The gates of the Stanley estate swung open, and as the Bentley rolled onto the gravel driveway, Joshua's mind wasn't on the fight ahead. It was three nights ago, in the rain-slicked chaos of a Manhattan street.
He'd just left Elysium, the most exclusive private club in the city, his jaw tight with frustration. His family had, for the tenth time, dismissed the idea of him marrying Gwyneth Kent. She was perfect, they'd said. From the right family, with the right pedigree. Too perfect. Her flaw was her flawlessness. They called her "boring."
A taxi had cut him off, a flash of yellow in the deluge. Joshua had swerved, the tires of his car hissing on the wet asphalt as he spun out, the fender crunching against a guardrail.
That's when he saw her. A woman, caught in the splash, drenched to the bone. Her grocery bag had split, its contents rolling into the gutter.
Avery Hopkins.
She was wearing a red dress, so thin and soaked that it clung to every curve of her body. She didn't scream or cry. She just lifted her head, rain plastering strands of dark hair to her sculpted cheekbones, and stared at him with the furious eyes of a cornered wildcat.
He'd gotten out of the car, checkbook in hand, ready to buy his way out of the inconvenience. But her gaze stopped him. It wasn't just angry; it was defiant.
Then he noticed where she was standing. Just outside the service entrance of Elysium. A well-known spot for high-end escorts to discreetly meet their clients after hours.
And in that moment, a plan-a wild, reckless, brilliant plan-had bloomed in his mind. If his family found Gwyneth too "suitable," he would bring them the opposite. He would bring them her.
Avery Hopkins was the perfect weapon. Her raw, dangerous beauty was the antithesis of Gwyneth's classic, refined elegance.
He'd made the offer right there on the sidewalk, the rain dripping from his hair. "I need a fiancée. For an act. Fifty thousand dollars a day."
She had stared at him as if he were insane.
"Do I look like the kind of woman who says yes to anything for money?" she'd shot back, her voice dripping with an offended sarcasm that, to him, sounded like a negotiation tactic.
It only confirmed his assumption. She knew her value. She knew how to play the game.
He didn't answer. He simply took out his phone. "I don't need your permission, I need your account number," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Or we can stand here and wait for the police to sort out this little 'accident'. Your choice."
He watched her jaw clench, the fight in her eyes warring with the rain and the ruined groceries at her feet. After a tense silence, she recited the numbers, her voice clipped and cold. He got her payment information and transferred the first fifty thousand dollars. A deposit.
The notification pinged on her phone. The look on her face shifted from scorn to shock, then to a flicker of desperate conflict.
"You will play my rebellious girlfriend," he had stated, his tone cold and transactional. "The more you anger my family, the better. No physical contact is required. When the job is done, we part ways."
He'd added the "no physical contact" clause as a firewall for himself. He despised the thought of being close to any woman who wasn't Gwyneth.
Avery had been silent for a long time, her eyes on the ruined groceries in the gutter. Then, she'd looked at him and nodded once. She needed the money, she'd said. A lot of it.
A wave of contempt had washed over him then. He had her pegged. A woman who would sell anything, including her dignity, for the right price. He'd handed her a business card and a pre-drafted non-disclosure agreement.
The memory evaporated as the Bentley came to a stop in front of the main house. Joshua glanced at Avery. Her stunt in the car moments ago made him realize how naive his "no contact" rule had been. He thought he was in complete control, but she was an unpredictable variable.
He hardened his resolve. She was a tool. A means to an end. A dark, messy background to make Gwyneth's perfection shine even brighter. Any reaction he had to her was simply a malfunction of the tool, one that needed to be corrected.
A footman opened his door. Joshua stepped out, then, playing his part, turned and offered a hand to Avery. The mask of the doting boyfriend was back in place, cold and perfect.
