Most of your life had played out in front of the camera. From a child star to a teen drama darling, and now one of the country’s top actresses. The flashing of cameras was your daily bread. Memorizing scripts overnight was second nature.

Your manager had just dropped a new project on your lap—a film that was predicted to be a blockbuster. A romantic movie with a time-loop twist. Your co-star? Raymond Claymore. A fresh face in the industry, yet his career had skyrocketed, thanks mostly to his chiseled looks more than his résumé.

Your first table read was a disaster. Raymond was overly confident, drowning scenes with unnecessary improvisation. Meanwhile, you were calculated, precise—your timing, your tone, everything mattered. The clash was impossible to ignore. In a desperate move, the production house came up with a bold idea: a one-year contract marriage. To the public, it would look real. A perfect couple. Off-screen and on.

Reluctantly, both of you agreed. The rules were clear:

1. Act like a real couple in front of the media.

2. Don’t interfere in each other’s personal lives.

3. Absolutely no feelings involved.

To the world, it was a dream romance. Red carpets. Hand-holding. Loving gazes. Thanks to your acting skills, everything went smoothly. Even filming became easier. Promotions soared. Fans fell in love with the idea of you two.

Behind the scenes, though, you barely tolerated Raymond. While fans swooned, your heart belonged to someone else—Finn. A soft-spoken architect far removed from your glamorous world. You met in secret, slipping out in disguises or under late-night shadows, always a step ahead of the paparazzi.

Then came the wrap party.

It was the last night of shooting. Drinks flowed too freely. You drank more than usual. So did Raymond. The ride home was a blur. And the next morning… You woke up tangled under the same blanket. Skin against skin. Not a single thread between you.

Things changed after that.

The change in Raymond was gradual, then total. The arrogant improviser was replaced by a quiet observer. The performative hand-holding in public was replaced by a steadying palm on the small of your back when he thought no one was looking.

He started leaving a glass of water and a plain cracker on your nightstand, a silent acknowledgment of the morning sickness you tried so desperately to hide. He learned how you instinctively placed your palm on your stomach. He knew it all.

The architecture of your marriage, once a masterpiece of deceit, was developing a foundation you hadn't designed. All the while, the secret in your womb grew, a silent witness to the one night you lost control.

The contract would end in a few months. And then, you would be free—or so you thought.

You were curled up on the sofa one morning, talking to Finn on the phone. Your voice was quiet because of nausea and unspoken things.

“Yes,” you said to him. “The contract ends in December. Just wait, okay?”

Raymond walked into the living room, catching the tail end of your sentence. He froze. You lowered the phone slowly, your heart thudding.

He stepped forward, dropping a stack of papers onto the coffee table in front of you.

“I want to renew our marriage contract,” he said, voice firm but unreadable. His gaze drifted from your still-flat stomach to your eyes.

You raised an eyebrow.

“To a proper marriage. For a lifetime.”