I never expected my life to descend into turmoil because of one signature. One moment, I'm fighting to save my parents' gallery from falling apart, and the next, I'm staring directly at Gideon Crosswell-the billionaire with a cold gaze that could halt a raging wildfire. He proposed that I act as his future wife for six months in exchange for enough money to secure my future. It was meant to be easy. No feelings, no complications. Just an act. But behind the tailored suits and ruthless reputation, Gideon is a man haunted by ghosts I can't ignore. The more time we spend together, the harder it gets to remember this is all fake. His touch feels real. His words carve into me. And when he looks at me, I know there's something more behind those steel-blue eyes. But secrets surround Gideon like a storm, and I'm caught in the middle. Someone is targeting him for destruction, and now they are focusing on me. I believed I could exit once it ended, but how do you abandon someone who has brought you newfound vitality? The answer hits me when I find the letter. The one that wasn't meant for me. The one that could ruin everything. And now, I don't know if I'm his savior...or his downfall.
Chapter 1 The Gallery's Final Breath
"Do you know how many overdue notices it takes to make a person numb?" My voice boomed across the empty gallery, bouncing off artworks that no one would purchase.
There was no response. There never was.
I gazed at the red stamp on the bank's newest letter. **Final Notice**. The words appeared larger than the last time, angrier as if mocking my will. "This is it," I murmured gently, my hands trembling as I set the letter on the counter. My dad's gallery, Sinclair's Legacy, was close to foreclosure, and I had no one to fault but myself.
At least that's what the voices in my mind informed me.
The bell above the entrance door jingled, breaking through the thick silence. A shiver rushed up my spine as I looked up, half expecting a saviour to walk in with a blank check and an enthusiasm for contemporary art. Instead, it was Mrs. Greer, my oldest and only regular customer.
"Amara, my dear, do you have that print I asked for?" Her feeble hands grasped her large purse as she limped toward me.
I attempted a grin, concealing the tiredness that weighed me down. "Of course, Mrs. Greer." "Let me get it for you."
The print was in a box beneath the counter, beautifully wrapped and waiting. A $30 sale would not save the gallery, but it would help keep the lights on for a bit longer.
She handed me a crisp $50 cash, her movements slow but purposeful. "Keep the change, love. "I understand things have been difficult."
My stomach turned. Was everyone aware of the gallery's imminent doom?
Thank you, Mrs. Greer. That's incredibly nice of you. This time, I managed a genuine smile, but it seemed brittle, like glass on the edge of shattering.
When she departed, the silence was heavier than before. I fell onto the stool behind the bar, resting my head in my hands.
What happens now?
The gallery represented my father's life's passion, and I had promised to carry it on after he passed away. Yet, enthusiasm alone wouldn't cover the expenses, and creativity, regardless of its beauty, didn't sell on its own.
I surveyed the area. The walls showcased vivid landscapes, swirling abstract colours, and portraits that seemed to look directly at me. All of them were masterpieces. Nevertheless, the rest of the globe perceived them as expensive adornments.
The vibrations of my phone pulled me away from my thoughts.
"Amara Sinclair," I said, attempting to seem professional.
"Miss Sinclair, this is Amanda from Greenfield Bank." The voice on the other end was rapid and almost mechanical. "I'm phoning to remind you that the deadline for paying the gallery's mortgage is in three days. If we do not collect the full payment by then, we will be forced to proceed with foreclosure."
"I understand." My voice cracked, but I did not try to hide it.
"Do you have a plan to settle the balance?" she said, her voice devoid of sympathy.
"I'm... working on it."
There was a pause, then a scripted response. "I advise you to investigate all options, such as selling assets or finding investors. Please let us know if you need any assistance with the procedure."
I mumbled, "Thank you," before hanging up the phone.
The room became colder, with the walls closing in and the weight of reality pressing against my chest. Selling the gallery would be betraying my father's memories. But losing it would imply that I had already failed him.
The bell chimed again.
This time, the man who entered did not appear to be a customer-or a saviour. He was tall, wearing a sharp suit that exuded power and riches. His dark hair was nicely combed, and his piercing eyes searched the museum with deliberate intent.
I straightened, immediately seeing the paint smudges on my top and chipped lacquer on my nails. "Can I help you?"
"You're Amara Sinclair." It was not a question. His voice was smooth and confident.
"Yes," I responded cautiously. "And you are?"
"Gideon Crosswell," he said, holding out a hand. "I represent Crosswell Holdings. We're interested in purchasing this home.
His comments landed like a smack. "Excuse me?"
"The gallery," he explained as if I hadn't heard him the first time. "We believe this location has significant potential for redevelopment."
Anger boiled behind my amazement. "The gallery isn't for sale."
His lips formed a frigid, unyielding smile. "Everything's for sale, Miss Sinclair. It's just a matter of determining the appropriate pricing.
I folded my arms and planted my feet firmly. "This is not just a building. "It is my family's legacy."
"And legacies," he added, stepping closer, "can either evolve or fade into obscurity." You have a decision to make. I recommend that you think carefully.
He gave me a stylish business card before turning to leave.
"I'll be in touch," he said over his shoulder, leaving no space for ambiguity.
The door closed behind him, and I remained there, clutching the card with my heart racing.
The man's name rang through my thoughts. Gideon Crosswell. A name I'd seen in headlines, linked to ruthless acquisitions and huge profits.
If he desired something, he got it.
And now he wants my gallery.
The lights flickered, and the buzz of the heater faded. I focused on Gideon's card, its glossy surface reflecting the dim illumination of the emergency light.
The gallery's final breath seemed closer than ever.