The Ceo of one of the biggest tech companies in the world needs to get married to make the paparazzi stop spreading rumors about him so he makes a deal with his new secretary to get married for only a year then he'll pay her four millions and she must disappear from the public.
View MoreIt's 3 AM, and I still can't sleep. Tomorrow is my wedding day, and I'm so nervous that my stomach won't stop grumbling. I only have five hours to try to get some sleep, but I just can't relax.
My whole life was turned upside down in a matter of a few weeks. Thirty days ago, I was a homeless girl living in my car with no job. Then I heard that a well-known company was looking for a secretary. I was not expecting to get the job; surprisingly, I passed, and they hired me immediately.
After a couple of days, my boss called me into his office. I found him scrolling on his phone. When he noticed that I was standing before him, he showed me what he was looking at—it was an article about him. I've seen many articles like this; they keep spreading rumors about him. My boss is the young CEO of one of the biggest tech companies in the world, so it's not shocking that many news agencies are desperate to learn the tiniest piece of information about him. On my first day, I heard them saying that one of the janitors used to sell the trash from the CEO's office to one of those agencies!
After a few minutes, he removed the phone from my face and said, "As you can see, these people just won't give me a break. Honestly, I couldn't care less about what they write about me, but you see, my family reads these articles, and haters keep sending them to my parents. The family says that it's damaging our reputation and that I should do something about it."
I assumed that he was expecting me to take action, so I said, "I understand, sir. Perhaps we can arrange a meeting with them and agree on a price for their silence, or if you prefer, we can take this to court and sue them."
He sighed and said, "No, that won't work. A lawsuit may take years, and if I pay them once, they'll keep provoking me for more. These sorts of solutions won't solve anything."
I had no other ideas. I was about to ask him what else we were supposed to do when he suddenly got up and said, "Most of these rumors revolve around my love life. They have created this image of me as a rich playboy who has many affairs and mistresses. They know that I come from a strict family that rejects such behavior, and that's exactly why they spread these rumors. I bet one of our rivals started them, and at some point, the agencies got on board and began making up more stories because apparently, articles about my love affairs make more money than articles about global warming or politics."
I sighed and said, "I believe you're right, sir. So how do you want us to handle it?"
He glanced at me, then picked up his car keys and walked out of the office. He motioned for me to follow him, which I did. When we reached the garage, he told me to get in his car. I obeyed him, and he drove out of the company's garage and into the city. He took me to a small café. I was surprised; why would we come here in the middle of the day? But I assumed that he simply craved some good coffee and was sick of the instant coffee that I made for him.
Once our coffee arrived, he took a sip, then turned his attention back to me and said, "I brought you here because this part can't be discussed in the office. We will solve the issues, but it's only going to be the two of us. Only you can help me with this."
I was starting to get nervous. I didn't feel good about the tone he was using; I could feel my palms sweating. I managed to find my voice and asked, "Of course, Sir, what do you want me to do?"
He took a large sip of his coffee, then put his cup down and looked at me. He was looking me in the eye. Usually, I couldn't maintain eye contact with him, but this time felt different. He said in the most serious tone, "I need you to marry me."
The deal was to get married for only a year, and then he would pay me four million dollars. His conditions were that I should disappear after the divorce and that I shouldn't expect anything from the relationship. I would become his wife in front of his family and the public, and I would no longer work as his secretary. However, when it was just the two of us, I must not try anything or hope for anything.
Of course, I couldn't object or say anything. All I did was nod my head at everything he said. I ordered so much water; I felt so dehydrated from how much I was sweating and from how nervous I was. Whenever I tried to say anything, he would interrupt me or ignore me.
He arranged everything himself. I didn't even get to choose the wedding dress; he told me that I was going to wear his mother's wedding dress and that it was her wish. She never had a daughter, so she would love to see her future daughter-in-law getting married in her dress. Apparently, the entire family is as controlling as he is; even his father insisted that we have the wedding in their mansion. The entire wedding planning was done in a few weeks, and I had no say in any of it.
Three days ago, he called me and told me to prepare myself because the wedding is in three days! I know that for him, I'm just his poor secretary and that this is merely a job for me: to pretend to be a bride, then pretend to be his wife for a year, get paid four million dollars, and disappear. Any sane woman would jump at this opportunity; I know that. It's not like I'm complaining—I have no objections to this job. However, what I'm nervous about is meeting his family. How am I supposed to act around them? What sort of behavior is acceptable, and what is not?
Will they hate me? Will they figure us out and reject our marriage? Will I lose my job if they reject the marriage? If I can't convince them for an entire year that I'm his lovely, obedient wife, I'll lose both the job I got after years of job hunting and the four million dollar deal!
After twisting and turning for hours in bed, I finally fell asleep.
I woke up to my alarm at 8 a.m. My wedding is in 6 hours; I barely have time to have breakfast and get ready. Normally, a bride on her wedding day would be surrounded by her family and friends. Unfortunately, I don't have a family; I grew up in an orphanage alone, and all my friends abandoned me when I was homeless.
I don't have anyone with me on the most important day of my life, and my future husband is ordering me around. He told me to be ready by noon. The limousine will arrive at 11 a.m. to pick me up and take me to the salon, and then I will be taken to our wedding reception in one of the most luxurious hotels in the city. The wedding celebration will continue at his family's mansion.
I had some tea and a boiled egg for breakfast. It's going to be a long day, so I need protein. After breakfast, I washed up and brushed my teeth. I didn't know where to start; at the salon, they will take care of my nails and face, so there's really nothing left for me to do myself.
I decided to waste time by scrolling on my phone. I came across an article about my controlling fiancé; it was another interesting story. I don't know much about my fiancé. Before we got engaged, he would barely speak to me. It was all about work—he would say, "Bring me some coffee," or "Print these papers again."
Whether these stories about his affairs are true or not, I would never know. I don't know how I feel about these articles. Should I be grateful to the people who write these stories about him, or hate them with all my being?
Technically, those articles are the reason why I'm marrying him today. If things turn out well, I would be very grateful to them, but if things turn into a disaster before the end of the year, I'll curse them till the last day of my life.
The limousine finally arrived. I picked up my things and left my apartment. Before I walked out the door, I looked around one last time. This small apartment had been my home for a short period, but I felt safer here than in any other place I've ever stayed. I had never felt safe or loved at the orphanage; I never felt like I belonged anywhere. I was bullied in high school and didn't have many friends in college. This apartment was the first home I was able to make for myself. It was my small kingdom, my very first home.
I said goodbye to my home and walked out.
When I got into the limousine, the driver offered me a soft drink and told me to relax, assuring me that we would arrive at the salon in less than 15 minutes.
When I arrived at the salon, I was welcomed by a long queue of employees. I felt startled and confused as about five girls began working on my nails and feet, while two others started doing my hair. A few minutes later, a woman who I assumed was their manager arrived, welcomed me, and offered me a drink and some snacks. I told her that I would only accept coffee, so she ordered one of the girls to get it for me. Then, she started giving instructions to the girls who were working on my hair, face, and nails.
After a couple of hours, they were finally done. They made me stand before a huge mirror to take a look at my final appearance. When I opened my eyes, I couldn't even recognize myself; I looked like an entirely different person. I was wearing my fiancé's mother's old wedding dress. It was a vintage dress, and despite its age, it was still very classy. The design and fabric were the definition of old money style.
The employees were obviously proud of their work. Judging from my shocked reaction, they knew I was speechless and assumed that I loved what they had done. The manager walked up to me and said, "I love this reaction! Be brutally honest—what do you think? How do you feel about your look? Are you happy with this style?"
I didn't know how to describe my feelings. I felt a huge lump in my throat, my palms started sweating, and my feet were cold. I tried to ignore my stomach grumbling, but it was hopeless. As a tear slid down my cheek, suddenly around six employees rushed to me with napkins and tried to brush it away. The manager proudly said, "It's okay, girls. We use only the best makeup brands; you can cry all you want—no amount of tears will ruin your beautiful makeup."
One of the employees sensed my discomfort and said, "I think our bride here is actually upset; these aren't tears of joy." I tried to stop crying and gently wipe my tears. I looked away from the mirror and said, "It's nothing. Thank you so much; you've done a great job. The limousine will be here any minute, so I should get going."
The manager took me to the waiting hall, where I sat alone in silence and waited. I closed my eyes and tried to breathe slowly. Then, I felt someone approach me. It was one of the girls who had given me napkins. She sat down next to me and said, "In moments like these, a bride needs someone to hold her hands. I noticed that you don't have anyone with you today. I can hold your hands until your ride arrives if you want."
I was touched by the sweetness of this girl. I smiled genuinely for the first time in a while and accepted her offer. As we were waiting, I couldn't hold it together anymore, and I broke down in tears. I didn't even know this girl, yet I found comfort in her presence and cried like a child on her shoulder. She softly patted my back. After a few minutes, I lifted my head; luckily, my makeup wasn't damaged. She carefully fixed it up and wiped away my tears. She smiled at me and said, "It's okay to be scared. My sister was scared too on her wedding day."
I felt strangely comfortable with this stranger. I don't know why, but I suddenly decided to open up to her. "I'm not just scared; I'm terrified! You see, I don't even know the man I'm about to marry. I don't know what kind of life I'll have from here on. If I mess up, I'll lose both my future and the job I finally secured. Everything will fall apart. I could lose everything just when I thought my life was finally getting good. Suddenly, it feels like I'm about to lose everything again!"
At this point, I was rambling, and I knew that. She smiled warmly at me and said, "It's simple, dear. Be strong. Don't allow anyone to take away the future you worked so hard for. You deserve only the best, so don't be a victim. Be strong and get a grip on your life."
As she said that, my driver called and informed me that he was here. I stood up, and she fixed my makeup one last time. Before I got in the elevator, I took her hand and thanked her, then I left.
During the drive to the wedding reception, I couldn't stop thinking about what she had said. Suddenly, I felt something in my chest; it was like a flame—a new flame starting in my heart. "Be strong. Don't allow anyone to take away the future you worked so hard for. You deserve only the best, so don't be a victim." Her words echoed in my mind. Suddenly, I wasn't scared anymore, and my tears had completely dried.
When we arrived at the hotel, I called my fiancé. He knew that I didn't have any family members, so he assumed that I was feeling lonely and sent his cousin to me. I told her as gently as I could that I needed to see my fiancé and no one else. She was surprised and called my fiancé for me. When he showed up, he looked puzzled. He closed the door behind him and said, "What's wrong with you? You better not be getting cold feet now. The whole family is here; my business partner is here. We don't have time for this! If you're nervous, just calm down and let's go!"
He turned around to leave as he said that, but before he reached the door, I raised my voice and said, "Stop! Don't go. There's something important that you need to hear."
He turned to me in confusion, his brow furrowing as he processed my words. I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of what I was about to say. The air in the room felt thick, charged with tension.
"I won’t marry you," I said slowly,
letting each word hang in the air. "Unless we make a little change in our deal."
There were nights when the weight of my father’s expectations pressed down on me until I couldn’t breathe. I’d sit in the dark, wondering if I was an embarrassment to him—if I’d ever be enough. But Dema… she always knew. She’d find me, her hands gentle on my shoulders, her voice steady. "You’re not failing," she’d say. "You’re building something he’ll never understand." And somehow, just her saying it made me believe it. She never let me face anything alone. Every gala, every meeting, every public appearance—she was there, flawless, poised, making me look stronger just by standing beside me. People noticed. They’d whisper about how lucky I was, and they were right. When my mother’s birthday came around, and I was drowning in indecision, Dema took over. She planned everything—the flowers my mother loved, the guests list, even the cake from that little bakery she used to take me to as a child. My mother hugged me that night and said, "it was one of the best birthdays I've ever had."
I stood there, staring at the half-finished rose garden, dirt smeared across my hands, sweat dripping down my forehead. I had never done anything like this before—not with my own hands, at least. My whole life, if I wanted something done, I paid someone to do it. But this… this had to be done by me. Dema had made me that sweater—knitted it herself, stitch by stitch. I still remember the way she smiled when she gave it to me, how soft it felt, how it carried the weight of her effort. I wanted to give her something just as meaningful, something that showed her I cared enough to try. But what could I do? I didn’t know how to knit, or paint, or build. I had no skills like that. Then, as I passed by the flower shop downtown, it hit me Dema loves flowers.I bought every rose they had. Red, pink, white—enough to fill the entire side garden of the mansion. When I got home, I called the gardener over. "I need everything ready—soil, tools, space. I'm doing this myself," I told him. He r
Dema wasn’t just my wife—she was my first real friend, the first person who truly saw me.Before her, no one had ever asked about the things that brought me joy—not out of obligation or strategy, but simple curiosity. She was the one who listened when I rambled about random historical facts, who remembered the names of my childhood pets, who laughed at my terrible jokes not because she had to, but because she genuinely found them funny. With her, I didn’t have to perform or posture. For the first time, I felt like I could just exist and that would be enough. She taught me things I never realized I was missing—small, sacred acts of love I’d never witnessed growing up. She was the first person to cook my favorite meal just because she noticed I’d had a long day. The first to show me how to hold someone’s gaze until the world fades away, how to listen not just to words but to the spaces between them. She showed me how to celebrate the details—the way someone’s nose scrunches when they
My whole life, I’ve known that people liked me—not for who I was, but for where I came from. Growing up, I attended an elite international school, the kind reserved for the children of diplomats, CEOs, and old-money heirs. It was a world of polished hallways and whispered connections, where last names carried more weight than personalities. My parents never let me forget my privilege. "You deserve only the best," they would say, as if excellence were an inheritance rather than something earned. Their words were laced with unspoken rules Only associate with those who match your status. Never lower yourself. Remember who you are.But the irony was suffocating. Even among the privileged, I was treated differently—like some kind of crown prince in a kingdom of lesser nobles. At first, I thought it was because of my family’s wealth, or maybe my father’s influence in certain circles. But the truth was far more transactional. The other children didn’t befriend me; they were assigned to me. T
After the storm of anger subsided, the crushing weight of realization settled over me. What had I done? The question echoed in my mind, relentless and suffocating. I had lost control—completely, unforgivably. And now, I had to fix it. But how? This wasn’t just anyone—this was her. My wife. The woman who had stood by me through every hardship, whose laughter had been my solace, whose touch had been my anchor. And I had struck her. A hard, unforgiving slap—one fueled by a rage I didn’t even recognize in myself. The moment my hand connected with her skin, something inside me shattered. I had never been the kind of man who concerned himself with the emotions of others. If I wronged someone, so what? If they resented me, it was their problem, not mine. I moved through life untouched, unbothered. But this… this was different. This wasn’t some stranger, some acquaintance whose feelings I could dismiss. This was the woman I loved. The other half of my soul. Why had I done it? The questi
For the longest time, I truly believed our marriage was perfect—or at least, that it should have been. I thought love was simple: give her gifts, smile at her, and she’ll be happy. I told myself that if I loved her deeply, that was enough. After all, shouldn’t love mean acceptance? Shouldn’t she love me for who I am, flaws and all? But I was wrong. Looking back, I realize now how little effort I truly put into nurturing our relationship. I took her presence for granted, assuming that as long as I cared for her in my own way, she would stay content. I didn’t see the cracks forming between us—the quiet disappointments, the unspoken frustrations. Love isn’t just about feeling; it’s about doing, about showing up every day in ways that matter to the other person. And I failed at that. One of the biggest issues between us was how I acted around other women. She tried, more than once, to tell me how much it hurt her—the way I laughed too easily at their jokes, the way my friendliness som
Dema was incredible today. She spoke with confidence, delivered her best performance, and impressed everyone at the meeting. I’ve never been prouder of her. Though I could tell she was nervous, she didn’t stutter or hesitate—not even once. Afterward, I teased her about it just to mess with her, but the truth is, she was absolutely amazing. Following the meeting, I treated everyone to dinner. It was a fun and enjoyable time, but what I really wanted was to unwind alone with my brilliant, lovely wife. So we retreated to our hotel room and spent the rest of the night together—just the two of us. "I’ll take you shopping tomorrow," I told her later, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Get you whatever you want—designer dress, shoes, a new bag. Name it, it’s yours." She laughed softly, shaking her head. "Actually, I’ve decided to stop buying top brands. I’m boycotting."I blinked. "Boycotting? Since when?" "Since I realized how much waste they produce, how they exploit wo
Dema hadn’t been sleeping well. I noticed it almost immediately—the dark circles under her eyes, the way her hands trembled slightly when she reached for her coffee in the mornings, the distant look in her gaze as if she were somewhere else entirely. It had been a full week of this, and it was eating away at her. She was exhausted, barely able to focus at work, jumping at the smallest noises. I hated seeing her like this. One morning, after catching her staring blankly at her computer screen for the third time in an hour, I pulled her aside. "Dema," I said, keeping my voice low, "if you need a break, take it. No one’s going to blame you." She hesitated, chewing on her bottom lip the way she always did when she was torn between pride and necessity. But eventually, she nodded. She went home that day, and I hoped—maybe foolishly—that rest would be enough. When I got back that evening, she was sitting on the couch, her knees pulled up to her chest, her fingers wrapped tightly around a
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