Chapter 1 THE OFFER

The pregnancy test clattered into the bathroom sink at 6:47 a.m., two pink lines sealing Ivy Monroe's fate.

She gripped the chipped porcelain, knuckles white, staring at her reflection in the water-spotted mirror. Twenty-six years old, dark circles under her green eyes, honey-blonde hair still damp from the shower she'd rushed through between her night shift at the Rothschild estate and her morning shift at the Morrison penthouse. And pregnant. Pregnant with Carter Blackwood's baby after one stupid, reckless night three weeks ago when she'd actually believed his lies about leaving his fiancée, about wanting something real.

"Ivy? You almost done in there?" Her mother's weak voice drifted through the thin apartment door. "I need my medication."

"Coming, Mom." Ivy shoved the test into her pocket, schooled her features into calm competence, and opened the door to their cramped studio. The morning light filtering through the single window illuminated her mother's gaunt face, the way cancer had hollowed out the vibrant woman who'd raised her alone after everything fell apart.

Ivy handed her the pills with water, watching her struggle to swallow. Stage four pancreatic cancer. Six months, maybe, without the experimental treatment that insurance laughed at covering. The treatment that cost thirty thousand dollars a month.

"You look tired, sweetheart." Her mother's thin hand squeezed hers. "You're working too hard."

"I'm fine." The lie came easily. Ivy had been lying for five years, ever since she'd fled her old life and become someone new. Someone invisible. Someone safe.

Her phone buzzed. A text from her supervisor at the Morrison house: *Don't bother coming in. Mrs. Morrison found out about you and Carter. You're fired.*

Ivy's stomach dropped. That was two thousand dollars a month, gone. She had three hundred dollars in her account and rent due in a week.

"I have to go to work," she said, kissing her mother's forehead, tasting the salt of her own panicked sweat. "I'll be back tonight."

She fled the apartment before her mother could see her fall apart, taking the stairs two at a time down five flights because the elevator had been broken for a month. The October morning bit through her thin jacket as she emerged onto the Queens street, the Manhattan skyline mocking her from across the river. All that money, all that power, and none of it for people like her.

The Rothschild estate loomed in the distance, but Ivy's phone buzzed again before she'd made it two blocks. Unknown number.

"Hello?"

"Miss Monroe?" A male voice, smooth and cold as winter steel. "This is James Crawford, personal attorney for Damien Blackwood. Mr. Blackwood would like to meet with you this morning. A car is waiting at the corner of your street."

Ivy froze mid-step. Damien Blackwood. Carter's uncle, the CEO who made grown men cry in boardrooms, who'd built Blackwood Industries into a twenty-billion-dollar empire through sheer ruthlessness. She'd seen him exactly once, at a family dinner she'd been serving, and he'd looked through her like she was furniture.

"I don't understand-"

"The car, Miss Monroe. Nine o'clock. Don't be late." The line went dead.

Ivy turned slowly. A black Mercedes idled at the corner, sleek and predatory. The driver's window lowered, revealing a man in a crisp suit who nodded once.

Every instinct screamed at her to run. Nothing good came from people like Damien Blackwood noticing people like her. But she thought of her mother's medication, the bills piling up, the positive pregnancy test in her pocket. She thought of Carter, who hadn't returned her calls in three weeks, who was probably laughing about the help he'd screwed while his family systematically destroyed her life.

Ivy walked to the car. She opened the door. She got in.

The interior smelled like leather and money. The driver said nothing as they glided through morning traffic, crossing the Queensboro Bridge into Manhattan. Ivy watched the city transform around her, the struggling neighborhoods giving way to gleaming towers, each block an increase in zeros on invisible price tags.

They stopped in front of Blackwood Industries headquarters, a glass and steel monolith that reflected the clouds. The driver opened her door. "Fiftieth floor. Mr. Blackwood is expecting you."

The lobby was all marble and intimidation. Ivy's worn sneakers squeaked on the polished floor as she crossed to the elevator bank, aware of the security guard's eyes tracking her, aware of how obviously she didn't belong. The elevator rose so fast her ears popped, and then the doors opened directly into a penthouse office that took up the entire floor.

Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased Manhattan like a conquered kingdom. Minimalist furniture, abstract art that probably cost more than her life, and behind a massive desk of black walnut, Damien Blackwood.

He stood as she entered, and Ivy's breath caught despite everything.

At thirty-four, Damien Blackwood was devastating. Six-foot-three, broad-shouldered, with dark hair swept back from a face that could have been carved from marble. Sharp cheekbones, a jaw that suggested violence barely restrained, and eyes the color of smoke-gray with hints of blue, cold and assessing. He wore a charcoal suit that probably cost more than her rent, tailored to emphasize the lean muscle underneath. This was a man who owned rooms just by entering them.

"Miss Monroe." His voice matched his appearance-deep, controlled, with an edge that suggested he was always three moves ahead. "Sit."

It wasn't a request. Ivy sat in the chair across from his desk, spine straight, chin up. She'd learned long ago not to show fear to predators.

Damien studied her in silence, and Ivy fought the urge to fidget under that penetrating stare. Finally, he slid a manila folder across the desk. "Open it."

Inside were photographs. Ivy at the hospital with her mother. Ivy leaving her apartment. Ivy serving drinks at the party where she'd met Carter. And beneath them, documents-her real birth certificate, the one that said Ivy Sutton, daughter of Congressman Richard Sutton, before the scandal that had destroyed her family.

Her blood turned to ice. "How-"

"I know everything about you, Miss Sutton." Damien's voice was emotionless, but something flickered in those cold eyes. "Born Ivy Catherine Sutton, December 15, 1998. Daughter of Richard Sutton, the congressman who embezzled twelve million dollars from campaign donors and fled the country. You were twenty-one when the scandal broke, attending Columbia on a scholarship. After your father disappeared and your mother was diagnosed with cancer, you changed your name, dropped out, and became invisible. Five years of housekeeping and desperation." He leaned back in his chair. "And three weeks ago, you slept with my nephew."

Ivy's hands clenched in her lap. "What do you want?"

"The same thing you want, Miss Sutton. Money." He pulled out another document, this one thick and official. "My grandmother's will stipulates that I must be married with a child on the way before my thirty-fifth birthday-which is eleven months and two weeks from today-or control of Blackwood Industries transfers to my cousin Victor. My grandmother believed a man without family couldn't be trusted with a family empire." His lip curled with bitter amusement. "Sentimental nonsense, but legally binding."

"I don't see what this has to do with me."

"You're pregnant." Damien said it flatly, without question. "My nephew's indiscretion is unfortunate, but potentially useful. I'm prepared to offer you a contract marriage. You will act as my wife for one year, produce the heir required by my grandmother's will, and at the end of twelve months, you'll receive ten million dollars and a clean divorce. Your mother will receive the best cancer treatment available, fully funded, starting immediately."

Ten million dollars. Ivy's mind reeled. Her mother's treatment. A future that wasn't drowning in debt and desperation. But-

"I'm already pregnant," she said. "With Carter's baby."

"I'm aware." Damien's expression didn't change. "The contract specifies a child, not biological parentage. We'll claim the child was conceived through IVF after our marriage. No one will question it. You'll sign an NDA preventing you from ever revealing the truth, and the child will be raised with whatever arrangement we decide upon after the divorce."

"You want to buy my baby."

"I want to buy your cooperation." Damien stood, moving to the windows, his back to her. The morning light silhouetted him, making him look like a dark angel surveying his domain. "Let me be clear, Miss Sutton. I don't believe in love. I don't believe in marriage. I believe in transactions, and this is one that benefits us both. You get money and security. I keep my company. We both get what we want without the mess of emotions or expectations."

"And what if I say no?"

He turned, and the look in his eyes made her breath catch. Not threatening, exactly, but absolute. "Then you'll continue working yourself to death for pennies while your mother dies slowly because you can't afford to save her. Carter will deny the child is his-I'll make certain of it. You'll raise a baby alone in poverty, watching your mother fade, knowing you had a chance to change everything and chose pride instead." He paused. "I'm not a good man, Miss Sutton. But I'm honest about what I am. Can you say the same?"

The question landed like a blade between her ribs. Ivy thought of her mother's pills, the empty refrigerator, the positive pregnancy test. She thought of the girl she'd been five years ago, privileged and naive, before betrayal taught her that kindness was a luxury she couldn't afford.

Damien returned to his desk, pulling out a pen. "The contract is comprehensive. You'll live in my penthouse, attend events as my wife, and maintain the appearance of a legitimate marriage. In private, we'll have separate bedrooms and separate lives. No intimacy beyond what's required for public appearances. No emotional entanglements. You do your job, I do mine, and in one year, we both walk away."

"What about Carter?"

"What about him?" Damien's voice could have frozen fire. "My nephew is a spoiled child who's been coasting on the family name his entire life. He has no claim to you or the child. The contract will ensure that."

Ivy stood, moving to the windows, staring down at the city fifty floors below. Tiny cars, tiny people, all of them scrambling for their piece of the dream. She'd been scrambling for five years, running from her past, trying to survive. And here was Damien Blackwood, offering her a different kind of cage-gilded, but still a cage.

"I need a guarantee," she said finally. "My mother's treatment starts immediately. Full funding, best doctors, no matter what. Even if I-" She stopped, the words catching. "Even if I don't make it the full year."

"Done." Damien's response was immediate. "Her treatment begins today. I've already contacted Mount Sinai. She'll be transferred this afternoon."

Ivy turned to face him. "You were that sure I'd say yes?"

"I'm sure you're smart enough to recognize an opportunity when you see one." He held out the pen. "The question is whether you're brave enough to take it."

Their eyes met, and for a moment, Ivy saw something flicker in that cold gray gaze-not warmth, but recognition. Two people who'd learned that the world didn't reward the good or the hopeful, only the ruthless and the strategic.

She thought of all the lies she'd told, all the ways she'd hidden and survived. One more lie. One more performance. And her mother would live.

Ivy took the pen. She read the contract-all forty-seven pages, ignoring Damien's slight surprise that she was actually reading the fine print. Her Columbia education, cut short but not forgotten, served her well. The terms were clear: one year, ten million dollars, discretion guaranteed, biological parentage never to be revealed. She'd be bound to him legally, financially, and publicly for twelve months. After that, freedom.

She found the signature line. The pen hovered for a moment, and she thought about the last time she'd signed her real name, Ivy Sutton, on official documents. The police statement after her father disappeared. The hospital admission form for her mother's first surgery. All those moments when she'd still believed in justice and fairness and truth.

She wasn't that girl anymore.

Ivy Monroe-the identity she'd built from nothing, the mask she'd worn for five years-signed the contract. She signed away twelve months of her life to a man who looked at her like a business acquisition. She signed away the truth about her baby's father, about who she really was.

When she finished, Damien took the contract, his fingers brushing hers for just a moment. The touch was electric, and Ivy jerked her hand back, disturbed by the flash of heat that shot through her.

Damien's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes sharpened. "We'll announce the engagement tomorrow. The wedding will take place in two weeks-my grandmother's will requires a legally binding marriage, not just an engagement. You'll move into my penthouse this evening. My assistant will handle the logistics."

"Two weeks?" Ivy's voice cracked. "That's-"

"Necessary." Damien returned to his desk, already dismissing her. "Victor is actively trying to find ways to contest the will. The longer we wait, the more time he has to cause problems. We need to present a united, legally sound front immediately." He glanced up, and for the first time, something almost human flickered across his face. "I know this isn't what you imagined for your life, Miss Sutton. But neither of us can afford sentiment. We do what we must to survive."

Ivy stood frozen, the full weight of what she'd just done crashing over her. In the space of an hour, she'd gone from fired housekeeper to contracted wife of a billionaire. From invisible to the center of Manhattan's most scrutinized power play. From free to bound.

"The car will take you home to pack," Damien said, already turning to his computer. "And Miss Sutton? From this moment forward, you are Ivy Monroe, my fiancée. The woman you used to be no longer exists. If your past comes to light, it violates the contract and voids all financial arrangements. Including your mother's treatment."

The threat was clear. Ivy nodded once, not trusting her voice.

As she turned to leave, Damien's voice stopped her. "One more thing."

She looked back.

He was watching her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. "I chose you because you're a survivor, Miss Monroe. Because you understand that sometimes we have to become someone else to stay alive. Don't make me regret believing you're strong enough for this."

Ivy lifted her chin, meeting his gaze with every ounce of defiance she had left. "I've survived worse than you, Mr. Blackwood."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips, there and gone so fast she might have imagined it. "We'll see."

The elevator doors closed on his face, and Ivy sagged against the wall, her hands shaking. She pulled out her phone, seeing three missed calls from the hospital. Her mother.

"Hi, sweetie." Her mother's voice was weak but confused. "The doctors here said I'm being transferred to Mount Sinai? They said my treatment's been approved, all of it, but I don't understand how-"

"It's okay, Mom." Ivy's voice broke. "I got a new job. A really good one. Everything's going to be okay now."

It was a lie. But it was also true. In the twisted, complicated way that her life had become, it was both.

As the car drove her back to Queens, Ivy watched Manhattan's towers recede in the rearview mirror, the gilded cage she'd just agreed to enter waiting for her return. She thought about Damien Blackwood's cold eyes and colder terms. She thought about the baby growing inside her, Carter's baby, that would now become part of this elaborate deception.

And she thought about the girl she'd been, Ivy Sutton, who'd believed in love and justice and truth. That girl was dead. In her place was Ivy Monroe, survivor and liar, about to become Mrs. Damien Blackwood in a marriage built entirely on transaction and deceit.

She pressed her hand to her still-flat stomach, feeling the weight of all her choices settling like stones.

"I'm sorry," she whispered to the baby, to herself, to the ghost of who she used to be. "I'm so sorry."

But sorry didn't change anything. Sorry didn't pay for cancer treatment or put food on the table or give her any option except the one she'd just taken.

The car pulled up to her building, and Ivy got out, staring up at the water-stained facade. In a few hours, she'd leave this place forever, stepping into a world of penthouses and private jets and elaborate lies. She'd become Damien Blackwood's wife, his acquisition, his solution to a problem.

And somehow, in the midst of all this deception, she'd have to find a way to survive with her soul intact.

If she had one left.