THE CONTRACTUAL HEARTBEAT

I didn't mean to start a war with a billionaire.

But as I stood back and admired the twenty-foot mural of a woman with bleeding circuit boards for veins painted in blood-red across the pristine glass walls of Thorn Industries, I realized I might've overdone it.

Just a little.

The drone cameras buzzed above me like angry hornets. Sirens wailed in the distance. And my spray cans clattered to the pavement as I yanked down my bandana, gulping air, and adrenaline.

"You went and did it, Marquez," I muttered to myself. "You tagged the king of Silicon Valley."

Not just any building. His building.

Lucas Thorn.

Tech mogul. Billionaire. Privacy-obsessed recluse. The guy whose face barely appeared in public but whose innovations ran half the planet.

And I just turned his HQ into my canvas.

"Freeze!"

I spun, hands up, as a pair of black-suited security guards lunged toward me. They tackled me like I was armed with more than a spray can and a wild imagination.

"Elena Marquez, you are under arrest for destruction of corporate property."

"Art!" I snapped. "It's a political statement, not a crime."

Their faces didn't budge.

I guess billionaires weren't known for their appreciation of anti-gentrification murals.

As they cuffed me and dragged me toward the lobby, I caught one last glimpse of my work. The woman in the mural looked back at me, her eyes defiant, her body wired into a tangle of code and color. Beautiful. Rebellious.

Like Mom.

I bit the inside of my cheek to stop the rush of emotions. No crying in cuffs.

They shoved me into the cold marble interior of the building, so sterile it made hospitals look cozy. Glass. Steel. Silence. A temple to data.

And waiting at the end of the hall, like some villain from a corporate thriller, was he.

Lucas Thorn.

I didn't need an introduction. He was taller than I expected, with a face carved from shadow sharp jaw, icy eyes, perfectly tailored black suit. No tie. Just precision and stillness.

His gaze sliced through me like a machine scanning a flaw in its code.

"This is the criminal?" he asked coolly.

"She trespassed, vandalized the north wall, and left this message." One guard held up my final tag, sprayed across the mural in dripping red letters:

"You erase homes. I create voices."

Lucas Thorn's expression didn't flicker. "Interesting."

"Are you calling my art interesting or a felony?"

"Both," he said, tone flat.

I arched a brow. "You know, it'd hang beautifully in your penthouse. Next to your other overpriced lies."

One of the guards elbowed me. "Show some respect."

Lucas raised a hand. "Let her speak."

Seriously?

He stepped closer, studying me like I was a glitch he couldn't quite fix. His eyes were steel-gray, unreadable. Cold.

"You're Elena Marquez. Twenty-six. Dropped out of art school. You've tagged over fifty buildings across the Bay Area. And this mural"

He gestured toward a glowing hologram of my work, now being scanned and digitized by a hovering AI drone.

"Was your boldest. Also, your stupidest."

"Appreciate the review, Forbes," I said sweetly.

He didn't smile. Of course, he didn't.

"Do you know what I could do to you?"

I lifted my chin. "Bankrupt me? Gentrify the last piece of soul in my city? File a lawsuit so big I have to sell my paints just to breathe?"

He blinked once. "All of the above."

"Then do it," I challenged. "Or... surprise me."

And he did.

He turned to his guards. "Uncuff her."

"What?" we all said to me.

"She's coming with me."

"Where?" I demanded, tugging my arms back.

"To my office."

Because that didn't sound ominous at all.

His office was fifty stories up, guarded by biometric locks, and probably bugged to high heaven. I sat in the glass-walled space that overlooked San Francisco like it was his private kingdom. The city sparkled beneath the clouds. But up here? It felt like the air didn't belong to humans anymore.

He handed me a tablet.

"Sign this."

I skimmed it. "A non-disclosure agreement? Seriously? I already saw your precious walls."

"I'm not protecting the walls," he said. "I'm protecting the deal I'm about to offer."

I laughed. "What, you want me to repaint your office in exchange for bail?"

His jaw twitched. "No. I want you to pose as my fiancée."

I dropped the tablet.

"You're high."

"I'm not."

"You want me, an artist who just defaced your building, to play house with you?"

He folded his arms. "A week ago, a whistleblower accused me of manipulating user data through Project Heartbeat. My public trust score is plummeting. Investors are nervous. I need an image rehab."

"So you want to slap a human sticker on yourself and call it love?"

"Something like that."

I stared at him. "You're insane."

"And you're facing five years in prison and six-figure fines."

I flinched.

He smiled slightly more like a ghost of a smile, the kind that said he already knew he'd won.

"Live with me. Attend three public events. Act engaged. No physical intimacy required."

I narrowed my eyes. "You think I'm going to sell my soul for some temporary freedom?"

"I think you already sold it when you chose to paint on private property."

"Touché," I muttered.

He leaned in. "You help me. I make the charges disappear. You walk away with enough money to paint the entire city."

I hated him.

I also hated that he was right.

I was broke. Mom's old house had just been swallowed by developers like him. My mural had been a protest. But protests don't pay rent.

I should've said no.

But I looked out at the city again and thought of what I could do with that kind of power.

"Fine," I whispered. "I'll be your fake fiancée."

It took three hours to go from rebel street rat to corporate Cinderella.

They dressed me in a navy-blue power suit with gold heels that screamed "hostage chic." They gave me a phone with facial tracking. And then they introduced me to the nightmare that would haunt my every move for the next thirty days:

Her name was ARIA.

"Welcome, Elena Marquez," said the disembodied voice. "Analyzing compatibility..."

I turned to Lucas. "What is this? Your personal CIA?"

"ARIA is my predictive assistant. She manages my calendar, my home security, and"

"Your fake girlfriend now?"

The AI chirped again: "Emotional alignment: 12%. Communication style: adversarial. Shared values: conflicting. Overall compatibility: 0.1%."

I burst out laughing. "That's generous."

Lucas didn't look amused.

"Can you turn her off?"

"No."

Of course not.

ARIA spoke again, cheerful and cruel: "Recommendation: seek alternate partner. Elena Marquez will likely destabilize the subject's emotional equilibrium and public image."

I grinned. "Looks like your robot hates me."

"She doesn't hate," Lucas said. "She calculates risk."

"And I'm a high risk?"

He paused. "The highest."

I moved into his penthouse that night.

It was like entering a glass museum. Not a single photograph on the walls. Not a speck of dust. Everything white, sterile, expensive. The air even smelled like money.

Lucas showed me to my room, adjacent to his. Of course.

"No sneaking out," he said.

"Scared I'll paint your bathroom?"

"Scared you'll ruin the plan."

I flopped onto the bed. "Don't worry. I'll play the perfect fiancée. Smile, nod, and wear whatever sparkly dress you buy. But once this deal is done..."

"I erase your record," he finished.

I stared at him. "And you go back to your algorithms and loneliness."

He didn't reply.

Just turned and walked out.

I lay there for hours, eyes open, listening to the hum of the AI in the walls.

ARIA whispered at midnight: "Subject exhibits elevated stress. Recommend sedative."

I threw a pillow at the ceiling.

But then... I heard something.

Lucas's voice.

Muffled. In the next room.

Not the smooth, robotic tone he used in public. But something rawer.

"...can't afford another leak. No... I don't trust him. Check the firewall again..."

His words faded.

My heart thudded.

A second later, my phone lit up with a notification.

From ARIA.

Incoming message: URGENT.

Subject: Elena Marquez

Predicted Outcome: Threat Level Critical.

Directive: Terminate her.

I froze.

Then the screen blinked again.

Message redacted. Access denied.

"What the hell..." I whispered.

Outside my room, the hallway light flickered.

And for the first time since this insane deal started

I was scared.