DAISY'S POV
The coffee pot slips from my hand when I see him walk through the door.
I catch it before it hits the floor—barely—and my heart hammers against my ribs as I straighten up, setting the pot back on the burner with shaking hands. The other waitress, Maria, gives me a curious look from across the counter, but I don't meet her eyes.
I can't. Because he's here.
Not my uncle. Not today. Please, not today.
But when I finally force myself to look up, it's not Uncle Raymond's cruel face staring back at me. It's someone else entirely.
A stranger.
He's tall, maybe six-foot-three, wearing a charcoal suit that probably costs more than I make in three months. His dark hair is styled back from his face, and even from across the diner, I can see the sharp line of his jaw, the cold assessment in his brown eyes as he surveys the room like he's calculating its worth down to the last scratched table.
He doesn't belong here. Men like him don't come to Jerry's Diner on the south side of the city unless they're lost or slumming it for some reason I can't begin to guess.
"Table for one?" Maria calls out, already grabbing a menu.
The man's gaze slides past her and lands directly on me.
My breath catches.
I don't know why. I don't know him. I've never seen him before in my life. But something about the way he looks at me—like he's been searching for something and just found it—makes my stomach twist with unease.
"Actually," he says, his voice smooth and controlled, "I'm here to see her."
He nods in my direction.
Maria's eyebrows shoot up. "Daisy?"
I want to disappear. I want to melt into the cracked linoleum floor and never surface again. Instead, I grip the edge of the counter and force myself to stay upright.
"I don't know you," I say quietly.
"Not yet." He crosses the room in a few long strides, stopping just on the other side of the counter. Up close, he's even more intimidating. Not because he's physically threatening—though he could be if he wanted—but because everything about him screams power. Control. Money. The kind of person who gets what he wants without ever having to raise his voice.
"My name is Sebastian Kindre," he says. "And I have a proposition for you."
I blink. "A what?"
"A business arrangement." His eyes flick briefly to Maria, who's openly eavesdropping now, and then back to me. "Is there somewhere we can talk privately?"
"I'm working," I manage.
"I'll pay for your time."
"I don't—"
"Ten thousand dollars."
The number hangs in the air between us like something physical. I stare at him, convinced I've misheard.
"Ten thousand," I repeat slowly, "to talk?"
"To listen," he corrects. "And if you agree to what I'm proposing, significantly more."
This is a scam. It has to be. Men like him don't offer girls like me ten thousand dollars for anything good. I should tell him to leave. I should turn around and walk into the back room and pretend this never happened.
But ten thousand dollars.
That's two months' rent. That's enough to fix the broken lock on my apartment door. That's enough to replace the winter coat I've been wearing for four years, the one with the busted zipper that barely keeps me warm anymore.
"I get off in an hour," I hear myself say.
Sebastian checks his watch—something sleek and silver that probably costs more than my entire life. "I'll wait."
And he does.
He takes a seat in the corner booth, orders black coffee that he barely touches, and watches me work for the next sixty minutes. I can feel his eyes on me the whole time. It makes my hands shake when I pour refills. It makes me drop a fork. It makes the hour stretch out like something endless and suffocating.
When my shift finally ends, I untie my apron with numb fingers and walk over to his table.
"Okay," I say. "I'm listening."
Sebastian doesn't speak until we're outside.
He leads me to a car parked half a block down—a black sedan that looks like it belongs in a movie—and opens the passenger door for me. I hesitate.
"I'm not getting in your car," I say.
"Then we'll talk out here." He closes the door and leans against the vehicle, arms crossed. "Though I imagine you'd prefer this conversation to remain private."
He's not wrong. Jerry's Diner is the kind of place where gossip spreads faster than grease fires, and I don't need Maria or anyone else knowing my business. I glance around. The street is busy enough—people walking past, cars driving by—that I'm probably not in immediate danger.
Probably.
"Fine," I say. "Talk."
Sebastian studies me for a long moment, and I force myself not to look away. I've spent years perfecting the art of making myself invisible, but something about him makes that impossible.
"I need a wife," he says finally.
I laugh. I can't help it. The sound bursts out of me, sharp and disbelieving. "You need a what?"
"A wife. Temporarily." His expression doesn't change. He's serious. "Six months. Purely a business arrangement. You'd live in my home, attend certain events with me, and play the role of my spouse. In return, you'd be compensated generously."
I stare at him. "This is insane."
"It's practical."
"You're asking me to fake-marry you."
"I'm offering you three hundred thousand dollars to fulfill a contractual obligation," he corrects. "Half up front. The other half when the arrangement ends."
Three hundred thousand.
The number doesn't even feel real. I've never had more than eight hundred dollars in my bank account at one time in my entire life, and that was only because I worked seventy hours one week when Jerry needed extra help.
"Why me?" I ask.
"Because you're the right fit."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting right now." He straightens, pulling something from his jacket pocket—a business card. He holds it out to me. "Think about it. You have twenty-four hours to decide. If you're interested, call that number."
I take the card without meaning to. It's heavy cardstock, expensive. Just his name and a phone number printed in simple black text.
"And if I'm not interested?"
"Then you go back to your life, and I'll find someone else."
He says it like it's that simple. Like I can just walk away from three hundred thousand dollars and pretend this conversation never happened.
"What if I tell someone?" I ask. "What if I go to the press or—"
"You won't."
His certainty bothers me more than a threat would. It's not arrogance. It's just fact. He knows I won't say anything because he knows I have no one to tell. No friends. No family who'd care. Just me, alone, trying to survive in a city that eats people like me alive.
"Twenty-four hours," he says again. Then he gets into his car and drives away, leaving me standing on the sidewalk with his card clutched in my hand.
I should throw it away.
I should forget this ever happened.
But when I get home that night—to my tiny studio with the broken lock and the radiator that only works half the time—I set the card on my rickety kitchen table and stare at it until my eyes blur.
Three hundred thousand dollars.
A way out.
Or a trap I'll never escape.