Dad wouldn't look at me.
He sat behind his desk, hands folded like a man in confession. The afternoon light cut through the blinds, striping his face in pale gold and shadow. He had that look — the one I'd seen before bad news, the one that always started with, "Now, Em, hear me out—"
I didn't want to hear him out.
"Tell me you're joking," I said, my voice sharper than I intended.
"It's not ideal," he muttered, eyes on the paperwork in front of him. His thumb rubbed over the edge of the page until it frayed. "But it's… a solution."
My laugh came out brittle. "A solution to what? Selling the house? Selling—"
I stopped.
"Emily…" His sigh was a surrender. "It's Adrian Blackwell."
The name hit like ice water.
The Blackwells were the reason Carter & Son was circling the drain. And Adrian… Adrian was the smug, perfect-haired heir who'd smiled at me once at a charity gala like he already owned the ground I stood on.
"Don't," I warned, my heartbeat loud in my ears.
Dad winced. "He's agreed to take on the debt. All of it."
"In exchange for what? My soul?"
A sound behind me — a slow, deliberate rhythm of leather soles on marble. I turned.
He didn't knock. Of course he didn't. Adrian Blackwell didn't ask permission.
The first thing I noticed was the suit — dark navy, cut within an inch of its life. The second was his eyes, that impossible storm-gray. The third was the faint trace of sandalwood and something colder.
"Emily," he said, as if the word belonged to him. "I see your father's filled you in."
I crossed my arms. "You think I'm going to marry you?"
He gave a small, almost bored shrug. "Not think. Know." His gaze swept over me, not lecherous, just… measuring. Like I was another investment. "One year. We make it convincing, the debt disappears. When the year's done, you can go back to hating me. Until then, we play our parts."
I took a step forward. "And if I refuse?"
His smile was lazy, but there was steel in it. "Then I buy your father's company for pennies and strip it to the studs."
Silence.
I could hear the faint hum of the old air conditioner, smell the coffee gone cold on Dad's desk.
I should have told him to go to hell. I should have walked out.
Instead, I heard myself say, "When do we start?"
Adrian stepped close enough that I caught the warmth of his br
eath.
"Tomorrow," he murmured. "Wear white."