Married by mistake to the billionaire

 Talia's POV 

The suite smelled of cedar, polished leather, and something faintly metallic - the scent of order, maybe. Even the air-conditioning hummed with precision.

I sat on the edge of a velvet chair that probably cost more than my car, my wrinkled wedding dress dragging over the marble floor, my sanity hanging by a bobby pin.

Across from me, Adrian Voss didn't move. Not a twitch. Not a fidget. Just stillness - calculated and predatory. He turned a page, the paper whispering against his fingertips like it was afraid to make a sound.

"You're quiet," he said, without looking up.

"I'm thinking," I answered, my voice sharp enough to hide the tremor underneath.

His pen paused midair. "Dangerous habit."

I scowled. "You asked me to marry you. I'm allowed a few thoughts before I join your... whatever this is."

He finally looked up, and the room shrank a little. There was no fire in his gaze - no anger, no warmth. Just precision. Analysis. Like he was deciding whether I was worth investing in... or dismantling.

"Correction," he said. "I didn't ask. I offered a deal."

Oh, perfect. The romance version of a corporate merger.

"You know," I said tightly, "most people pretend to be charming when they want something."

"I'm not most people."

"No kidding."

His eyes dropped back to the papers in front of him. His wrist flicked once - smooth, exact - and a thick document slid across the table toward me.

"You'll find the terms straightforward," he said. "Six months. Mutual benefit. Public appearances only. You'll live here. You'll be paid handsomely."

My hand hovered over the paper, then froze. "You're serious."

"I don't say things I don't mean."

He leaned back - not to relax, but to observe. His gaze tracked every small movement I made, not lustful, not kind... just studying me like I was data.

I flipped through the pages, pretending my hands weren't shaking. "Six months," I repeated softly. "And what happens after that?"

"You walk away with your name intact," he said. "And so do I."

My laugh came out brittle. "You realize this is insane, right?"

He didn't even blink. "Only if you're sentimental."

He said it like he hadn't just been engaged for all of five minutes.

"Why me?" I asked suddenly.

He tilted his head. "Excuse me?"

"You could've picked anyone. Someone made for magazine covers. Why a stranger with a ruined wedding and a bad sense of humor?"

Something shifted in his expression - not a smile, exactly, but something close. "Because you're inconvenient enough to be believable."

"Inconvenient?"

He nodded once. "You're not easy to control. The press will find that... fascinating."

"So I'm your chaos hire," I muttered. "How flattering."

He didn't deny it. "Exactly."

And you're about to say yes, aren't you, you glorious idiot, my subconscious whispered.

I stood abruptly, the need to breathe outweighing the need to appear composed. The air in the suite felt too structured, too deliberate. Even the silence had rules.

"This is ridiculous," I said. "You can't just-"

"I can." His voice was even. Quiet. And final. "You'll spend months dodging paparazzi if you walk out of here. They'll hound you for every tear you shed at that church. Or-" He nodded toward the papers. "You can take back control of the story."

I froze.

"Control," he repeated, softer this time - like he knew exactly which word would gut me.

My heartbeat thudded in my ears. "You're using me."

He shrugged, the faintest lift of his shoulders. "You're free to use me back."

God, I hated him. Hated him so much it was starting to sound suspiciously like interest.

I crossed my arms, refusing to give him the satisfaction of intimidation. "You don't even feel bad about any of this, do you?"

"Feelings," he said, tone flat, "are liabilities. I prefer precision."

I wanted to throw something at him - anything, just to see if he'd flinch. He wouldn't. He was too still, too composed. Even his pulse probably asked permission before beating.

"Pity looks good on no one," he added quietly. "But power? That's a different story."

The words landed like a punch.

Power.

The one thing I'd lost the second my ex-fiancé ran. The thing every headline would strip from me by morning.

And now here was Adrian Voss - offering it back, not kindly, not gently, but like a transaction. Cold. Calculated. Tempting.

That's when I realized this wasn't surrender.

It was strategy.

I wasn't signing to hide.

I was signing to fight back.

"Fine," I said finally, stepping forward. "Six months. But I'm not your puppet."

His gaze lifted - faint interest, maybe even amusement. "Don't test me, Talia."

The way he said my name was a warning - soft, sharp, final.

"Do we have a deal?" he asked.

My pulse jumped. "You'll regret this."

"I rarely do."

He handed me a pen - heavy, gold, the kind used to sign history or ruin lives. I signed anyway.

When I slid the papers back, he didn't smile. Didn't thank me. Just tapped once on the signature line, checking my work like a teacher grading a test.

"Welcome to your new life," he said simply.

"Do I get a raise if I survive it?" I muttered.

He stood, buttoning his jacket. "Survival is its own reward."

By morning, my phone was a war zone.

Hundreds of notifications. Missed calls from Maya. And the headlines-

#VossWedding

London's Coldest Bachelor Secretly Marries Jilted Bride!

I was still staring at the screen when Adrian walked out of the ensuite - hair damp, shirt crisp, tie perfectly knotted, every inch of him composed.

"You did this," I said, stunned.

"I did," he replied simply. "The publicist released it at six. Right on schedule."

"Schedule?" My voice rose. "You planned this?"

"Of course." He adjusted his cufflinks without looking at me. "I don't improvise."

"You could've warned me!"

"You signed a contract, not a friendship."

My jaw dropped. "You're-"

He glanced up. "Efficient. You've said that."

Efficient. Manipulative. Emotionally frozen. Congratulations, Talia, you married an Excel spreadsheet.

"You're unbelievable," I muttered.

He stepped closer, and the air shifted - colder, heavier. His cologne hit me, cedar and something dark. The kind of scent that whispered money and danger in the same breath.

"And yet," he said, voice low, "you're standing here, wearing my name."

I straightened my shoulders. "You don't scare me."

He stopped a breath away, gaze steady, voice calm enough to freeze blood. "Good. Fear is unproductive."

Then, after a pause that stretched too long: "Obedience, however... that might save you."

My breath caught.

He picked up his briefcase, not sparing me another glance. "Seven o'clock," he said. "Don't be late."

"For what?"

"Our first public appearance."

"And if I don't show up?"

He didn't turn around. "Then I'll find a way to make you."

The door closed behind him, quiet as a gunshot.

I exhaled, half a laugh, half disbelief.

You married the devil, babe, my subconscious whispered. And he didn't even have to sell you your soul. You handed it over yourself.