Sophia Bennett was late, stressed, and carrying the kind of panic that comes from being broke in New York.
Queens rent, freelance deadlines, and one best-friend wedding she refused to miss.
St. Catherine’s Cathedral was chaos—two weddings, two guest lists, too many doors, too many people dressed like “wealth” was a natural skin.
Sophia, already in a bridesmaid gown, hurried inside the nearest chapel without thinking.
She slipped into a pew, heart hammering, whispering to herself, I made it. I made it.
Then she looked up.
The bride at the front wasn’t Riley Harper.
It was Victoria Montgomery—Manhattan royalty in white silk and diamond hairpins.
Sophia froze.
Wrong wedding.
Before Sophia could stand and escape, the ceremony detonated.
Victoria didn’t whisper. She didn’t cry delicately.
She turned toward the groom—Charles Blackwood—and lifted her chin like a queen passing judgment.
“No,” Victoria said, loud enough to echo off stone. “I won’t marry you.”
A shocked gasp rolled through the chapel.
Charles blinked. “Victoria—what are you doing?”
Victoria didn’t flinch. “What I should’ve done the moment I found out you’ve been sleeping with your assistant.”
The room went silent in that terrifying way where everyone is suddenly holding their breath at once.
Sophia sat perfectly still, praying she could become invisible.
Victoria continued, voice sharp, controlled, lethal.
“You don’t get to humiliate me quietly,” she said. “So I’ll return the favor publicly.”
Phones started lifting. Whispers became a wave.
Charles took a step forward. “This is insane.”
Victoria smiled without warmth. “No. This is accountability.”
Then she turned—eyes scanning the pews—until they landed on Sophia.
The random bridesmaid in the wrong chapel.
Victoria stared like she’d just found a tool the universe handed her.
“You,” Victoria said, pointing.
Sophia’s stomach dropped. “Me?”
Victoria walked down the aisle in her gown like she was marching into battle.
“You’re dressed,” Victoria said briskly. “You’ll do.”
Sophia blinked. “Do what?”
Victoria leaned in, voice low. “Stand with me. Right now. As my witness.”
Sophia whispered, panicked, “I’m not— I’m not even supposed to be here.”
Victoria’s smile sharpened. “Neither is his mistress, apparently.”
And before Sophia could refuse, Victoria guided her toward the front like it was already decided.
Sophia’s life had become a scandal’s accessory.
And she hadn’t even found Riley yet.
PART II
The chaos hadn’t settled when Damian Blackwood arrived.
He didn’t rush. He didn’t apologize.
He entered like the building belonged to him—tall, composed, eyes too calm for a man walking into a social explosion.
Victoria’s cousin.
Billionaire CEO.
The real power behind the Blackwood name.
He listened to Victoria’s furious explanation, glanced once at Charles like he was already finished, then looked at Sophia.
Longer than necessary.
As if calculating.
Sophia felt the weight of that gaze and immediately hated it.
Damian stepped closer, voice quiet but absolute.
“This wedding cannot end like this,” he said.
Victoria scoffed. “Oh? Watch me.”
Damian’s jaw tightened. “It’s not just social fallout. It’s corporate.”
Sophia frowned. “Corporate?”
Damian finally spoke the sentence that made everything make horrifying sense:
“My grandmother’s will requires me to be married by my thirty-fifth birthday to inherit controlling interest.”
Sophia stared. “That’s— that’s insane.”
Damian’s expression didn’t change. “It’s binding.”
Victoria’s eyes narrowed. “So fix it.”
Damian’s gaze returned to Sophia.
Sophia felt it like a spotlight.
“No,” she whispered, already sensing danger. “Absolutely not.”
Damian didn’t argue emotionally. He negotiated.
“One year,” he said. “A contract marriage.”
Sophia’s mouth fell open. “To me? You don’t even know my name.”
Damian’s eyes flicked to her bouquet ribbon. “Sophia.”
She froze. He’d noticed. Of course he had.
Sophia shook her head. “This is not real life.”
Damian leaned slightly closer, voice low so the crowd couldn’t hear the details.
“It can be,” he said. “Ten million dollars.”
Sophia’s chest tightened. “What?”
He continued calmly, as if he were offering a consulting fee:
“Seven million now. Three million at the end of the year. Separate bedrooms. No intimacy clause. You attend events as my wife. You live primarily in my penthouse for appearances. Then we divorce cleanly.”
Sophia’s hands trembled. “You’re buying me.”
Damian’s gaze stayed steady. “I’m paying for your time. You still have a choice.”
Sophia swallowed hard because she did have a choice.
But choices aren’t always fair when rent exists and your life has been one emergency away from collapse for years.
Sophia whispered, “Why me?”
Damian’s answer was brutally practical:
“Because you’re already here. Dressed. And no one knows enough about you to suspect the truth.”
Sophia stared at the altar, at the cameras, at the 400 guests—including officials who could turn this into tomorrow’s headline.
Then she looked at Damian Blackwood.
A man who didn’t look like he needed anyone… and yet was trapped by a will clause like a prisoner.
Sophia exhaled, shaking.
“Fine,” she said. “But we set rules.”
Damian’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Name them.”
Sophia’s voice steadied as she grabbed the only power she had left:
“No controlling my work. No isolating me. I keep my own bank account. And if I say stop, it stops.”
Damian held her gaze.
Then he nodded once.
“Agreed.”
And just like that, Sophia Bennett—Queens graphic designer—walked into the wrong wedding…
…and into a contract worth ten million dollars and a name she’d never imagined wearing:
Mrs. Blackwood.
PART III
Sophia woke up in a bed that felt like it belonged to a hotel.
Everything was quiet. Too quiet.
Then she remembered:
Cathedral.
Scandal.
Altar.
Damian Blackwood’s hand.
A ring that wasn’t romance—just strategy.
She found Damian in the kitchen wearing a crisp shirt, calmly making coffee like he hadn’t detonated her life in front of Manhattan’s elite.
He slid a folder across the counter.
“The terms,” he said.
Sophia opened it, scanning clauses like her survival depended on fine print—because it did.
Damian spoke like someone who hated mess.
“We need a backstory,” he said. “A timeline that makes sense.”
Sophia blinked. “You mean… lies.”
Damian didn’t flinch. “You can call it what you want. The public will call it ‘fate.’”
Sophia exhaled. “Okay. What’s the story?”
Damian tapped a page.
“We met at a charity design gala six months ago. You refused to be impressed by my title. I liked that.”
Sophia stared. “That’s not even—”
Damian’s mouth twitched. “It’s believable.”
Sophia rubbed her forehead. “And the social events?”
Damian’s voice stayed calm. “You’ll attend. Smile when necessary. Speak when spoken to. I’ll handle the rest.”
Sophia narrowed her eyes. “I’m not a prop.”
Damian met her gaze. “Then don’t act like one.”
That line surprised her—because it wasn’t control.
It was challenge.
Sophia took a breath. “What do you actually want, Damian?”
For the first time, Damian looked almost human.
“Control of my company,” he said quietly. “And silence from people who would use this scandal as blood in the water.”
Sophia’s throat tightened. “And what do I get besides money?”
Damian didn’t romanticize it.
“Freedom,” he said. “From whatever’s been squeezing your life. You’ll never worry about rent again.”
Sophia looked out at the skyline from the penthouse windows.
It was beautiful.
And terrifying.
Because she knew the truth:
This wasn’t a fairytale.
It was a deal.
But sometimes deals are how people escape the lives that were never built for them.
Sophia turned back.
“One year,” she said firmly. “Then I walk away clean.”
Damian nodded once. “One year.”
Sophia lifted her coffee cup like a toast to her own survival.
“Wrong wedding,” she murmured.
Damian’s eyes held hers. “Right decision.”
And neither of them said the quieter truth yet—that somewhere under the contract language…
something real had already started to move.
