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“Yes, Mr. Rockwood.”

I didn’t even need to look at the caller ID to know it was my boss.

“I need to see you immediately,” he says. 

“Now? I was just on my way home-” I begin to say. There’s no use, though. I know what his answer is. 

“Now.”

Grumbling to myself, I call a cab and do my best to dry off my boots with a tissue. I do a quick makeup fix on the ride back to the office.

Mr. Rockwood does not like to wait. The urgency in his voice made it clear he’s already in a bad mood.

It’s the perfect way to end an already terrible day.

I burst into his office. “Yes, Mr. Rockwood. You wanted me?”

The leather armchair facing the ceiling-to-floor length windows swivels around and my boss appears. He rests his elbows on his desk and his gray eyes travel north and south as he takes in my soggy appearance. I cross my arms to conceal the damp patches on my blouse.

“What happened to you? You look like you just climbed out of the Hudson.”

I grit my teeth. The question is rhetorical. An answer will only irritate him.

“Sorry, Mr. Rockwood. What do you need?” I pull out my phone and open the Notes app, ready for his list of demands.

“You,” he says. His voice is curt, and my thumb hovers over my phone as my brain tries to process the word.

“Me?” He gestures to the leather seat in front of his desk. “Please, take a seat, P…”

“Peyton,” I remind him. 

Really? I’ve been here almost a decade now, and this man still doesn’t remember my name. “Peyton,” he says, smiling now.

The man is as stiff as a board. I can’t help noticing the strain in his neck as he frowns and shuffles through a stack of papers.

“Tell me about yourself, Peyton. Where are you from?”

My mouth forms an o, but I shut it quickly.  I have no idea where Mr. Rockwood is going with this, but the wicked glint in his eye is a tell. He’s cooking up something and I’m 100% sure I’m going to hate it.

“I was raised in New Jersey, sir. Then I moved to New York for this job. I’ve lived here ever since.” It’s a half-truth, the real reason I left New Jersey was because my foster parents died and I needed a fresh start.

The thought of them hits me like a punch to the gut. Mr. Rockwood doesn’t seem to notice.

“Excellent. So, you’re American, yes?”

“Yes... What is this––”

“I’ll cut to the chase with you, Peyton,” Mr. Rockwood says abruptly. He leans forward and gives me one of his I mean business stares. That look is usually reserved for difficult clients. “I have a contract here for you to sign. If you’re willing to accept the terms, I shall pay you handsomely.”

My ears prick up at the mention of payment. “Are you offering me a promotion?” I ask. My heart starts to race as I take the contract from his hand. “Well, it's more of a favor... Strictly professional, of course.”

I start reading the contract and my face twists in confusion. “You want me to marry you?”

I look at him quizzically. “I need you to be my wife for one year,” he explains. “When the year is up, I’ll pay you fifty thousand dollars.”

I almost choke on my own saliva as I splutter. “What?”

Mr. Rockwood peels off his designer jacket and rises from his seat. He moves to the table at the corner of the room. “Can I fix you a drink?” He holds up a crystal cut glass. I shake my head. The last thing I need right now is alcohol in my system.

I take another look at the contract to check he’s not kidding. My eyes stretch wide at the zeroes on the page. “But why? And why me?”

Mr. Rockwood downs a drink and smacks his lips together with a sigh. “As you know, I’m from England. I may have failed to take the immigration process seriously. I’ll save you the unsavory details. The bottom line is, if I want to stay here and keep my job, I need a wife. An American wife.” He raises his empty glass to me. “That’s you.” Then he turns to look out the windows; a tall man with a stiff back. “The immigration office needs evidence to show that this marriage is authentic, which is why I need you to sign up for a year.”

I gulp. “Are you asking me to commit fraud?”

Mr. Rockwood turns to look at me and his gaze is so stern, I hold my breath. “Tell me, what would you do with the money?”

I bite my lip and think about it. If someone offered me one hundred dollars right now, I’d feel like a millionaire. With fifty thousand I could quit my job (and I would have to, after being married to my boss), rent a nice house in the suburbs… Maybe even start my own fashion line.

Mr. Rockwood is suddenly close enough to plant his hand on the back of my chair. “Can you do this for me?” he asks.

I swallow. “A year of my life... That’s a long time. What if I have a boyfriend and he proposes to me next week?”

Mr. Rockwood’s smile fades and he turns serious as he seems to consider this. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

My eyes sting with humiliation. “No.”

Mr. Rockwood’s face turns gleeful again. “You’re playing a hard bargain. Fifty thousand dollars is a lot of money, you know.”

“And a year of my life in my thirties is a lot to take,” I shoot back. My mouth seems to be working on its own now. I usually keep my sassy comebacks in my head.

“Fine. One hundred thousand dollars.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m not lying to the immigration office.”

“Five hundred thousand dollars. Come on, Peyton.” Mr. Rockwood and I are suddenly in an intense staring contest. Then he makes another offer without batting an eyelid.  “One million dollars.”

I gasp. “Surely, with that kind of money you can just buy yourself a visa. You know, by investing the money in a business.”

Mr. Rockwood bristles and something flashes behind his eyes. 

What is he hiding?

“What do you say, Peyton? Can you bear to be married to me for one year in exchange for a million dollars? The offer is on the table, but it won’t be there for long.”

“I need to think about it…”

“Three…” he cuts in. 

I lift a brow. “Are you counting down?”

“I need to know now, Peyton. I have more at stake here than you know. Two…”

I study his face with narrowed eyes. My common sense is yelling at me to run out the door. “One,” he says, and his eyes bore into the depths of my soul.

One million dollars will change my life. I shut my eyes and suck in a breath. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

I signed a contract to be married to my boss for 365 days and it stated there'd be no sex... but then I woke up in Vegas wearing a wedding ring and my boss' shirt...best part? I can't remember what happened.After agreeing to be my boss' wife, it's been one drama after another. The terms were very specific about keeping things strictly professional, but as the months roll by, that is fast becoming an impossibility.The thing is, I can't figure this guy out. He's warm and passionate one minute, then quick as a flash, he's back to being my grumpy boss. When he caught me flirting with a guy at a party, I thought he was going to beat the other guy up.As we play a game of push and pull, I can't help but ask myself two questions:How long are we going to ignore the ramping-up tension between us and keep all the terms in the contract?and if one or both of us break the rules... what happens when the year is up?