Chapter 1: Proposition
1570words
Two million dollars for one year of my life. One signature to save my family. All I had to do was marry a stranger with eyes so cold they could freeze hell itself.
Some would call it a devil's bargain. I called it my only option.
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The day my life changed forever started with me getting fired.
"You can't do this," I hissed, clutching the folder of financial discrepancies I'd spent weeks compiling. My boss, Martin Reynolds, didn't even bother looking up from his computer.
"I just did, Elena. Clear out your desk by noon."
"Because I found evidence you're cooking the books? That's retaliation, and it's illegal." My voice shook, but not from fear—from pure, undiluted rage.
Martin finally met my eyes, his expression bored as if we were discussing the weather instead of my career. "Prove it. Oh wait, you can't—because security is currently wiping your computer and collecting your files." His smile was all teeth, no warmth. "Good luck finding another position in finance when I'm done with you."
I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw something. Instead, I straightened my spine and lowered my voice to a dangerous whisper.
"You won't get away with this."
He laughed. Actually laughed. "I already have."
Forty minutes later, I stood on the sidewalk outside Reynolds Financial Group, a cardboard box containing five years of my professional life in my arms, and my future in tatters. My phone buzzed in my pocket—probably my sister calling to check in. I shifted the box to balance against my hip and fished out my phone.
It wasn't Sophia. It was the hospital.
My stomach dropped as I answered. "Hello?"
"Ms. Winters? This is Mercy General. Your father's condition has worsened. The doctor would like to speak with you."
The world tilted sideways. I closed my eyes, willing myself not to collapse right there on the sidewalk. "I'll be there in twenty minutes."
I was halfway to the subway when my phone buzzed again with a text from an unknown number.
*Ms. Winters, my employer would like to meet with you regarding a mutually beneficial arrangement. Car waiting at the corner of 5th and Madison. This concerns your father's situation.*
I froze, staring at the screen. How did anyone know about my father? I should have deleted the message immediately. Instead, I found myself looking up at the sleek black car that had just pulled alongside the curb exactly where the text had indicated.
The rear window lowered, revealing a woman with a severe bob and even more severe expression. "Ms. Winters. Mr. Blackwood doesn't like to be kept waiting."
*Blackwood*. As in Alexander Blackwood, CEO of Blackwood International. The billionaire whose face graced business magazines and whose name was whispered in boardrooms with equal parts fear and reverence.
"I need to get to the hospital," I said, already backing away.
"Regarding your father's $1.8 million in medical debt and the loan sharks threatening to collect from him? That's precisely what Mr. Blackwood wishes to discuss." Her expression never changed. "The hospital has been informed you're running late. Please."
My mind raced. How did Blackwood know about our debts? Why would he care? And most importantly—what could he possibly want from me?
Common sense screamed to walk away. But the weight of my father's illness, my sudden unemployment, and the crushing debt hanging over our family pushed me forward. I slid into the car, the leather seat cool against my skin.
"What does Alexander Blackwood want with me?" I asked as the car pulled away from the curb.
The woman—Ms. Chen, as she introduced herself—merely handed me a tablet. "Review these documents before we arrive. Mr. Blackwood appreciates efficiency."
I looked down at the screen and felt my breath catch. It was a dossier—on me. My education, employment history, family connections, even my coffee preferences. The last page contained a single line that made my blood run cold:
*Proposed Compensation: $2,000,000 for one-year contract marriage to Alexander Blackwood.*
I nearly dropped the tablet. "This is a joke."
Ms. Chen didn't smile. "Mr. Blackwood doesn't joke, Ms. Winters. Especially about business arrangements."
Twenty minutes later, the car stopped outside Blackwood Tower, a gleaming monolith of glass and steel that pierced the city skyline like a dagger. My hands trembled as I smoothed down my skirt—the same one I'd worn to work that morning, when my biggest concern had been confronting my boss about accounting irregularities.
Now I was about to meet a billionaire who wanted to buy me as a wife.
The elevator whisked me to the top floor in perfect silence, my reflection in its mirrored walls showing a woman I barely recognized—pale, wide-eyed, but with a determined set to her jaw that reminded me of my father. Whatever game Alexander Blackwood was playing, I wouldn't be an easy pawn.
The doors opened directly into a vast office with floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the city below. A man stood with his back to me, hands clasped behind him, staring out at the skyline as if it belonged to him.
Which, I supposed, parts of it probably did.
"Ms. Winters," he said without turning. His voice was deep, with the kind of authoritative tone that expected immediate compliance. "Thank you for coming."
"Did I have a choice?" The words slipped out before I could stop them.
That got his attention. He turned, and I got my first close look at Alexander Blackwood.
The magazines didn't do him justice. Tall and imposing in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, he had the kind of face that artists would want to sculpt—all sharp angles and perfect symmetry. Dark hair, cut precisely, not a strand out of place. But it was his eyes that held me—gray as winter storm clouds and just as cold.
"We always have choices, Ms. Winters," he said, moving toward his desk with the fluid grace of a predator. "Some are simply more difficult than others."
He gestured to the chair across from his desk. I remained standing.
"Why me?" I asked. "And why a marriage?"
A flicker of something—approval?—crossed his face so quickly I might have imagined it. "Direct. Good." He sat, not seeming bothered by my refusal to do the same. "I require a wife to secure my grandmother's controlling shares in Blackwood International. The terms of her trust are specific—I must be married by my thirty-fifth birthday, which is in three months."
"And you can't find someone willing to marry a billionaire the normal way?" I couldn't keep the sarcasm from my voice.
His expression didn't change. "I don't want a wife, Ms. Winters. I want a business arrangement with clear terms and an expiration date. No emotional complications."
"And you picked me because...?"
"Your financial analysis skills are impressive. Your ethics record is impeccable—as evidenced by today's unfortunate termination. You have no romantic entanglements that might complicate matters. And you need exactly what I'm offering—financial salvation for your family."
My chest tightened. He'd been watching me, studying me like some specimen. "How do you know so much about my family's situation?"
"I make it my business to know things." He slid a folder across the desk. "Your father owes $1.8 million in medical bills and business loans. The cancer treatments aren't covered by insurance. The loan sharks he borrowed from are becoming... impatient."
I felt sick. Not because he was wrong, but because he was exactly right.
"What exactly would this arrangement entail?" I asked, finally sinking into the chair. My legs simply wouldn't hold me anymore.
Alexander Blackwood's lips curved into what might have been a smile on anyone else. On him, it looked like a business strategy.
"One year as my wife. Public appearances, corporate events, family obligations. You'll live in my penthouse, with your own suite of rooms. We'll present a united front to the world." He tapped the folder. "In exchange, I'll pay your father's debts immediately and provide you with two million dollars upon completion of our contract."
"And what about..." I felt heat rise to my cheeks. "Physical expectations?"
For the first time, something like genuine amusement flickered in those storm-cloud eyes. "This is a business merger, Ms. Winters, not a romance. There will be no physical relationship between us. That's explicitly stated in section four of the contract."
I should have felt relieved. Instead, I felt oddly insulted.
"So I pretend to be madly in love with you in public, live in your home, and give up a year of my life. In return, my father lives and my family's financial problems disappear."
"Precisely." He leaned forward slightly. "Do we have an agreement?"
I thought about my father in his hospital bed, growing weaker each day. About my sister working double shifts to help with bills. About the threatening calls from men who didn't care that we couldn't pay.
Then I looked at the man across from me—cold, calculating, offering salvation with strings attached. A devil's bargain indeed.
"I'll need to read the contract first," I said, reaching for the folder.
Something that might have been respect flashed in Alexander Blackwood's eyes.
"I would expect nothing less."
