The soft hum of rain against the windows of Le Fleur Café barely muted the sound of Serena's anxious heartbeat. She checked her phone again. 3:58 PM. The man had been precise in his message: "Meet me at 4 PM sharp. Wear something professional."
She didn't usually take messages from strangers seriously. But desperation had a way of reshaping pride. The bakery her father left behind was bleeding money, and her last hope—a bank loan—had just been denied. If this meeting offered any solution, she'd take it. Whatever "it" was.
The door chimed. She looked up—and her breath caught.
Elias Moreau stepped into the café like he owned it. Tall, sharply dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, with piercing grey eyes that scanned the room with cool precision. There was a gravity to him, like the air shifted in his presence.
Their eyes met. He walked straight to her table.
"Miss Blake," he said, extending a hand. "Thank you for coming."
Serena stood and shook it, surprised by how warm his hand was despite the chill he gave off.
"You're Elias Moreau," she said, more a fact than a question.
"Guilty." A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips as he sat across from her.
She swallowed. "You said you had a... proposal?"
"I did. And I do."
He slid a sleek black folder onto the table. "I need a wife. Immediately."
Serena blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"A marriage. Legally binding. One year."
Her fingers curled around her coffee cup. "This is some kind of joke, right?"
"I don't joke. It's a contract marriage. Strictly business. I require a spouse to meet a clause in my grandfather's will. If I don't marry by the end of this month, I lose the company he left me."
She studied him. There wasn't even a hint of embarrassment or hesitation in his tone. Like he was proposing a merger—not a marriage.
"Why me?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.
"I did my research. You're discreet, intelligent, and financially struggling. You need money. I need a wife. We both win."
Serena's stomach tightened. "So you're offering to buy me."
"I'm offering you a contract. One year. I pay you half a million dollars, plus expenses. We appear married in public, but privately, we live our own lives. No intimacy is required unless mutually agreed."
She stared at the folder, her mind racing. Half a million could save the bakery, pay her sister's school fees, buy her time to rebuild. But marry a stranger?
"What if I say no?" she asked quietly.
"Then I'll leave, and you'll go back to fighting battles you're losing. I'm not threatening you, Serena. I'm just stating the facts."
He leaned forward, eyes locked on hers. "You get one week to decide. If you agree, we sign and marry the day after."
The storm outside picked up, wind rattling the glass. Somehow, it mirrored the chaos now brewing inside her.
"Why not just marry someone from your world?" she asked, voice lower now.
"Because women from my world come with expectations. You don't. That's what makes you perfect."
There was something unsettling about how calm he was, how calculated. And yet... Serena couldn't deny the part of her that wanted to grab the folder and run—not away from it, but toward the chance it offered.
He stood, buttoning his coat.
"I'll have my driver pick you up next Friday at noon if you say yes. If not, I'll assume your answer is no."
And with that, Elias Moreau turned and walked out into the storm, leaving Serena staring at the black folder that might just hold the key to her salvation—or her destruction.