Elena walked into Julian's office at 7:30 PM. The cleaning crew had long since gone, and the floor was bathed in the harsh, blue-white light of the city grid. Julian was standing by the window, hands in his pockets, looking out at the glittering landscape of his empire.
"You asked for me, Mr. Thorne?"
"Yes." He didn't turn around immediately. "You are aware of the situation with the Centurion Building."
"I am aware the Miller family favors Creststone Holdings due to their CEO's highly publicized image of stability and his forthcoming marriage to a charitable foundation director," Elena recited instantly. "I have already researched their Board members' personal preferences—they are traditionalists, heavy church donors, and value philanthropic work over quarterly returns."
Julian finally turned. The look in his eyes wasn't the usual cold efficiency; it was predatory, calculating, and utterly desperate.
"The Board has given me 90 days," he said. "Ninety days to close the deal, or they will force a no-confidence vote. I will lose the company my father built, the company I rebuilt, all because I lack the 'soft variables' necessary to placate a handful of old-money trustees."
He walked toward his desk and rested his hand on the polished surface, looking her straight in the eye.
"I need a wife."
Elena blinked, a rare professional stumble. "Sir, I... I don't believe that's an administrative matter I can address."
"I don't mean a wife. I mean a narrative." Julian clarified, cutting through her confusion. "I need a dedicated, public-facing fiancée. Someone who can manage my public schedule, interface with the charity circuit, and exude the exact kind of warmth and stability the Miller family is looking for. Someone who is already fully vetted, entirely trustworthy, and utterly professional."
He paused, letting the statement hang in the air. "I need you, Elena."
She stared at him, speechless. The air in the room felt suddenly thick, suffocating. "Mr. Thorne, you are proposing a fake engagement?"
"I am proposing a strategic partnership," he corrected. "A three-month contract, from today until the day the Centurion deal closes, or until the end of the 90-day window. You become Julian Thorne's fiancée. You move into the penthouse. You handle the Millers and the press. You run the stability operation."
"And what do I get in return, besides three months of being a public spectacle?" she asked, crossing her arms, her composure slowly returning. She had to remain professional, even when the proposal was insane.
Julian walked over to a secure cabinet and pulled out a binder. He placed it on the desk.
"This is not a salary. This is a buyout of your future, Elena. Inside is a detailed ledger. First, full payment of all outstanding medical expenses for your mother, past and future, in perpetuity, transferred today. Second, a trust fund for your mother's living expenses, secured. Third," he tapped the folder, "a seven-figure liquid deposit, sufficient to purchase and renovate a gallery space in the West Village, with operating capital for the first two years."
Elena's throat went dry. The figure was astronomical. It was everything she had fought for, multiplied tenfold, handed to her on a silver platter. It wasn't just a buyout; it was an unconditional surrender to her dream.
"You're trying to buy my resignation back with interest," she whispered.
"I'm trying to buy my company back with your expertise," he countered, his voice steady. "It is a purely professional transaction. You receive guaranteed, total financial freedom. I receive the Centurion Building and the company's survival."
She looked down at the binder. The image of her small, windowless apartment, her canvas stuffed in the closet, and the persistent, low-level anxiety about her mother's next bill flashed through her mind. This single document would wipe it all away.
"What if the Board finds out it's fake?"
"Then the deal is void, and I lose everything. But you keep the money, Elena. It's an advance for services rendered, non-refundable." He waited, his eyes unreadable. "Well? Do you want to be free tomorrow, or in two weeks?"
The choice was impossible. It required a compromise of her personal integrity—acting a lie in the most public way possible. But the alternative was two more weeks of grinding servitude, followed by a long, painful uphill battle to achieve a fraction of this financial security.
She inhaled sharply, pulling the CEO's glare to her.
"I accept the terms, Mr. Thorne," she said, her voice firm. "But let me be explicitly clear. This is a transaction, as you say. A performance. When the 90 days are up, or when the contract is signed, I walk away. I will take the money, and I will be gone. You will not have any claim on me, my time, or my life, ever again."
A flicker of something—relief? satisfaction?—crossed Julian's eyes. "Agreed. The performance starts now. Welcome to the Glass Tower, Ms. Rosetti. Or should I say, fiancée."