Chapter 1

Stassi

The brisk New York wind nips at my cheeks as I hurry down the crowded sidewalk.

My heels click against the pavement with a rhythm that matches my racing thoughts.

People bustle around me, but all I can focus on is the weight of this meeting hanging over my head.

Miss May. The name echoes in my mind like some clandestine password to a new life.

"Sorry!" I mutter, dodging a man engrossed in his phone. Not today, mate. I've got bigger fish to fry.

I clutch the strap of my leather handbag tighter, feeling the reassuring bulk of my documents inside.

Identification, proof of residence, and—I cringe inwardly—the last bank statement showing my dwindling funds.

Three thousand dollars isn't exactly a safety net—it's more like a threadbare blanket barely covering my toes.

The hotel looms ahead, its grand fa?ade a stark contrast to my humble aspirations.

It's one of those places where you expect to see movie stars or politicians slipping in and out discreetly.

I pause for a moment, taking a deep breath before pushing through the revolving doors.

Inside, the lobby is an opulent maze of marble floors and crystal chandeliers.

I feel like an imposter, a commoner sneaking into a royal banquet, especially since I left my family back home in Britain.

The receptionist's smile is professional, her eyes scanning me with a hint of curiosity. "May I help you?"

"Yes, I'm here to see Miss May. I believe she rented out a conference room," I reply, my British accent crisp and authoritative.

Her eyebrows lift slightly, and she nods, directing me toward the elevator with a flick of her wrist.

"She's in the conference room on the tenth floor. 10B." Her voice is polite, but I can sense her interest piqued by my presence.

Probably wondering why a woman like Miss. May rented a conference room to meet one person.

The elevator ride is a short yet agonizing ascent.

Each ding of the passing floors feels like a countdown to a moment I can't afford to mess up.

When the doors slide open, I step out into a quiet hallway lined with numbered rooms. Conference Room 10B—there it is.

A deep breath, then I push open the door.

The room is spacious yet intimate, with a long mahogany table dominating the center.

Sunlight filters through the tall windows, casting a warm glow on the plush chairs arranged neatly around the table.

"Right then," I whisper to myself, walking in and choosing a seat.

I settle into the chair, smoothing my skirt and crossing my legs.

My fingers drum lightly on the table as I attempt to calm the storm brewing in my chest.

Wonder how this is going to play out.

What will Miss May think of me?

Will she see the desperation lurking beneath my carefully composed exterior?

I don't want her to see I'm desperate, but I need this job so bad.

The door clicks behind me, signaling someone's arrival.

I sit up straighter, every muscle tensing in anticipation.

This is it—time to prove you've got what it takes.

"Miss Hawthorne, I presume?" The voice is smooth, almost melodic, as it breaks the silence. I turn to see her—a stunning woman with tall, long black hair and bangs, dressed impeccably in a tailored business suit. Miss May.

"Yes, that's me," I reply, offering a small smile. "Thank you for meeting with me."

"Let's get started, shall we?" She gestures to the seat across from me, her eyes assessing me with keen interest.

As she sits down, I can't help but wonder if she sees potential or just another lost soul trying to find a way out.

"Absolutely," I say, straightening my posture.

Here goes nothing.

"Tell me, Miss Hawthorne, what do you know about our agency?" Miss May asks, her gaze piercing through my facade.

"Well," I start, trying to keep my voice steady, "I know it's called Wife for Hire. You match women with men who require a wife for . . . various reasons, and in return, the women receive a substantial financial reward."

"Good. Seems like you've done a bit of homework," she says, leaning back slightly in her chair. "And how did you come across us?"

"Through a friend," I reply, my mind immediately conjuring Esme's bright smile. "Esme Lockwood. She worked here before."

"Ah, yes, Esme. A delightful girl," Miss May nods, a flash of recognition in her eyes. "She was matched a few years ago. Unfortunately, the marriage didn't last, and now she's back with me, looking for a new match."

"Yeah, that's part of the reason I wanted to have an interview with you. For someone who ended up having a divorce, she trusted you enough to come back, and that speaks volumes to me." I confirm. "But, she told me it was a good job. Had lots of benefits, and the cash was great."

"Esme is right about that," Miss May acknowledges, folding her hands on the table. "Our arrangements are designed to be mutually beneficial. The women get financial security, and the men get what they need—whether that"s companionship, social standing, or something else entirely."

"Sounds like a win-win situation," I say, hoping my enthusiasm doesn't sound too forced.

"Indeed," she replies, her eyes never leaving mine. "And you're interested because..."

"Because I need this," I answer honestly. "I have no other option at the moment. And if it's worked out for Esme before, I'm hoping it will work out for me too."

"Understandable," Miss May says, offering a sympathetic smile. "A lot of women come to us when they find themselves with limited choices. It's nothing to be ashamed of."

"Thank you," I say, feeling a small weight lift off my shoulders. Maybe this isn't as daunting as I thought.

"Stassi, there is no need to thank me," Miss May says softly. Her eyes soften as she watches me, a flicker of empathy breaking through her otherwise stoic demeanor. "I'm here to help. My agency—I founded it after my own marriage failed. I wanted to offer women like me another option in a safe way. Unlike my competition, I vet the men who request to use our services."

Her words hang in the air, resonating with a truth that makes my chest tighten.

I glance down at my hands, fingers interlaced tightly on my lap.

This isn't just about money—it's about reclaiming my life from the shadow of my father's control.

"Do you think . . ." I hesitate, then force myself to look back up at her. "Do you think I'm a good candidate for this?"

Miss May leans back slightly, appraising me with those sharp, discerning eyes of hers. "You certainly have potential, Stassi. Your reasons are valid, and you seem like you'd be a good fit. But I never make decisions at the time of the interview. These sorts of decisions aren't ones I make lightly."

"Of course," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "I appreciate your honesty."

In the back of my mind, I'm freaking out, praying she takes me in because I'm going to lose my apartment if I can't come up with more money for rent.

"Good," she responds, a small smile playing on her lips. "I'll be in touch soon."

"Thank you," I manage, standing up and smoothing out my skirt.

I can feel her eyes on me as I walk toward the door, each step a mixture of hope and fear.

As I exit the room, I make my way down to the elevator, and as soon as I'm in the lobby the noise of it greets me—a stark contrast to the hushed intensity of our conversation.

I head toward the revolving doors, my mind racing.

A few days. That's all it's going to take to redefine my future.

I step into the crisp New York air. It's late afternoon, and the sky is a patchwork quilt of grey clouds.

My heels click against the pavement as I join the throng of pedestrians.

Each step is a reminder of how precarious my situation is.

Three thousand dollars. Two weeks.

"Bloody hell," I mutter under my breath, dodging a man engrossed in his phone.

The irony isn't lost on me—a Hawthorne, second cousin to the King of England, walking the streets of New York hoping for a job that involves marrying a stranger.

But it's better than crawling back to my Father, admitting defeat, allowing him to pull the strings once more.

"Keep it together, Stassi," I whisper to myself as I pass by storefronts displaying everything I can't afford.

A boutique dress, a pair of stilettos, a diamond necklace—all taunting reminders of a life I could have had if I swallowed my pride.

I reach into my bag, fingers brushing against my phone.

No messages from Esme yet.

She promised she'd check in after my interview.

She probably thinks I'm still in it, but I really need her optimism right now, her certainty that this can work out.

"Just a few days," I remind myself, exhaling slowly.

A few days to find out if I'm going to get pulled out of this financial nosedive or crash spectacularly.

I stop at a crosswalk, waiting for the light to change.

Cars zoom by, their drivers oblivious to the existential crisis unfolding on this corner.

When the signal turns green, I stride forward and remind myself I've been through horrible things, and this is minuscule in comparison.

Plus, I've faced worse odds.

This is just another chapter in the saga of surviving, away from my family's dark legacy.

"One step at a time," I murmur, blending into the sea of faces surging toward whatever futures await them.

I finally round the corner to my apartment, an old brick building with squeaky fire escapes and chipping paint that gives it a charm no billionaire's mansion could ever hope to possess.

I make my way up the narrow stairs, each creak echoing in the decaying hallway.

I fumble with the keys, eventually pushing open my door.

Instantly, I'm wrapped in the comforting scent of home—old books, coffee beans, and a hint of lavender from Esme's recent visit.

I sink onto my worn-out couch, pulling out my phone to finally get through to Esme.

One ring. Two rings. Then her familiar voice fills my ear. "Darling! How'd it go? Are we wedding planning or what?"

I take a deep breath before answering, her infectious cheer soothing my frayed nerves.

"It wasn't terrible," I begin. "She said she'd be in touch soon."

Esme hums approvingly on the other end of the line. "Good, good," she says, and I can almost see her nodding approvingly on the other end. "Miss May's a tough nut to crack, but if she said she'd be in touch, then you made a good impression."

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.

Esme has always been my rock since I moved here—her unwavering support and optimism have kept me going through the dark times, especially over this last year.

"Esme," I start, unsure of how to word my next question. Anxiety knits itself into a hard knot in my stomach as I find the courage to voice my doubts. "What if... what if it doesn't work out? What if she doesn"t choose me?"

There's a pause on the other end of the line. "Stassi," Esme finally says, her voice measured and calm. "I really don't think that's the case. Just try and be positive."