Wife on paper

She stood in front of the building, taking a moment to study its sheer height—fifty floors of gleaming glass and steel reaching confidently into the skyline. It didn't try too hard to be beautiful. It was efficient, masculine, built for scale.

Neoma Ellison stepped into Vale Heights Tower, nervous. Her heels were soft against the smooth stone—high-quality marble—as she walked with a less confident stride than usual.

Inside, the lobby was pristine, echoing with the sound of polished shoes and quiet conversations.

The receptionist offered a polite nod, her tone clipped and professional. Neoma gave her name, voice even, and was instructed to take the elevator to the 48th floor. She moved toward it.

The express lift opened almost immediately, its mirrored walls making the small space feel even more sterile. As she ascended, she watched the digital numbers climb. Her heart raced. Thoughts jumbled wildly in her mind.

What if she ended up marrying him?

Was she really going to sign her life away in a contract marriage?

No. She couldn't marry a man she didn't love.

She didn't even have a man in her life.

But the gallery... If she lost that, she lost everything she'd built. Her independence, her identity.

******

On the 48th floor, the atmosphere shifted.

It was quieter. More private. The lighting grew warmer, the materials richer—dark wood floors, matte black trim, smoked glass. The desk that should have seated a secretary was empty. She walked past it toward the office door.

The large mahogany door opened just as she reached it, as if it had been expecting her.

A young woman in her early twenties stepped out with files in hand, nearly colliding with her.

"So sorry, ma'am," she apologized, bending to pick up a file that had fallen.

"It's fine. I wasn't expecting someone to come out," Neoma said with a small smile, noticing the name tag reading Secretary pinned to her blazer.

Neoma walked into the office.

Sebastian was behind his desk, going through papers. Inscribed on the a big glass tag was his name CEO Sebastian Vaelrath .The space around him was tasteful—navy sofas, a low glass table, a bookshelf lined with first editions and business awards. A private bar gleamed quietly in the corner.

Neoma stepped further in. She wasn't unfamiliar with wealth, but this kind of power had a different scent—cooler, sharper. It was impressive... and slightly dangerous.

"I didn't expect to see you here this soon," Sebastian said without looking up.

She didn't answer right away. She just sat in silence.

Now that she had a moment to think clearly, she realized something. There had to be a reason he wanted to marry her. He had proposed this. He had come to meet her father himself. She might not know his motive yet, but there had to be something more. No one like him made moves without a calculated reason.

She could work with that.

He finally looked up, slightly taken aback to find her throwing him a cold, unreadable glare.

Then she spoke—quiet, but clear.

*******

"I'll do it," she said.

He raised an eyebrow, his pen stilling in his hand.

"You'll do what?"

She leaned back, a scowl on her face.

"I accept your proposal."

His lips quirked—not quite a smile.

"Words I love to hear."

"But on a condition," she replied, folding her arms. "Because I'm not signing up to be your trophy or puppet."

He gestured for her to continue.

"This is a marriage of convenience, more emphasis on convenience. I love my freedom, and I won't change my life just because I'm married to you."

He studied her now, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Fair enough," he said finally. He handed her a file.

She opened it and read the contents.

"We have to live together?!"

"That's what married couples do," he answered dryly.

"And why can't I go out alone? I told you—I love my privacy. A curfew? I'm your wife," she said, rising from her seat, voice tight. "Not your child."

"All of this is for your safety. You can go out as much as you want, but you must be back home before dusk. And as for the bodyguards—you won't even realize someone is following you."

She took a deep breath.

"And one more thing... I need an entire room for my paintings. I don't think that should be a problem for you, judging from how rich you are," she said coolly, looking around his office, then back at him.

He gave a slow nod, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes—approval? Amusement? Interest?

"Alright," he said.

She reached for the pen on the table and signed her name.