I told myself I wasn't going.
I told myself that all afternoon, through the shower , through the toast Mira forced me to eat, through the four hours of restless sleep I managed on our lumpy couch.
I wasn't going.
I wasn't going to walk back into that man's penthouse like some desperate fool. I wasn't going to listen to whatever insane "proposition" he had in mind. I wasn't going to let him dangle money in front of me like I was some starving dog waiting for scraps.
I had pride.
I had dignity.
I had—
$47.63 in my bank account, a maxed-out credit card, and a landlord who'd already warned me that he wasn't accepting late rent this month.
By 6:15 PM, I was standing in front of my closet, trying to figure out what you wore to a mysterious meeting with your former boss who may or may not be trying to buy you.
"You're going," Mira said from the doorway. It wasn't a question.
"I'm just... exploring my options."
"You're going to see the man who fired you, humiliated you, and made you cry. The man you're in love with."
"I'm not in love with him."
"Elena."
"I'm not." I pulled out a black blouse, stared at it, put it back. "I have a stupid crush. That's all.
"And yet you're going."
"Because I need the money!" I spun around to face her. "I'm broke, Mira. Completely, utterly broke. If he's offering me a way out of this mess—even if it's insane, even if it's suspicious—I have to at least hear him out."
Mira was quiet for a moment. Then she walked over to my closet and pulled out a deep burgundy dress I'd forgotten I owned. Something I'd bought for a job interview two years ago and never worn again.
"Wear this," she said. "If you're walking into the lion's den, you might as well look like you could eat him alive."
I took the dress. "You're not going to try to stop me?"
"Would it work?"
"Probably not."
"Then no." She squeezed my shoulder. "Just... be careful, okay? Men like Damien Russo don't offer things for free. There's always a price."
I knew that. I knew it in my bones.
The question was whether I could afford to pay it.
I arrived at Russo Tower at exactly 7:00 PM.
The doorman didn't even blink this time. Just nodded and waved me through like I belonged here. Like I hadn't stumbled out this same lobby twelve hours ago looking like a crime scene.
The elevator ride felt longer than it had last night. Or maybe that was just the anticipation—the sick, twisting feeling in my stomach that could have been nerves or nausea or something else entirely.
The doors opened.
The penthouse was different at night. Softer, somehow. The city lights glittered through the windows like scattered diamonds, and the interior was bathed in warm, low light that made everything feel intimate.
Damien was waiting for me.
He stood by the windows, his back to the elevator, a glass of something amber in his hand. He'd changed since this morning—dark slacks, a charcoal sweater that looked impossibly soft, no tie . It was the most casual I'd ever seen him.
It made him look almost human.
Almost.
"You came," he said without turning around.
"You knew I would."
"I suspected." He turned then, and his eyes swept over me—the burgundy dress, the heels I'd borrowed from Mira, the makeup I'd actually bothered to apply. Something shifted in his expression. There and gone before I could name it. "You look better than this morning."
"That's a low bar."
"It is." He gestured to the living room. "Sit. Would you like a drink?"
"No." I needed my head clear for whatever was about to happen. "I want to know what this is about. This... proposition."
"Straight to business." He moved toward the seating area, and I followed, keeping distance between us. "I appreciate that about you, Elena. You never waste time."
"You taught me that."
"I taught you many things." He sat in the same armchair"Though I'm not sure you learned the right lessons."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you're still here. After everything I did. After the way I treated you." His head tilted slightly, studying me.
"Touché."
Silence stretched between us. I could hear the faint hum of the city below, the distant sound of traffic that never stopped in Manhattan. My heart was beating too fast. My palms were sweating.
"The proposition," I said. "Tell me."
Damien set his glass on the side table. Leaned back in his chair. And looked at me with an expression I couldn't read.
"Are you familiar with Victoria Ashford?"
The name hit me like a slap. The woman from last night. The one on her knees, with her perfect hair and her designer lingerie and her lips wrapped around—
"I'm aware of her," I said tightly.
"Her family has connections to half the elite families in New York. They've been trying to merge with Russo Industries for years—through business and, more recently, through marriage."
"How romantic."
"It's not about romance. It's about power." He said it like he was explaining something obvious to a child. "The Ashfords want access to my company. My resources. My name. Victoria has been... persistent in her pursuit."
"She seemed very persistent last night."
Something flickered in his eyes. Amusement? Annoyance? "That was a mistake."
"For her or for you?"
"Both." He picked up his glass again, took a slow sip. "Three weeks ago, I was at a charity gala. A drink was put in my hand. I didn't think anything of it—I knew everyone there, or thought I did. Two hours later, I woke up in a hotel room with no memory of how I got there."
I went still.
"My clothes were disheveled. There were photographs—compromising ones. And there was a woman in my bed who claimed we'd spent the night together."
"Victoria?"
"No. Someone else. A nobody, hired for the purpose." His jaw tightened. "The photos were sent to me the next morning with a simple message: marry Victoria Ashford, or they go public."
I stared at him, trying to process what he was telling me. "You were... drugged?"
"Yes."
"And blackmailed."
"Yes."
"By Victoria's family?"
"I can't prove it. Not yet. But yes, I believe so."
My mind was racing. This was insane. This was something out of a movie, not real life. People didn't actually do things like this—drug billionaires, manufacture scandals, force marriages through extortion.
Except, apparently, they did.
"Why are you telling me this?" I asked.
"Because two days ago, the photographs were leaked." His voice was flat. Controlled. But I could see the tension in his shoulders, the tightness around his eyes. "Not to the press—not yet. But to certain people. Business associates. Investors. Board members. The damage is already being done."
"I don't understand. If you were drugged, can't you just... explain that?"
"To whom? The public?" He laughed"No one wants to hear that a man was victimized. No one believes it. And even if they did, the photos exist. The story is already written. I'm the villain either way."
I wanted to argue, but I knew he was right. The world didn't work the way it should. Justice didn't exist for people like him—or people like me.
"So what's your plan?" I asked.
"I need to change the narrative." He set down his glass and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his eyes locked on mine. "The story they want to tell is that I'm a predator. A playboy. A man who can't be trusted. The only way to counter that is to become something else entirely."
"Something like what?"
"A husband."
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't do anything but stare at him like he'd just sprouted a second head.
"Excuse me?"
"I need a wife, Elena. Someone to stand beside me. Someone to prove that I'm stable, committed, trustworthy. Someone who isn't connected to the Ashfords or anyone else who might be working against me."
"And you want..." I couldn't even finish the sentence.
"You."
The word was simple.
"You're insane."
"Possibly."
"I can't—we can't—this is—" I stood up, suddenly unable to sit still. My legs were shaking. My whole body was shaking. "You fired me two days ago! You humiliated me in front of your entire executive team! And now you want me to marry you?"
"It wouldn't be a real marriage."
"What does that even mean?"
"It means exactly what it sounds like." He stood too, and suddenly the room felt too small. He was Too tall. Too everything. "On paper, we're married. In public, we're devoted to each other. In private, it's a business arrangement. Nothing more."
"Nothing more," I repeated.
"Separate bedrooms. Separate lives, for the most part. You attend events with me, play the role of the loving wife, and in exchange—"
"In exchange for what?"
"Your debts are paid. All of them. The student loans, the credit cards, whatever else you owe." He took a step closer, and I took one back. "You receive a salary—generous, since you'll essentially be working for me again. You live here, in the penthouse. All expenses covered."
"For how long?"
"Two years. After that, we divorce quietly, you receive a settlement, and you walk away with enough money to start over anywhere you want."
Two years.
Two years of pretending to be married to Damien Russo. Two years of living in his penthouse, wearing his ring, playing the part of someone who loved him.
The thought made something hot twist in my stomach.
"Why me?" I asked, and my voice came out smaller than I wanted it to.
"Because you're perfect."
"I'm not—"
"You're unknown." He moved closer again, and this time I didn't retreat. Couldn't. My back was almost against the window. "No one knows who you are. You have no connections to my world, no history with anyone who might dig into your background. You're a blank slate."
"That's not flattering."
"It's not meant to be. It's practical." Another step. He was right in front of me now, close enough that I could see the individual threads of his sweater "But there are other reasons."
"Like what?"
"You lasted longer than any assistant I've ever had." His voice was lower now. Softer. Almost intimate. "You didn't crumble under pressure. You didn't try to seduce me or manipulate me or play games. You just... worked. Quietly. Efficiently. Without complaint."
"I complained constantly."
"In your head, perhaps. But never out loud. Not until the end. "You're strong, Elena. Stronger than you know. And I need someone strong beside me for what's coming."
I was finding it hard to breathe. No way he was complimenting me. His cologne was wrapping around me.I could feel the heat of his body even though we weren't touching.
"This is insane," I whispered.
"Yes."
"You're asking me to give up two years of my life."
"I'm asking you to spend two years living in luxury, free of debt, with a guaranteed future at the end of it."
"I'd have to lie. To everyone. Mira, the public, everyone."
"Yes."
"I'd have to—" I swallowed hard. "I'd have to touch you. In public. Pretend to be... intimate."
Something dark crossed his face. Something that made my pulse stutter.
"Would that be so difficult?"
The question hung in the air between us.
I thought about all the times I'd fantasized about touching him. All the nights I'd lain awake thinking about his hands, his mouth, his body pressed against mine. All the shameful, secret desires I'd buried so deep I'd almost convinced myself they didn't exist.
Would it be difficult?
No.
That was the problem.
"I need time," I said. "To think about this."
"You have until tomorrow morning."
"That's not enough time."
"It's all you're getting." He stepped back, and I could suddenly breathe again. "The scandal is moving fast. Every day I wait is another day the narrative solidifies against me. I need an answer, Elena. Yes or no."
"And if I say no?"
"Then you walk out that door and we never see each other again." His expression was unreadable. "You go back to your life—whatever's left of it. And I find someone else."
The thought of someone else standing beside him, wearing his ring, pretending to love him—
It shouldn't bother me. It shouldn't make something ugly curl in my chest.
But it did.
"I'll think about it," I said.
"You do that."
He walked past me toward the bar, and I stayed where I was, staring out at the city lights, trying to remember how to think.
This was insane.
This was the worst idea I'd ever heard.
This was—
"Elena."
I turned. He was pouring himself another drink, his back to me.
"For what it's worth," he said, "I am sorry. About what happened at the office. The way I spoke to you. The things I said."
I waited for more. An explanation. A reason.
It didn't come.
"Is that supposed to make this easier?" I asked.
"No.It's just the truth."
I didn't know what to say to that. So I didn't say anything.
I just walked to the elevator, pressed the button, and left.
My mind was a hurricane, thoughts spinning too fast to grab onto. Marriage. Contract. Two years. Money. Him.
Him
He knew.
He had to know. About my crush, my attraction, the effect he had on me. He'd probably known all along—six weeks of watching me stumble over my words when he got too close, watching my breath catch when his hand brushed mine.
He was using it. Using me.
And the worst part?
I was considering saying yes.
When I got home, Mira was waiting on the couch, a pint of ice cream in her lap and a determined expression on her face.
"Well?" she demanded as soon as I walked in.
I sat down next to her. Stole her spoon. Ate a bite of ice cream.
"He wants to marry me," I said.
Mira choked on nothing. "He WHAT?"
"Not for real. A contract thing. To fix some scandal." I took another bite, barely tasting it. "Two years. He pays off all my debt. I get a salary, a settlement at the end, everything I need."
"Elena..."
"I know it's crazy."
"It's beyond crazy. It's—" She grabbed my shoulders, forcing me to look at her.
"It's not real."
"Does that matter?"
I didn't know. I didn't know anything anymore.
"What would you do?" I asked. "If you were me. If you had nothing—no money, no job, no future. And someone offered you a way out."
Mira was quiet for a long moment. Then she sighed, pulling me into a hug.
"I don't know," she admitted. "But I know this—whatever you decide, I'm with you. Okay? You're not alone. You never have to be alone."
I hugged her back, breathing in the familiar scent of her shampoo, the warmth of her arms around me.
She was wrong, of course. I'd been alone my whole life. Since I was eight years old and the fire took everything.
But it was nice to pretend otherwise.
We sat in silence for a while, passing the ice cream back and forth.
Finally, Mira said, "What are you going to do?"
"I don't know," I said.
But I think we both knew I was lying.