Playing My Contract Husband's Heart

At 2 AM in Beverly Hills, I was sprawled on the living room couch pretending to watch Netflix, but really I was waiting for Stephen Montgomery to come home.

This was absolutely not normal.

Four months ago, when the Montgomery family offered to reactivate our childhood engagement, I thought I was being clever.

A marriage between an entertainment media empire and a medical industry giant—Montgomery family funding to pull Castellano Pictures out of its debt crisis, Stephen and I each getting what we needed. The perfect business rescue plan.

I was even proud of myself—walking back into Stephen Montgomery's life while maintaining relative independence and freedom. Genius move.

That little blonde boy who used to catch fireflies with me in the backyard was now Los Angeles's most renowned cardiothoracic surgeon. Time really was a mysterious thing.

Then I completely screwed everything up.

Because adult Dr. Montgomery turned out to be ten thousand times more dangerous than I'd imagined.

Not obviously dangerous, but lethally attractive in the most subtle way possible.

Like his 6 AM wake-up routine—this wasn't the same Stephen who used to need his mom to call him three times to get out of bed. I once accidentally saw him returning from the gym, his charcoal compression shirt soaked with sweat, clinging to his lean chest.

When he pulled up the hem to wipe his face, revealing that perfect V-line of abs, I nearly tumbled down the stairs. And he just casually said "Morning, Karolyn" before heading upstairs to shower, completely oblivious to how devastating he'd just been.

The boy who used to blush giving me birthday presents now barely glanced my way with such composure.

He had no idea how sexy he looked casually rolling up his lab coat sleeves, how perfect his profile was when he was absorbed in medical journals, or how his rare moments of unguarded tenderness could make my heart skip beats.

Stephen Montgomery was like a walking textbook on controlled desire, every unconscious movement a silent seduction, and he was completely unaware.

That was what made him so dangerous.

Damn it, when did I turn into a lovesick teenager? I used to think he was too much of a bookworm when we were kids.

The garage door rumbled to life, and my heart rate spiked instantly.

Get it together, Karolyn. You're just a contract wife. Remember the agreement terms.

I rushed to the kitchen and started preparing coffee. Stephen liked Colombian beans now, no sugar—completely different from the boy who used to drink hot chocolate with extra marshmallows.

"You're up late." Stephen's voice carried from the doorway, clearly surprised.

The moment I turned around, all rational thought crumbled.

He was loosening his tie, those long fingers expertly working the knot. His gold wire-rimmed glasses were still perched on his nose, white coat draped casually over his shoulder, navy scrubs perfectly fitted to his frame.

The skinny bookworm from childhood had become this?

Why were medical uniforms so unfairly attractive?

I wanted to walk over and tear off his glasses, wanted to push him against the marble countertop, wanted to tell him the agreement could go to hell.

"Just couldn't sleep," I managed, fighting to keep my voice steady. "How was the surgery?"

Stephen adjusted his glasses with the precision of handling surgical instruments, but I caught a flash of warmth in his eyes. "Pediatric cardiac repair. Eight-year-old patient. Successful outcome."

He paused, his voice softening. "You don't need to wait up for me, Karolyn."

For a moment, I saw the Stephen who used to worry about whether I'd eaten properly.

Even his work reports were sexy, and his concern was so gentle—was this man trying to kill me?

When I handed him the coffee, our fingers accidentally touched.

Electric current shot through my body. I nearly dropped the mug.

Stephen's fingers paused for a heartbeat, then he took the cup and sipped. "Perfect temperature. Thank you."

His gaze lingered on my face three seconds longer than usual.

Then he went upstairs.

Just like that.

Work report, gentle concern, coffee, that look, goodnight.

I stood in the kitchen with my heart hammering, replaying every detail.

That wasn't my imagination, right? His gaze? His care? That momentary pause?

Back in the master bedroom, I tossed and turned on the king-size bed.

Keyboard clicking drifted from the adjacent study—Stephen was answering emails. Probably case discussions or medical journal submissions. The workaholic never stopped.

I listened to that rhythmic typing, imagining him working intently with his glasses on, remembering that tender look, and my heart pounded even harder.

3 AM, and I was wide awake.

Since I'd already violated my own rules, since I was hopelessly captivated by this man, I needed to know—

Did he feel even a hint of something? Or was this just polite childhood familiarity?

I grabbed my iPhone and started planning:

Research Phase: Dr. Stephen Montgomery

• Increase "casual" encounters

• Analyze micro-expressions and body language

• Strategic care gestures - measure response

• Maintain plausible deniability

This was insane. I was plotting to seduce my own contract husband.

More soft sounds came from next door—maybe reviewing medical files? When did this workaholic ever rest?

"Starting tomorrow," I told the ceiling, "Dr. Stephen Montgomery, I'm going to test whether you really feel nothing for me, or if you're deliberately keeping your distance."

Just then, the study fell silent.

Then I heard footsteps heading toward the balcony.

I crept to the floor-to-ceiling windows, carefully hiding behind the curtains to peek outside.

In the moonlight, Stephen stood on the adjacent balcony, changed into a simple gray t-shirt, hands braced on the railing as he gazed out at the Los Angeles skyline.

Why did even his resting pose look so captivating?

What was he thinking about? Tomorrow's surgical schedule? Or...

I held my breath, terrified he'd catch me spying. But I couldn't tear my eyes away—Stephen looked so solitary in the moonlight, so much like that boy who used to stargaze alone in the backyard.

After a few minutes, he stretched and turned to go back inside.

The moment he closed the balcony door, I was certain he glanced in my direction.

I quickly stepped back, heart racing.

That scene nearly killed me.

Tomorrow my testing would officially begin.

Stephen Montgomery, I was going to find out if he was truly an emotionless medical machine, or if he was just honoring a childhood promise.

If the answer was no, at least I would have tried.

If the answer was yes...

Then we were both in trouble.

Because once we crossed that contract line, there would be no going back.

But honestly, I was already past the point of self-control.

Childhood friends or not, contract marriage or not—I needed to know the answer.

No matter what it cost.