The silence between them thickened, heavy enough to bruise.
Alex broke it first. "They want certainty."
Amber's lips curved, not in amusement but in recognition. "They always do."
He moved away from the window, the city's glow falling off him as he crossed the room. Up close, the cracks showed—tension at his temples, a fatigue that power couldn't erase. She wondered when she'd started noticing things like that.
"They're calling an emergency session," he continued. "Not a discussion. A directive."
Amber arched a brow. "And let me guess. I'm the solution."
"You're the narrative," he corrected. "They believe you already are."
She laughed quietly. "So they'll force you to lean into the lie."
Alex stopped a step away from her. "They'll force me to make it real."
The word real hit harder than the headlines.
Amber folded her arms tighter. "You don't get to turn me into a strategy."
"I don't want to," he said, and the admission came too fast to be calculated. "But they've tied funding, approvals, expansion—everything—to stability. To me."
"To a wife," she finished.
"Yes."
Her gaze sharpened. "And what happens if I say no?"
Alex held it without flinching. "Then they'll find another angle. Another woman. Another scandal. And they won't be as careful."
Amber turned away, heels clicking softly against the marble as she paced. She hated how logical it sounded. Hated even more that a part of her understood the game. She'd grown up in it. Lived under its rules.
"So this is leverage," she murmured. "Not romance. Not even convenience."
He followed her with his eyes. "I won't pretend it's anything else."
She stopped, facing him again. "At least you're honest."
"That's all I have left."
Her phone buzzed again—Camila this time. Amber ignored it. She needed to think, and thinking was hard with Alex Wilson standing too close, watching her like she was a variable he couldn't solve.
"What exactly are they asking?" she asked finally.
Alex exhaled. "A public commitment. Joint appearances. Controlled interviews. Enough consistency to quiet speculation."
"And a ring?" she pressed.
"Yes."
The word dropped between them, solid and cold.
Amber tilted her head. "You realize what you're asking."
"I do."
"You're asking me to marry you," she said, flat and unembellished. "Not because you love me. Not because you want me. But because your board demands a symbol."
Alex's jaw tightened. "I'm asking you to help me keep my company."
"And what do I get?" she asked.
The question wasn't greedy; it was precise.
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stepped closer, close enough that she could smell his cologne—subtle, restrained, unmistakably him.
"Control," he said. "Protection. A contract with terms you can enforce."
Her breath caught, just slightly. She hated that her body reacted before her mind.
"A contract," she repeated. "You think you can write rules for something like this?"
"I think rules are the only way this doesn't destroy us," he replied.
Amber searched his face, looking for arrogance, manipulation—anything familiar enough to reject. What she found instead was resolve edged with something dangerously like fear.
"Temporary," she said.
"Yes."
"Defined," she added.
"Absolutely."
"No emotions," she finished, her voice firmer than she felt.
Alex nodded once. "Agreed."
The word agreement echoed, absurd and intimate all at once.
She turned away again, pressing her palm to the cool glass. Below them, traffic crawled, lives intersecting and separating without consequence. If only it were that simple.
"You know this won't stay clean," she said quietly. "People will pry. They'll invent stories. They'll expect… proof."
Alex joined her at the window, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. "I can handle expectation."
"Can you handle me?" she asked, finally looking at him.
The corner of his mouth lifted, not quite a smile. "That's the part they can't plan for."
Her phone buzzed again. She glanced at it—Camila's name insistent now.
"They're already circling," Amber said. "If we do this, it's not just your board. It's my world too."
Alex met her gaze, steady and unyielding. "Then we negotiate terms that protect both."
She studied him for a long moment, then nodded once. "Send me the draft."
His brows knit. "You'll consider it?"
"I didn't say yes," she said. "I said I want it in writing."
A beat.
"Fair," Alex replied.
Amber grabbed her bag, moving toward the door. Her hand paused on the handle.
"One more thing," she said without turning. "If this becomes more than ink and appearances—if you cross a line—I walk."
"You'll have that right," he said.
She opened the door.
Behind her, Alex watched her go, knowing that the board thought they were tightening a leash.
What they didn't know was that leverage cut both ways.
The silence between them thickened, heavy enough to bruise.
Alex broke it first. "They want certainty."
Amber's lips curved, not in amusement but in recognition. "They always do."
He moved away from the window, the city's glow falling off him as he crossed the room. Up close, the cracks showed—tension at his temples, a fatigue that power couldn't erase. She wondered when she'd started noticing things like that.
"They're calling an emergency session," he continued. "Not a discussion. A directive."
Amber arched a brow. "And let me guess. I'm the solution."
"You're the narrative," he corrected. "They believe you already are."
She laughed quietly. "So they'll force you to lean into the lie."
Alex stopped a step away from her. "They'll force me to make it real."
The word real hit harder than the headlines.
Amber folded her arms tighter. "You don't get to turn me into a strategy."
"I don't want to," he said, and the admission came too fast to be calculated. "But they've tied funding, approvals, expansion—everything—to stability. To me."
"To a wife," she finished.
"Yes."
Her gaze sharpened. "And what happens if I say no?"
Alex held it without flinching. "Then they'll find another angle. Another woman. Another scandal. And they won't be as careful."
Amber turned away, heels clicking softly against the marble as she paced. She hated how logical it sounded. Hated even more that a part of her understood the game. She'd grown up in it. Lived under its rules.
"So this is leverage," she murmured. "Not romance. Not even convenience."
He followed her with his eyes. "I won't pretend it's anything else."
She stopped, facing him again. "At least you're honest."
"That's all I have left."
Her phone buzzed again—Camila this time. Amber ignored it. She needed to think, and thinking was hard with Alex Wilson standing too close, watching her like she was a variable he couldn't solve.
"What exactly are they asking?" she asked finally.
Alex exhaled. "A public commitment. Joint appearances. Controlled interviews. Enough consistency to quiet speculation."
"And a ring?" she pressed.
"Yes."
The word dropped between them, solid and cold.
Amber tilted her head. "You realize what you're asking."
"I do."
"You're asking me to marry you," she said, flat and unembellished. "Not because you love me. Not because you want me. But because your board demands a symbol."
Alex's jaw tightened. "I'm asking you to help me keep my company."
"And what do I get?" she asked.
The question wasn't greedy; it was precise.
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stepped closer, close enough that she could smell his cologne—subtle, restrained, unmistakably him.
"Control," he said. "Protection. A contract with terms you can enforce."
Her breath caught, just slightly. She hated that her body reacted before her mind.
"A contract," she repeated. "You think you can write rules for something like this?"
"I think rules are the only way this doesn't destroy us," he replied.
Amber searched his face, looking for arrogance, manipulation—anything familiar enough to reject. What she found instead was resolve edged with something dangerously like fear.
"Temporary," she said.
"Yes."
"Defined," she added.
"Absolutely."
"No emotions," she finished, her voice firmer than she felt.
Alex nodded once. "Agreed."
The word agreement echoed, absurd and intimate all at once.
She turned away again, pressing her palm to the cool glass. Below them, traffic crawled, lives intersecting and separating without consequence. If only it were that simple.
"You know this won't stay clean," she said quietly. "People will pry. They'll invent stories. They'll expect… proof."
Alex joined her at the window, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. "I can handle expectation."
"Can you handle me?" she asked, finally looking at him.
The corner of his mouth lifted, not quite a smile. "That's the part they can't plan for."
Her phone buzzed again. She glanced at it—Camila's name insistent now.
"They're already circling," Amber said. "If we do this, it's not just your board. It's my world too."
Alex met her gaze, steady and unyielding. "Then we negotiate terms that protect both."
She studied him for a long moment, then nodded once. "Send me the draft."
His brows knit. "You'll consider it?"
"I didn't say yes," she said. "I said I want it in writing."
A beat.
"Fair," Alex replied.
Amber grabbed her bag, moving toward the door. Her hand paused on the handle.
"One more thing," she said without turning. "If this becomes more than ink and appearances—if you cross a line—I walk."
"You'll have that right," he said.
She opened the door.
Behind her, Alex watched her go, knowing that the board thought they were tightening a leash.
What they didn't know was that leverage cut both ways.