A forensic auditor who got fired for telling the truth. A hotel developer who needs a wife by his thirty-fifth birthday. One contract. Two million dollars. I lost my career at Atlanta's top accounting firm because I wrote an honest audit report. The firm buried it. I got blacklisted. So when Griffin Lowe—the billionaire trust fund baby I couldn't stand in college—offered me two million dollars to be his wife on paper for six months so he could unlock a $4.2 million trust disbursement for his boutique hotel on the BeltLine, I did what any broke, blacklisted forensic auditor would do. I read the contract. I rewrote half the clauses. I signed. The terms were clean. The timeline was simple. Then he started making my coffee every morning without being asked. He kept the original 1923 timber trusses in his hotel because *the bones of a thing are what make it real.* He read every clause I wrote into that contract like it mattered—because I mattered. And I, a woman who built her entire life on knowing the difference between what's real and what's manufactured, couldn't find the line anymore. If you love marriage of convenience romance where the fake part stops being fake and the heat never stops climbing, one-click now. [Contract Fake Marriage Forced Proximity Enemies to Lovers He Falls First BWWM Blacklisted Heroine Atlanta Setting Slow Burn to Scorching Marriage of Convenience]