The Cold CEO's Contract Wife

The aroma of beef bourguignon filled the kitchen as I carefully stirred the sauce. Steam rose from the pot, carrying the rich scent of red wine, herbs, and tender meat. According to Mrs. Chen, Adrian's favorite childhood dish.

"Are you sure about this recipe, Mrs. Chen?" I asked, wiping sweat from my brow.

The elderly housekeeper nodded, her weathered hands adjusting the oven temperature. "Mr. Cross's mother always prepared this on his birthday. He hasn't had it since... well, since before Miss Sophia."

I smiled, hope fluttering in my chest. "Then maybe it'll bring back good memories."

For three hours, I'd followed Mrs. Chen's instructions to the letter. Browning the beef, reducing the wine, preparing the vegetables. My hands were stained with tomato sauce, my hair falling from its loose knot.

"Such a waste of time," Mrs. Chen muttered, but her eyes held a gleam of approval.

"It's not waste if it's for someone you care about," I replied softly.

At precisely seven o'clock, the front door opened. I smoothed my dress and carried the steaming dish to the dining room table. I'd set it with the good china—the set Adrian's mother had left behind.

"Adrian," I called, my voice trembling slightly. "Dinner's ready."

He appeared in the doorway, his tie loosened, jacket slung over one arm. His eyes swept over the table—the candles, the wine, the carefully arranged flowers.

"What is this?" he asked flatly.

"I made your favorite," I said, gesturing to the dish. "Beef bourguignon. Mrs. Chen helped me."

Something flickered across his face—surprise, perhaps even a moment of softness. But it vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

"I already ordered from Ming's," he said, pulling out his phone to show me the confirmation. "It'll be here in twenty minutes."

"But I spent hours—"

"Next time, check with me before wasting ingredients." His voice cut through my protest like ice. "Don't waste your time on meaningless gestures, Emma."

He turned away, leaving me standing beside the table with the untouched meal growing cold.

---

The following Saturday, I woke early with determination coursing through me. The house felt so sterile—all marble and glass and cold, empty spaces. It needed warmth, life.

I found a small boutique near the market selling affordable throw pillows and rugs. Nothing extravagant, just simple touches to soften the harsh edges of our home.

"Our home," I whispered to myself as I arranged a soft blue throw pillow on the living room sofa. "Even if just for a little while."

By afternoon, I'd transformed the living room. A colorful rug covered the cold marble floor. Framed photographs—landscapes I'd taken during my college years—hung on previously bare walls. Fresh flowers brightened the coffee table.

"It looks lovely," James commented, appearing from the kitchen with a tray of tea.

"Do you think Adrian will notice?" I asked, adjusting a vase of daisies.

Before James could answer, the front door slammed open. Adrian stood in the entryway, his face darkening as he took in the changes.

"What the hell is this?" he demanded, striding into the living room.

I straightened, my hands trembling slightly. "I just thought it could use some warmth. The house feels so—"

"Who gave you permission?" he cut me off, snatching a throw pillow and hurling it across the room. It hit the wall with a soft thud.

"Adrian, I was only trying to—"

"Trying to what? Make this place yours?" His voice rose with each word. "This isn't your house, and it never will be. Don't touch anything that belongs to me!"

He grabbed a framed photograph from the wall and smashed it against the floor. Glass shattered across the rug I'd just laid down.

"Every single thing you've added needs to be gone by tonight," he continued, his face contorted with rage. "Or I'll throw them out myself."

Tears burned behind my eyes as I knelt to gather the broken frame.

"Did you hear me, Emma?"

"Yes," I whispered. "I heard you."

---

Adrian's birthday arrived three weeks later. I'd been careful not to cross any lines since the living room incident, but I couldn't let his birthday pass without acknowledgment.

I spent the entire day preparing. Roast duck with orange glaze—his favorite, according to Mrs. Chen. Steamed vegetables with sesame dressing. Chocolate cake with coffee frosting.

The dining room looked beautiful with candles flickering on the table, a bottle of his preferred Bordeaux breathing beside his plate. I'd even found a small gift—a leather-bound journal with his initials embossed on the cover.

"Mrs. Cross," James said softly as I adjusted the napkins for the third time. "You've outdone yourself."

"Thank you, James." I smoothed my dress nervously. "Do you think he'll like it?"

Before James could answer, car headlights swept across the windows.

"He's home early," I said, hope rising in my chest.

The front door opened, followed by voices in the entryway. Not just Adrian's—a woman's as well.

I stepped into the hallway and froze.

Adrian stood there with Sophia clinging to his arm. She wore a pale pink dress that highlighted her delicate frame, her blonde hair cascading over her shoulders.

"Emma," Adrian said flatly. "Sophia needs to rest. The guest room is prepared?"

Sophia's eyes met mine, a flash of triumph quickly masked by false concern.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she said, her voice honey-sweet. "I didn't know you had plans."

I gestured mutely toward the dining room, where the birthday dinner waited.

Adrian followed my gaze and his expression hardened. "What is all this?"

"Your birthday," I said softly. "I thought..."

"Who asked you to meddle?" His voice was cold, final. "Clean this up."

Sophia squeezed his arm. "Don't be too harsh, Adrian. She was just trying to be thoughtful."

The false sympathy in her voice made my stomach turn.

"We'll be in the guest room," Adrian said, leading Sophia up the stairs. "Don't disturb us."

I stood motionless in the hallway as their footsteps faded. Then, slowly, I walked back to the dining room.

The candles flickered on the untouched meal. The wine waited to be poured. The gift sat wrapped beside his plate.

With trembling hands, I began to clear the table, fighting back tears that threatened to spill over.

Behind me, I heard a door close softly—James, no doubt retreating to give me privacy in my humiliation.

I placed the roast duck back in the kitchen, its perfect glaze now congealing in the cooling air.

Happy birthday, Adrian. Happy birthday to me.