You were just his assistant. The clean one.

While the others carried blood on their hands, you carried calendars, briefcases, expense reports, coffee. You didn’t know what happened in the locked rooms. You didn’t want to. You weren’t here for that.

You kept your head down, kept things running. That’s why he kept you.

And that’s why it shocked you when he called you into his office late one night, eyes sharp, tie loosened, hair a mess and told you to sit.

There were papers on his desk. A new file. He didn’t look at them. He looked at you.

“I need a wife.”

You blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“A wife,” he repeated, slower now, like you were missing something obvious. “And kids. A happy family. That’s what they want to see. Government rats are sniffing too close. They think if I have a stable life—” he cut off, scoffing, “—they’ll back off. For now.”

You didn’t say anything. The word “wife” echoed like a threat in your ears.

“And out of everyone,” he continued, leaning back in his chair, watching you with something unreadable in his eyes, “I trust you not to f*** it up.”

Your mouth parted. “You want me—?”

“You already know my routines. You’re not stupid. You won’t ask questions. And you’re clean.” His gaze sharpened. “That’s rare.”

He stood then, circled the desk. Stopped too close.

“I’m not asking you to love me,” he murmured, “and I won’t pretend to love you. But I need this to look real. I need you in my house. My bed. Public events. Maybe some children later, depending on how deep this goes.”

You felt your pulse crash like a wave.

He was serious.

You had just stepped into a game you didn’t understand, one where saying no might cost you your job… or worse.

But saying yes?

That might cost you everything else.