THE CEO'S CONTRACT WIFE: I didn't fall for him...Until I did

The receptionist at Thorne Holdings didn’t even look up when I walked in.  

“Do you have an appointment?”  

“I do. Palesa Mokhosi. 9AM. Architecture internship.”  

She finally glanced at me. At my second-hand blazer. At my shoes that I’d polished three times last night.  

“sit. Mr. Thorne is running late.”  

Late. Right. I clutched my portfolio to my chest like it could protect me. Inside was every project I’d done at National University of Lesotho. Every late night. Every “you’re so talented, girl” from my lecturers. It also held the hospital bill folded in four. R347,892. Due in 7 days. Or they pull the plug on my mom’s dialysis. The glass doors opened and the whole floor went silent. He was taller than his pictures. And colder. Black suit, no tie, jaw sharp enough to cut glass. Michael Thorne. 32. CEO rumored to have fired 3 people before lunch last Tuesday.  

“Ms. Mokhosi,” his voice was low. No smile.  

“My office. Now.”  

I followed him. The office was all glass and steel and no warmth. He didn’t sit. He stood by the window overlooking Maseru like he owned the whole mountain view.  

“Your portfolio was impressive,” he said.  

“Your GPA was perfect. So why are you here?”  

“Because I need the job, sir.”  

He turned. Dark eyes dragged over me.  

“I don’t hire desperation.”  

My throat closed.  

“Then don’t. But I’m the best junior architect you’ll ever interview this month. And I work 70 hours a week and I don’t complain.”  

A beat. Then the corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile.  

“Interesting.”  

He walked to his desk and pulled out a folder. Not a contract. A marriage certificate.  

My brain short-circuited.  

“What is this?”  

“My grandfather’s will. I inherit Thorne Holdings in 30 days if I’m married. If not, the board takes it.”  

He slid it across the desk.  

“Marry me for one year. R5,000,000. Paid in two installments. You live in my house. You attend 4 events a month with me. You do not fall in love with me. You do not touch me. You do not ask questions.”  

I stared at the number. R5,000,000. Mom’s surgery. Twice over.  

“This is illegal.”  

“This is business,” he said.  

“Do we have a deal, Ms. Mokhosi?”  

Outside, the Maseru wind hit the glass. Inside, my whole life balanced on one word.  

I swallowed.  

“Yes.”  

He picked up a pen.  

“Good. The wedding is on Saturday.”  

The dress was white. The marriage was fake. But the ring on my finger weighed like a brick. Saturday came too fast. No guests. No priest with a kind smile. Just me, Michael, and a government magistrate in a grey office in Maseru who looked bored out of his mind.  

“Do you, Palesa Mokhosi, take Michael Thorne to be your lawfully wedded husband?”  

I glanced at Michael. He was in a black suit again. No emotion. Like we were signing a business merger. Which we were.  

“I do.”  

My voice didn’t shake much.  

“Do you, Michael Thorne...”  

“I do.”  

Stamp. Signature. R5,000,000 was apparently now mine. The first R2.5M hit my account before we even left the building. I paid the hospital before lunch. Mom was going to live. That should’ve been the end of it. The Thorne Mansion. It was not a house. It was a fortress on the hill overlooking Maseru. Glass, black marble, and staff who bowed when we walked in. Michael stopped in the foyer.  

“Rule 1: My bedroom is off limits. Rule 2: You don’t speak to me unless spoken to at events. Rule 3: You don’t leave Lesotho without telling me. Rule 4: You don’t touch me.”