He needed a Christmas bride to secure his empire. I needed a miracle to save my family. Our marriage was a contract, a ruthless business deal signed in the glow of holiday lights. He was the cold, untouchable heir; I was the desperate baker with a secret. We pretended for the cameras, for his family, for the world. But with every stolen glance, every fake kiss, the line between our lies and the truth began to blur.
Now, the contract is ending, the holiday is over, and I'm left with a dangerous question: How do you go back to pretending your love story was fake, when it's the only real thing you've ever known?