The car was a black Mercedes with windows so dark she couldn't see out. The driver didn't speak, didn't look at her. He just drove.
Sloane sat in the back, her palms slick against the leather seat. She'd put on the black dress, added a pair of heels that pinched her toes, and pinned her brown hair into a twist that made her look older. The city lights blurred past the tinted windows. She had no idea where they were going.
They drove for thirty minutes, weaving through streets she didn't recognize. When the car finally stopped, they were underground. A private garage, the walls painted a matte gray, no signage, no windows. The kind of place where secrets were kept.
The driver opened her door. "This way."
He led her to an elevator that required a keycard and a fingerprint scan. The doors opened onto a hallway that looked like a five‑star hotel—marble floors, soft lighting, a single painting that Sloane recognized as an original Rothko. The kind of art that cost more than she would earn in a lifetime.
At the end of the hallway was a set of double doors, dark wood, polished to a shine. The driver knocked once, then disappeared back down the hall.
A voice from inside: "Come in."
Sloane pushed open the doors.
The room was an office, but not like any office she'd ever seen. Floor‑to‑ceiling windows overlooked Veridian City's financial district—a sea of lights stretching to the horizon. A massive desk sat in the center, uncluttered except for a single folder and a glass of whiskey. Bookshelves lined the walls, but the books looked decorative, untouched.
And behind the desk sat the most beautiful man she'd ever seen.
He was tall, even sitting. Dark hair swept back from a face of sharp angles—cheekbones like blades, a jaw that looked carved from stone. His eyes were the color of aged whiskey, warm in hue but cold in expression. He wore a charcoal suit that probably cost more than her entire student loan debt, a white shirt open at the collar, no tie.
He didn't stand. Didn't offer a hand. He just looked at her, his gaze traveling from her face to her dress and back again, assessing.
"Sloane Mitchell." He said her name slowly, like he was tasting it. "Twenty‑six. Architecture degree from Columbia. Currently employed at Hartwell Design Group, where you've been passed over for promotion three times. Father, Michael Mitchell, retired police officer with a gambling problem and a debt of two million dollars to a man named Silas Webb. Mother, Sarah Mitchell, disappeared when you were twelve. No siblings. No criminal record. No serious relationships in the past five years."
She stood her ground, though her knees wanted to buckle. "You've done your research."
"I don't enter arrangements blind." He gestured to the chair across from his desk. "Sit."
She didn't move. "Who are you?"
A flicker of something—amusement, maybe—crossed his face. "Mateo Rivas."
The name hit her like cold water. Everyone in Veridian City knew the Rivas name. Billionaires. Philanthropists. They owned half the skyline, funded hospitals, sat on every important board. And, if the rumors were true, they were also the city's most powerful crime family.
"You're Mateo Rivas," she repeated, her voice steadier than she felt.
"I am." He leaned back in his chair, studying her. "I need a wife. You need money. The agency says you're suitable. But before we go any further, I have one question."
"What?"
His eyes locked onto hers, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop. "Why did your mother leave?"
The question caught her completely off guard. She had expected questions about her father's debts, her financial situation, her willingness to sign a contract. Not this. Not a wound she had kept buried for fourteen years.
"She left because she couldn't handle my father's gambling," Sloane said. "That's what I was told."
"And you believe that?"
"Does it matter?"
Mateo stood. He moved around the desk with the fluid grace of a predator, stopping inches from her. He was close enough that she could smell his cologne—something clean with a hint of smoke, expensive and masculine. Close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes.
"It matters," he said quietly, "because the contract I'm offering comes with a condition."
"What condition?"
"You help me find your mother."
Sloane's heart stopped. For a moment, she couldn't breathe. "My mother is gone. She's been gone for fourteen years. I don't know where she is. I don't even know if she's alive."
"She's alive." Mateo reached into his jacket and pulled out a photograph. He held it up.
It was a recent picture. A woman with graying hair, standing at a market stall in what looked like a small coastal town. Her face was older, thinner, lined with worry and years. But Sloane would have recognized her anywhere.
Her mother. Alive. Smiling.
"Where was this taken?" Sloane's voice came out strangled, barely a whisper.
"That's not the question you should be asking." Mateo tucked the photo away. "The question is: how much are you willing to do to find out why she really left? And what she took with her when she ran?"
Sloane stared at him, her mind racing. "You knew. You knew she was alive, and you—what? You waited until I was desperate so you could use me?"
"I waited until you came to me." He didn't flinch. "The contract is for one year. You play the part of my wife—public appearances, events, the penthouse. In return, I pay off your father's debt and give you an additional million upfront. The remaining two million at the end of the year. And I help you find your mother."
"And if I say no?"
Mateo smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "Then I find another candidate. And you find another way to pay off Silas Webb in sixteen days. We both know there is no other way."
The room felt too small. Sloane's hands were shaking, but she forced them still. "What's the catch?"
"The catch," Mateo said, moving back to his desk, "is that once you sign, you're mine. You live in my house. You attend my events. You answer to me. You don't tell anyone what this really is. And you help me find Sarah Mitchell—your mother—without question."
He slid a document across the desk. The contract. Heavy paper, embossed with the Rivas Holdings logo.
Sloane picked it up. The legalese was dense, but she found the payment terms, the duration, the confidentiality clause. And buried on page twelve: "The client reserves the right to terminate the agreement if the contractor fails to cooperate with the secondary objective outlined in Addendum A."
She flipped to Addendum A. A single line: "Contractor agrees to assist in locating Sarah Mitchell and to provide any information regarding her whereabouts or associates."
"You're using me to find my own mother," Sloane said slowly. "And you're paying me for it."
"I'm offering you a solution to your problem. What you do with it is your choice."
She looked at the contract. At the man who had just turned her entire world upside down. At the photograph of her mother, alive after fourteen years of grief.
Then she picked up the pen on his desk and signed her name.
Mateo watched her, expression unreadable. When she finished, he took the contract, studied her signature, and nodded once.
"Welcome to the Rivas family, Mrs. Mitchell."
He said it like a promise. Or maybe a threat.
As he walked her to the elevator, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, and his expression shifted—just for a second, s
omething dark and dangerous crossed his face. He looked at her. "Change of plans. The wedding is tomorrow."