She didn't go home.
After leaving the hotel, she walked until her feet ached and the white of her dress dulled under the city's neon lights. Every reflection in glass windows felt like a mockery—smiling brides, perfect couples, happiness she had been so sure was hers.
By the time she finally stopped, she was sitting alone in a quiet bar, a half-finished drink untouched in front of her.
She didn't cry.
Crying felt pointless.
Her phone vibrated again.
Unknown Number.
She stared at the screen, jaw tightening.
Unknown: I hope you got home safely.
Her fingers hovered over the reply button.
She hadn't told anyone where she was going.
FL: Who is this?
There was a pause—just long enough to feel deliberate.
Unknown: Someone who dislikes seeing valuable things mistreated.
Her grip tightened.
FL: You were at the engagement party.
This time, the reply came instantly.
Unknown: I was.
Her pulse quickened, equal parts irritation and unease.
FL: Watching?
Unknown: Waiting.
The word sent a strange chill through her.
She locked her phone and slid it into her bag, refusing to play along. Whoever this was, she had no interest in another man circling her ruins like a scavenger.
She drained her glass and stood.
The moment she stepped outside, a black car pulled up to the curb.
It was sleek. Expensive. Out of place on this quiet street.
The back door opened.
A man stepped out.
He was tall, dressed in a dark coat that looked as sharp as it was understated. His expression was calm—too calm—like nothing in the world ever surprised him. The streetlight caught the angles of his face, hard and precise, his gaze unreadable as it settled on her.
She stopped walking.
Instinct told her this man was dangerous—not because he was loud or aggressive, but because he didn't need to be.
"You shouldn't be alone at this hour," he said.
His voice was low, even. Not a suggestion. Not a command.
An observation.
She lifted her chin. "I didn't ask for company."
"No," he agreed. "But you need it."
She almost laughed. "You don't know anything about me."
His eyes flicked briefly to her bare hand—where a ring had been only hours ago.
"I know enough."
Silence stretched between them.
Cars passed in the distance. Somewhere, music drifted faintly through the night.
"Who are you?" she asked.
He studied her for a moment longer, as if weighing how much truth to give.
"Someone who can make your ex regret tonight," he said at last. "Someone who can make sure the story people tell tomorrow favors you."
Her breath caught despite herself.
She had spent the entire night being pitied, whispered about, erased. The idea of control—real control—was tempting in a way she didn't want to admit.
"And why would you do that?" she asked.
"Because," he said calmly, "I don't like wasted potential."
She scoffed. "You're offering revenge?"
"I'm offering balance."
The word lingered.
She crossed her arms, defensive. "I don't accept favors from strangers."
He nodded, as if he had expected that answer.
"Good," he said. "Then accept a proposal instead."
Her eyes narrowed. "A proposal?"
"Yes."
He stepped closer—not invading her space, but near enough that she could feel his presence, steady and unyielding.
"A contract marriage," he continued. "One year. Publicly, we're a perfect couple. Privately, we keep our distance. You get protection, resources, and a clean break from your past."
Her heart slammed painfully against her ribs.
This was insane.
She laughed softly. "You think I'd marry someone I don't even know?"
"You won't fall in love," he said, unbothered. "That was your condition tonight, wasn't it?"
Her breath stilled.
He met her gaze directly now, dark eyes sharp with something that looked dangerously like certainty.
"I heard you," he added.
The city seemed to fade around them.
She took a step back. "You're out of your mind."
"Perhaps," he said. "But I'm also your best option."
She shook her head. "I'm not interested."
"I know," he replied. "Not yet."
He reached into his coat and held out a card—black, unmarked, except for a number embossed in silver.
"When the world turns on you tomorrow," he said quietly, "call me."
She didn't take it.
He placed it gently on the ledge beside her.
Then he stepped back, signaling the driver. The car door opened.
As he turned to leave, he paused.
"One more thing," he said.
She looked at him despite herself.
"This marriage," he continued evenly, "would not be temporary for me."
Before she could respond, he got into the car.
It pulled away smoothly, disappearing into the night.
She stood there long after it was gone, the black card heavy in her gaze.
She didn't believe in fate.
But for the first time since her world shattered, she felt the unmistakable sense that something had already decided for her.
And she was standing directly in its path.