I changed the collar on my old jacket and tried to keep the obstinate clasp on my purse closed. The elevator doors swung open, and I felt nothing against the chilly, tall grandeur of Laurel Heights Corporate Tower as I entered the slick marble lobby. This was not my life; I was only passing through, hoping for a sliver of possibility; it belonged to the elite.
My dearest friend Grace had suggested that my major break would be this "networking lunch". Isla, you really need this. Land this customer; your company will grow. Her voice pulling me along was still audible now. She hadn't informed me that this customer was someone entirely different than what I was ready for.
I nodded quickly towards the top floor private dining room at the receptionist. I inhaled deeply and rode the quiet elevator upward, mentally playing my pitch: confident. innovative. credible. This was survival as much as business. This deal could keep the lights on as my graphic design firm was barely hanging.
I emerged into a sun-drenched area flanked by floor to ceiling windows as the elevator chimed gently. The metropolis shimmered with a sort of merciless ambition, eternally below. And he was seated at the head of the long glass table there.
Noah blackwood.
He exuded strength and authority even sitting. customized outfit. razor-sharp jawline Piercing grey eyes that held me in place like I was already losing a game I was not aware we were playing. His subdued focus commanded the room with the simplicity of someone who hardly ever heard the word no.
"Miss Harper," he said, his rich voice flowing through the air like silk. "Please, seat."
I stopped only for a few second before walking towards the seat across from him. Rising momentarily in a traditional manner to show old-fashioned respect, he sat once again, all calm and precision. Though my tummy turned over with anxiety, I pushed myself to meet his eye.
"Thank you for meeting me," I replied, summoning every confidence I lacked.
His face remained blank, watching me as if I were a conundrum he was not rushing to solve. "I think we both will gain from this meeting."
He slipped a hefty package over the table—no politeness, no small chat—before I could reply. My pulse quickened as my fingers hesitated then grabbed it.
Is this not a contract for graphic design employment? I said gently, my voice calm despite the deluge of questions raging in my head.
"No," he said, his tone low and deliberate. "Proposal here."
I blinked, then temporarily lost control. "I fail to follow."
His sharp eye locked with me, leaving no space for misinterpretation. "I am looking for a wife.
I believed I misheard for a little while. a wife? My breath stopped and I battled to understand the truth of the circumstances. This was something absolutely more perilous than a commercial proposition.
"I believe there has been some kind of error," I remarked, shoving the envelope back towards him. "I have no market for whatever this is."
His gaze fixed on nothing else. "Everything your struggling company needs—security, stability—is what I am providing."
The boldness of his remarks astounded me. He considers himself to be who? "You've done your homework," I muttered forcefully, resentment wriggling under my skin.
"I don't take risks without knowing the stakes," he said easily. Your studio finds itself in financial hot water. Paying bills is drowning you, and banks are closing in. My offer addresses our issues simultaneously.
I closed my hands under the table. About my circumstances, he was right; nevertheless, hearing it presented so coldly caused my stomach to turn around. And from this kind of setup, what specifically do you get? "
His eyes drifted steely. "Control of the firm owned by my family."
I squinted. "Let me suppose: an absurd inheritance clause? Must die either by thirty or lose everything?""
His lips quitted, almost in a grin. That kind of stuff.
Silence heavy with calculating and anxiety stretched between us for a heartbeat. Part of me wanted to up, go, and turn down this unworkable proposition. But then I became fixed in place by the terrible reality of my vacant studio and shrinking money account.
"What's the hitch? Demand it.
His countenance became incomprehensible. "We keep appearances consistent. Go to events with someone else. Share a house as long as necessary.
My thoughts whirled. This was lunacy. harmful. Careless. Still, the promise of consistency danced like a mirage in the desert.
What would happen if I turned down?'''
His look deepened, harsh and merciless. "then you walk out here with nothing."
Time seemed to stop as I considered the hazards. This was personal not just professional. Taking meant binding myself to a guy I didn't trust, with motivations I couldn't start to grasp. Not intended to see my life's effort fall apart.
As I squeezed out a faltering breath, the outer world sparkled with merciless indifference. Isla, you are going to endure this. You have endured even more difficult.
I looked directly at him, trying not to let him see my terror. "I'll need terms. Situations. An agreed upon written contract.
His lips bent just slightly, like a predator identifying the beginning of a game. "You will have all in writing."
I reached out, heart pounding as our fingertips lightly touched—a brief, electrifying contact. His hold was solid, consistent, and uncompromising.
"Then we have a deal," I murmured, closing a future I couldn't start to forecast.
His hand stayed for a moment too long before he let go, his silent attention fixed on mine.
"Mrs. Blackwood, welcome to the rest of your life."