The Proposal

An hour later, the mountain of bronze muscle in Suite 408 finally shifted.

Roman Bloom slowly sat up, the heavy duvet sliding down his bare, broad chest to reveal razor-sharp abs and a pristine V-line. His dark, piercing eyes—usually as cold and unreadable as arctic ice—scanned the quiet, empty room before settling on the mahogany nightstand beside the bed.

His brow furrowed slightly. He reached out, his long, broad fingers picking up the purple flamingo pen, the small stack of six hundred dollars, and the handwritten note.

He read her neat, hurried handwriting line by line. As his eyes reached the bottom, his jaw tightened slightly, and then—for the first time in nearly three years—a low, incredulous laugh escaped his deep chest.

A high-end escort?

Roman Bloom—the ruthless, shadow CEO of Bloom Enterprises, a man whose net worth could casually collapse small national economies—had just been tipped six hundred dollars for a night of absolute, unbridled passion.

He ran a hand over his jaw, feeling the light stubble there. His mind flashed back to the night before. He had been attending the private VIP charity mixer on the upper floor of the hotel when he caught sight of the commotion in the service hallway. He had intervened, snatching a drugged, feisty young woman out of the clutches of a sleazy local investor.

He had intended only to bring her up to a secured suite, order a doctor, and keep her safe until the sedative cleared her system. But the moment the door had clicked shut, her burning hazel eyes had met his. Driven by the heat of the spiked drink and her own raw defiance, she had thrown her arms around his neck, pulling his lips down to hers with a fiery desperation that had completely shattered his legendary self-control.

She hadn't known who he was. She hadn't cared about his power, his title, or his billions. She had simply consumed him, her fingernails digging into his back, her breathless moans driving him to possess her again and again until the early light of dawn.

Roman folded the six hundred dollars neatly, sliding it alongside the purple flamingo pen into the inner pocket of his trousers. A slow, dangerous, and thoroughly amused smirk touched his lips.

"A girl in a rush, huh?" he murmured to the empty room. 

By 4:30 PM, the atmosphere inside the Downtown Civil Registry Office was thick with the scent of cheap floor polish, stale coffee, and desperate administrative paperwork.

Roman sat motionless on a wooden bench near the back, his massive frame clad in a flawless, custom bespoke charcoal suit. His dark hair was styled back, his razor-sharp jawline clean-shaven, making him look every bit the lethal corporate titan he was.

His grand corporate family mandate was crystal clear: per his late grandfather's ironclad board clause, Roman was required to be legally married by his thirty-fourth birthday—which was today—in order to permanently secure his absolute majority voting rights over the Bloom Enterprise board of directors.

However, his high-society arranged bride, Lady Evelyn, had suffered a massive panic attack at the prospect of marrying the notoriously terrifying "Icy CEO" and had fled to Paris on a private jet three hours ago.

In his right ear, a microscopic wireless earpiece buzzed frantically. His personal secretary, Mark, was practically hyperventilating on the line.

"Sir! The board members are already assembling at the headquarters for the 5:00 PM confirmation vote! If you do not walk through those doors with a signed marriage certificate, your uncle will trigger the contestation clause! Should I deploy international asset recovery to fetch Lady Evelyn back from France?!"

"Cancel the search, Mark," Roman instructed coldly, leaning back against the wooden bench and crossing his long legs. "I am not chasing a cowardly socialite across Europe just to satisfy a board room full of gray-haired parasites."

"But sir! Your inheritance—"

"I'll figure something out," Roman replied smoothly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I always do."

"You look furious, ridiculously handsome, and very much stood up."

Roman froze.

Standing directly in front of his polished leather shoes was a woman in a fitted white blazer and a dark pencil skirt. Her cheeks were flushed, her breathing came in ragged gasps, and her hazel eyes were blazing with pure, chaotic fury as she clutched a thick stack of legal marriage application forms.

His sharp brain registered the details in a fraction of a millisecond.

The voice. The fiery attitude. The exact, intoxicating shade of those hazel eyes.

It was the six-hundred-dollar girl.

Juliet was staring down at him, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. She clearly had no idea who he was. In the pitch-black, shadow-drenched hotel room the night before, she had never seen his face in full, clear daylight. Nor did she connect the god who had undone her on Egyptian cotton sheets to the sharp, intimidating businessman sitting on a civil registry bench.

Her own backup date—a guy from her college design class whom she had begged to help her—had literally texted her five minutes ago to announce he was canceling, having just received a surprise $10,000 "scholarship transfer" from Karen's personal account.

Time was up. She had fifteen minutes before the clerk closed the desk, and midnight was fast approaching. She was backed into a corner, and Juliet Sparks was never more dangerous than when she was cornered.

Clicking a second bright purple flamingo pen—a twin to the one currently resting in Roman's pocket—she thrust the legal marriage contract directly into his face.

"My piece-of-trash ex-fiancé just cheated on me with my stepsister, my stepmother is actively trying to steal my late mother's design studio, and if I am not legally married in fifteen minutes, I lose everything I have ever worked for," Juliet declared in one long, unbroken breath.

She took a step closer, towering over him as best as her heels allowed. "You clearly need a bride to save face right now, and I desperate need a legal husband for twelve months. No emotional baggage, no messy feelings, strictly a business transaction to secure my assets. Are you in, or are you going to keep brooding on that bench like a tragic male model?"

Roman looked down at the paper thrust into his hands. His dark eyes caught her neat, printed name on the applicant line: Juliet Sparks.

In his earpiece, Mark was squawking so loudly Roman could practically hear the sound leaking out: "Sir?! Who is that speaking to you?! Is that a security threat?! Should I call the local police department?!"

Roman reached up, quietly muttering, "Mute," as he disabled the earpiece entirely.

He slowly stood up to his full, imposing height of six-foot-four, stepping directly into Juliet's personal space until her breath hitched and her hazel eyes went wide.

Looking down at the fiery, magnificent woman who had paid him six hundred dollars for his services only eight hours ago, CEO Roman Bloom let a slow, lethal, and devastatingly charming smirk spread across his face.

"Deal, wife."