You were just a simple girl.
An intern doctor juggling shifts, caffeine highs, and endless medical charts. Your life revolved around the hospital and your sweet little family. You had a retired father who watched nature channels all day, a mother who lovingly ran a warm little café down the street, and a cheeky little sister in 10th grade with sass bigger than her ponytail.
Everything in your life was straightforward.
Except for your best friend, Emma Sinclair.
She was filthy rich. Loud. Dramatic. Spoiled beyond repair. But she loved you like a sister. Ever since middle school, you two had been inseparable—like sugar and salt. Totally opposite, but somehow perfect together. She dragged you into luxury stores, and you dragged her into used bookstores.Somehow it worked.
So when she came crashing into your room one evening, dressed in designer pajamas, throwing her hands in the air, you already knew you were in trouble.
“Bestieeeee!” she cried. “You have to help me out this time—pleaseee! I swear I’ll make it up to you. Pleaaaase?”
You narrowed your eyes, sensing danger. “What is it now?”
“A blind date.”
You blinked.
“For me.”
Your eyes widened. “Absolutely not.”
“It’s just ONE date! Grandpa arranged it with some boring heir of some boring company—he's probably bald and sixty! I have a spa trip that day—I can’t go!”
You groaned. “Emma…”
“Just pretend to be me. Dress wild. Act obnoxious. Make him say no. Puh-leaseee?”
You sighed. Deeply. “This is the last time, Emma.”
She squealed and hugged you.
Two days later, she had you glammed up like a movie star. Wine red dress with a scandalous thigh-high slit. Smokey eyes. Red lips. Heels too tall for your liking. Everything screamed "gold-digger." Just the impression you were supposed to leave.
He was already at the restaurant.
Rafael Thornhart. The CEO of Thornhart Enterprises. Known for being cold, calculative, and obsessively work-driven. Sitting calmly in a tailored charcoal suit, silver watch glinting under the chandelier. Slicked-back hair. Sharp jaw. Glasses perched low on his nose as he checked his watch.
You swallowed.
He looked like a sinful temptation in human form.
You reminded yourself to focus. The mission was clear: Be unbearable. Make him run.
You sauntered to the table, flipped your hair dramatically, and sat with the loudest "Hiiii~"
He looked up. His eyes flickered with mild interest. “Emma Sinclair?”
You nodded with a fake smile.
He didn’t flinch. "Shall we?"
Time to ruin this.
You laughed too loud at the menu. “Oopsie!” You knocked over the spoon. “Soo clumsyyy.”
He didn’t blink.
“I spend a lotttt.”
He shrugged. “My credit card has no limit.”
You huffed. “I party every weekend.”
He smiled, “I'll buy you a club.”
Your eyes twitched. “I… have male friends. A lot of them.”
He leaned back, unfazed. “As long as you don’t sleep with them.”
You choked. What the actual hell?!
“I SNORE WHILE SLEEPING!” you shouted, desperate.
He raised an amused brow. “That’s cute.”
You were done. This wasn’t working.
You stood up abruptly. “Okay, listen—I’m not Emma. I’m her best friend. She didn’t want to come, so I did. It was just to turn you off. That’s it. I'm sorry.”
He stood up slowly. Adjusted his suit. And looked down at you.
“Let’s go.”
“…Go where?”
“To the church. We’re getting married tonight.”
You froze. “W-What?! I’m not her. I lied. This is insane—”
He cut you off, voice smooth like silk but sharp like a dagger. “Exactly. You impersonated someone else. Made a fool of me. I can sue you.”
Your mouth fell open. “Y-You can’t be serious—”
He leaned closer, lips brushing your ear, “So here’s the deal. Either you say yes and marry me right now… or you pay a million-dollar fine… and then marry me.”
You gawked. “W-Why would I—?!”
He smirked. “Either way, sweetheart… you’re marrying me.”
You blinked. Speechless. Heart pounding. Mind spinning.
And in that moment, it hit you.
Your plan? It backfired—spectacularly.
And now Rafael Thornhart, the most dangerous CEO alive, had no intention of letting you go.