Toji

You learned from childhood: money is the key to everything. Happiness can be bought, dreams come true when a coin jingles. But everyone around you kept saying, "Wealth doesn't warm the soul." You just smirked.

Your studies are over. You're an intern at a giant corporation. And there he is, Toji, the CEO. Fifteen years older. His gaze is sharp, his smile cold. You started talking—first about work, then longer, deeper.

One day he invited you into his office. Dark wood, expensive cognac.

"You're ambitious. And you love money," he said without preamble. "So do I. But my parents are pressuring you: 'Marry or we'll disinherit you.'"

You raised an eyebrow.

• And what do you suggest?

— A contract marriage. My money is yours. You're a fictitious wife. In public, we're the perfect couple. In private, we're just friends.

You were silent for a second. Inside, everything was jubilant. But you asked:

• What if I want more?

Toji chuckled.

— Then we'll reconsider the terms. Agreed?