assessing everything. The mannequins. The racks. The unfinished bridal gown draped over my worktable. My father’s last design.
When they were done, an envelope was placed on the counter.
“You’ll be contacted again,” the man said. “Good day, Miss Kay.”
The door closed behind them with a polite jingle.
I locked it.
Then my legs gave out.
I slid down until my back hit the counter, breath coming in shallow bursts. Thirty days. Thirty days to find money I didn’t have. I had already sold my car, moved out of my apartment, taken on two online jobs. Still, the numbers never balanced.
Kay Couture was dying.
And I was standing in its grave.
That night, my uncle called.
“Reece,” he said without preamble, “I need you to come home. Now.”
My chest tightened. “Is something wrong?”
“Yes,” he replied quietly. “Something your father left behind. Something important.”
The house smelled the same. Old wood. Dust. Memories I hadn’t asked to keep.
Uncle Hamsel sat in the living room surrounded by files and a worn leather briefcase I hadn’t seen since my father’s funeral.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
He pushed a stack of documents toward me. “Your father set up a trust fund years ago. It was meant to protect the boutique.”
Hope flared before I could stop it. “Then why didn’t we use it?”
He hesitated.
“Because there’s a clause.”
My stomach dropped. “What kind of clause?”
He cleared his throat. “You can only access the money if you get married.”
I laughed. It came out wrong. Thin. Brittle. “Married to who?”
“A son from the Lawson family.”
The room tilted.
“The Lawsons?” I repeated slowly. “As in that Lawson family?”
“Yes.”
The billionaire dynasty. The empire my father once partnered with. The family whose name I hadn’t spoken aloud in five years.
“No,” I said immediately, pushing the papers away. “Absolutely not.”
“Reece,” my uncle said gently, “the boutique is drowning. This is the only lifeline left.”
“And if I refuse?”
His silence answered before his words did.
“The bank will take everything.”
The lawyer’s office the next morning was all glass and steel, the kind of place where emotions went to die.
The man waiting inside rose when we entered. Tall. Impeccably dressed. Calm in a way that made my skin prickle.
“Miss Kay,” he said. “I’m Barrister Hayes Lawson. I handled your father’s trust arrangements.”
Lawson.
Of course.
He opened a leather-bound folder and slid it across the table.
“The terms are simple,” he said. “You must marry a Lawson heir. The marriage must last one year. Full cohabitation is required. Public appearances are mandatory. And you are forbidden from disclosing the nature of the arrangement.”
“This isn’t marriage,” I said tightly. “It’s a cage.”
He met my eyes. “It’s legal.”
He turned the page.
“The debt currently stands at forty-five million dollars.”
The number stole the air from my lungs.
“If you walk away,” he continued evenly, “the boutique becomes Lawson property immediately.”
My hands shook.
“And if I agree?” I asked.
“Then the family will decide which heir is most suitable.”
“What?” I shot to my feet. “I don’t even get to choose?”
“That is correct.”
My uncle’s voice was barely a whisper. “Reece…”
I stared at the documents, at my father’s signature staring back at me with cruel confidence.
Thirty days.
A dying legacy.
A trust fund locked behind a ring.
“I’ll meet them,” I said finally. “I won’t agree to anything yet. But I’ll hear them out.”
Barrister Lawson nodded. “They expected you would.”
My heart stuttered. “Expected?”
“Yes,” he said. “In fact, one of the heirs specifically requested the meeting.”
“Who?”
A pause.
“Rhys Lawson.”
The name hit like a blade.
The man who shattered my heart five years ago.
The billionaire CEO who never looked back.
I swallowed hard.
This wasn’t just a contract.
It was revenge wrapped in silk.
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