Romy stared at the heavy brass ring on the table, then at Max’s unsettlingly earnest face. The cafe, a shrine to oat milk lattes and passive aggression, seemed to tilt. Her ceiling, her dignity, her entire life plan — all were currently in various stages of structural collapse. Preston, Dallin’s insufferable best man, was still squinting at her from across the room, probably trying to determine if her stained sweatpants were a fashion statement or a cry for help. “Thursday?” she echoed, a faint ringing in her ears that had nothing to do with the espresso machine. “That’s… two days from now.” Max leaned back, a small, triumphant smile playing on his lips. “Expediency is key, Romy. The bonus application window closes.” “And you’re a… driver,” she said, her skepticism warring with the horrifying practicality of his offer. “Your firm provides executive housing bonuses for… married wheelmen?” “Only the dedicated ones,” Max replied, a twinkle in his eye. “It’s a morale booster. They appreciate loyalty. And, well, a spouse makes one seem more… stable.” He gestured vaguely at her asbestos-dusted sleeve. “Especially if one’s current stability is… negotiable.” Her options were simple: sleep in her car, beg for a spot on Gemma’s suspiciously full couch, or marry a charming stranger whose corporate benefits seemed wildly implausible. The choice wasn’t difficult; it was humiliating. “Fine,” Romy snapped, snatching the brass ring. It was surprisingly heavy, cool against her skin. “But if this bonus turns out to be a voucher for a broken toaster, I’m suing you for emotional damages and spousal support, even if it’s fake.” Max’s smile widened, genuine and disarming. “Deal. Now, about the details. What size shoe are you?” Two days later, Romy found herself standing in a municipal courthouse that smelled faintly of disinfectant and dashed dreams. The ‘ceremony’ was a blur of bureaucratic efficiency, conducted by an elderly clerk named Mrs. Grummel who looked like she’d witnessed a thousand similar shotgun weddings. Max, looking far too handsome in a simple charcoal suit, recited his vows with a sincerity that made Romy’s cynical heart do a strange, uncomfortable flutter. She, on the other hand, mumbled hers, fixated on the chipped paint on the wall. “Congratulations,” Mrs. Grummel chirped, her smile stretched thin. “Next!” Outside, the Oakhaven City drizzle had started, a fitting backdrop for her life’s latest absurd turn. Max took her hand, the brass ring now glinting dully on her finger, beside his own identical one. “Ready for your new… temporary abode?” She expected a beat-up sedan, perhaps a slightly nicer company car. Instead, he led her to a gleaming, custom-built Rolls-Royce Phantom, its midnight blue paint job reflecting the grey sky like a polished obsidian mirror. The vehicle hummed with an almost supernatural quiet. It was so pristine, so impossibly sleek, that a sharp prickle of doubt hit her collarbone. “Whose is this?” she asked, her voice tight. Max opened the passenger door with a practiced ease, as if he did this every day. “My boss’s. He’s very particular about his vehicles. I’m just… borrowing it. He’s currently in Dubai, you see. For a… corporate yacht race. Very important.” “A yacht race,” Romy repeated flatly, sinking into the plush leather seat. The interior smelled of cedar and something undeniably costly, like old money and new ambition. “Indeed. He trusts me implicitly with his… assets.” Max slid into the driver’s seat, the engine a silent purr as he navigated the Oakhaven streets with an effortless grace that spoke of years behind the wheel of high-end machinery. They pulled up to the Zenith Tower, a monolith of polished glass and steel that pierced the skyline like a particularly aggressive middle finger. This wasn’t standard corporate lodging; it practically shrieked private capital. Romy’s jaw nearly unhinged. “We’re… house-sitting here?” she managed. “Top floor,” Max confirmed, a hint of amusement in his tone. “He finds the lower floors… pedestrian.” As they stepped into the grand lobby, all soaring ceilings and imported marble, Romy felt a knot tighten in her gut. This felt less like a temporary solution and more like an elaborate, extortionately priced prank. Then, a familiar, saccharine voice sliced through the hushed elegance. “Romy Kastell? Darling, what on earth are you doing here?” It was Tamsin Fray, Romy’s chief rival in the cutthroat world of ghostwriting, a woman whose entire persona was a meticulously curated Instagram feed of ‘effortless’ luxury. Tamsin, decked out in a silk jumpsuit that probably cost more than Romy’s yearly rent, eyed Max with a sneer. “And who’s your… driver?” Tamsin drawled, her gaze lingering dismissively on Max’s simple suit. “Lost your way to the valet, did you?” Romy bristled. “This is my husband, Maximilian. We’re… moving in.” She held up her hand, flaunting the brass ring with a defiant tilt of her chin. The lie tasted like ash, but the satisfaction of Tamsin’s gaping mouth was surprisingly sweet. Tamsin’s eyes, however, weren't on the ring. They were fixed on Max’s wrist. Her perfectly sculpted eyebrows shot up, the sneer dropping into raw, stunned recognition. Max, seemingly unbothered, offered Tamsin a polite nod. Romy glanced at his wrist, noticing for the first time the glint of a watch peeking from beneath his cuff. It wasn’t just a watch; it was a sculptural masterpiece of intricate mechanics and precious metals, a discreet fortune strapped to his arm. Tamsin’s perfectly manicured hand flew to her mouth, cutting off whatever venomous retort she’d been about to unleash. She stared at Max, then at Romy, rigid with sudden apprehension. “Pleasure meeting you, Tamsin,” Max said smoothly, before guiding a bewildered Romy towards the private elevator bank. The doors slid shut, leaving Tamsin frozen in the lobby. The penthouse was a minimalist’s dream, a sprawling expanse of glass and polished concrete with panoramic views of Oakhaven City. Romy wandered through the cavernous living room, feeling like an ant in a palace. Max, meanwhile, busied himself with the luggage, depositing her two worn suitcases—now joined by a sleek, monogrammed leather carry-all she’d never seen before—in front of a massive walk-in closet. “Your new wardrobe,” he announced, gesturing expansively. “For the… new chapter.” Romy, still reeling from Tamsin’s strange reaction, slowly pushed open the closet doors. Her breath caught. Inside, racks bent beneath designer dresses, tailored suits, cashmere sweaters, and silk blouses. Shoes, bags, accessories—an entire boutique, all tailored to her proportions, all pristine. “What… what is all this?” she whispered, touching a shimmering emerald gown. “Max, where did this come from?” He cleared his throat, avoiding her gaze. “Ah, well. You know. Fleet perks. Sometimes crates… fall off the transport. Lucky you, I suppose. Right color, right size. Total coincidence.” He offered a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Romy stared at the designer garments, then back at Max, who was now meticulously folding a pair of her sweatpants as if they were rare papyrus. His hired-driver cover story was fraying fast. Later, as the city lights glittered below and Max was in the ridiculously large kitchen making what he claimed was ‘chauffeur-grade ramen,’ Romy started unpacking. She pulled out a faded t-shirt, and it snagged on something under the bed. Reaching down, her fingers closed around a cold, heavy object. She pulled it out. It was a solid gold cufflink, intricately carved, gleaming under the soft bedroom lights. Engraved on its surface, in elegant script, were the letters ‘M. Royston.’ Romy stood up, the cufflink heavy in her palm. The reclusive billionaire who owned the Zenith Tower, the man known for his absurdly extravagant taste and his complete disdain for public appearances, was Maximilian Royston. The name was plastered on every financial magazine, whispered in every high-society gossip column. It was the same surname. The same initial. The same dizzying grandeur she was now standing in. She walked into the kitchen, the cufflink held out. Max, stirring a pot of what smelled faintly of instant noodles, looked up, his easy smile faltering as he saw the metal in her hand. “Max,” Romy said, her voice dangerously quiet, “is your boss, the one who’s in Dubai for a yacht race, the infamous Maximilian Royston?”

Fallen From the Company Truck