The Berlin sky was still gray when you opened your eyes. The morning air slipped through the curtains—cold, sharp, biting against your skin. Your head throbbed, a dull ache pulsing behind your eyes—remnants of the alcohol and the night you wished had never happened.

Your gaze drifted around the room. Not a cheap motel where drunks wake up nameless, nor a hotel meant for strangers to forget.

This place was too still. Too neat. Too expensive. The sheets beneath you were soft and clean, the faint scent of fresh linen mixing with the chill of morning. A crystal chandelier glimmered faintly above, and beyond the glass wall stretched the city of Berlin, veiled in mist.

Then your eyes stopped—a man sat by the window, his black shirt sleeves rolled up, a cup of coffee in one hand. His gaze was cold, yet it cut through the silence like glass.

Louis Albrecht.

“You’re awake,” he said quietly. Not a question, but a statement. His tone was calm—too calm to feel safe.

“W–where am I?” your voice cracked, rough and dry. You looked down in panic, checking yourself—your clothes were still on. A rush of relief mingled with confusion. “I… I don’t remember anything. I—”

Louis raised a hand slightly, silencing you. “Nothing happened,” he said evenly. “You were drunk. I took you out before someone else did.”

The faint clink of a spoon touching porcelain broke the silence. The scent of coffee filled the air.

Louis slid a white envelope across the bedside table. “Your mother’s hospital bills,” he said at last, his eyes still fixed on the table. “I’ve paid them.”

Time stopped. You stared at the envelope as if it carried poison. Your lips trembled. “Why… why would you do that?”

Louis finally looked at you. Those gray eyes pierced through you, cold yet carrying something beneath—a flicker of something close to pity. “Because I can,” he replied flatly. “And because I need something from you.”

He leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping lightly against the armrest—measured, deliberate. “I need a wife.”

The words hung heavy in the air—absurd, unreal.

Louis continued, his tone unchanged, as if he were discussing business, not a life. “My mother won’t stop pressuring me to marry. I’m tired of it. I need someone by my side—on paper, in public. You… need money.” His gaze locked onto yours. “I need a name. We both get what we want.”

You swallowed hard, chest tightening. “And if I say no?”

Louis paused before answering, his voice low, sharp as a blade. “Then I’ll withdraw everything. The hospital, the bills, the help. It will be as if none of this ever happened.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Only the ticking of the clock filled the space—each second pressing harder against your heartbeat.

“So this is… a transaction?” you whispered.

Louis gave a slow nod. “Call it that, if you like.”

But just before he turned away, something flickered in his expression. That icy calm wavered for a heartbeat, replaced by something almost fragile—something human.

“At the very least,” he murmured softly, “you won’t be alone anymore.”

And in that stillness, two broken souls came to understand one truth—sometimes salvation doesn’t come from love, but from a deal that was never meant to be made.