CHAPTER 4: BUSINESS COMPLICATIONS

“Want to tell me what that was about?” Mr. Thomas asked as the Mercedes pulled away from the estate gates, gravel crunching under the tires.

I stared out the tinted window at the fading lights of the mansion. “My family is trying to marry me off to Jake Morrison. Aunt Melissa’s already planting rumors tonight so she can announce our ‘courtship’ at Grandpa’s birthday next month. Public toast, two hundred witnesses, family pressure—they think I’ll be too proud to deny it in front of everyone and ruin the celebration.”

Mr. Thomas’s hands tightened on the wheel for a fraction of a second before relaxing again. “And your response is to go to Brooklyn? Right now?”

“My response is to find a solution that doesn’t involve their rules.” I opened the tablet, pulling up the manufacturing branch files. “They want to choose my husband? Fine. I’ll choose one first. On my terms.”

“You’re going to propose to someone you haven’t met.”

“Not propose. Offer a contract.” The plan crystallized as the city lights began to thin into industrial sprawl. “A business arrangement. Mutually beneficial. Completely controlled.”

“Sophia—”

“Think about it, Thomas. I need someone presentable to shut down Aunt Melissa’s schemes. Someone who won’t interfere with my life or my business. Someone who understands this is a transaction, not romance.” I met his eyes in the rearview mirror. “Someone I can control through clear, legal obligations.”

“You want to buy a husband.”

“Hire one. There’s a difference.” My voice stayed even, though my pulse hadn’t quite settled from the confrontation in the study. “I’ve spent twenty years watching my family try to control me through guilt, expectation, emotional blackmail. A contract is honest. Transparent. No hidden agendas. No secret betrayals. Just terms, conditions, mutual benefit.”

He sighed—the long, familiar sound of a man who’d watched me build walls brick by brick. “And you think you’ll find this person at a manufacturing facility in Brooklyn?”

“I think I’ll find answers about why that branch is failing. The husband part is… a bonus. If the right person presents themselves.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Then I handle Aunt Melissa’s announcement some other way next month.” I returned to scrolling reports. “Right now, I need to focus on something I can actually control. Like why this division is suddenly hemorrhaging data and morale.”

We drove in near-silence after that, the classical station playing softly—Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, slow and haunting. The city gave way to warehouses, chain-link fences, sodium streetlights casting long orange shadows. Brooklyn’s industrial edge felt raw compared to Manhattan’s polished gleam, but I’d bought this facility five years ago precisely because of its bones: solid structure, good location, untapped potential.

Mrs. Kane had turned it into one of my most profitable divisions. Five flawless years.

Until three weeks ago.

“Tell me again what her son said when he called HR.”

“Just that his mother’s been ill and he’s been helping with the reports. Apologized for the delays, promised everything caught up within twenty-four hours.” Mr. Thomas glanced at me. “He sounded stressed. Worried. Not incompetent.”

Not incompetent. Overwhelmed. Protecting someone he loved.

I pulled up Elizabeth Kane’s personnel file again. Fifty-five. Started as floor supervisor twenty years ago, climbed steadily through competence alone. Never married. Two children: David, thirty-two, and Emma, seventeen. Performance reviews that read like recommendations for sainthood. No disciplinary notes. No complaints.

Perfect record until it wasn’t.

“She has cancer,” I said quietly, pieces locking together. “That’s why she didn’t report it. She was afraid we’d see her as a liability. Afraid she’d lose her job when her family needed the income most.”

“You don’t know that for certain—”

“Yes, I do. I’ve seen it too many times. People get sick, terrified to take medical leave because they’ve watched others get quietly phased out. They work themselves into the ground proving they’re still valuable, and everything spirals worse.” My jaw tightened. “This is my failure. I let the culture become one where loyalty is punished by fear.”

“You’re not responsible for every employee’s personal crisis—”

“I’m responsible for creating—or failing to prevent—a system where a woman with a spotless record feels she has to hide a life-threatening illness.” I closed the tablet with more force than necessary. “That ends tonight.”

We pulled into the facility lot at 7:47 p.m. Most windows were dark—day shift had ended at seven—but lights still burned on the second floor, office level. Someone was working late, trying to clean up the mess while their world fell apart.

“Want me to come in?” Mr. Thomas asked.

“No. Stay here. I’ll handle this.” I gathered my briefcase. “If I’m not back in an hour, call the police. This neighborhood gets rough after dark.”

“You’re the scariest thing in this neighborhood,” he muttered. “Be careful anyway.”

The security guard—Marcus—nearly jumped out of his chair when I walked through the main entrance.

“Ms. Ashford! I wasn’t—we weren’t notified—”

“It’s fine, Marcus. Unannounced visit. Just checking something in the manager’s office.” I gave him the reassuring smile I reserved for employees who hadn’t done anything wrong. “Carry on.”

He nodded frantically, already reaching for his radio. Let them panic a little. It reminded everyone that I paid attention.

The manufacturing floor stretched out in quiet darkness—emergency lights only, long shadows across rows of well-maintained machines. No hum of production, no chatter of workers. Just the faint metallic scent of oil and steel, and the distant drip of a faucet someone hadn’t fully turned off.

Whatever problems this branch had, it wasn’t quality or maintenance. The equipment gleamed; the floor was clean. The issue was human.

I climbed the metal staircase to the second floor, heels echoing in the empty space. Light spilled from under the manager’s office door. Through the frosted glass, I could see someone moving—broad shoulders, purposeful strides.

I raised my hand to knock, then paused.

What exactly was I planning to say? *Hello, I’m the billionaire owner, and while I’m here to fix your mother’s crisis, I’d also like to hire you as my fake husband to spite my family?*

Sophie’s voice echoed in my head: *You’re insane.*

Maybe I was.

But hesitation had never saved me. Only action had.

I knocked.

“Come in,” a deep, masculine voice called—distracted, slightly rough around the edges.

I opened the door and stepped into controlled chaos.

Coffee cups covered every surface. Papers layered the desk in uneven stacks. Three monitors glowed with spreadsheets and production graphs. A half-eaten sandwich sat abandoned on a filing cabinet.

And in the middle of it stood a man who made every rehearsed word evaporate from my mind.

Six-foot-three. Dark hair falling slightly across his forehead. Broad shoulders filling out a plain black t-shirt in a way that looked effortless and devastating. Strong hands—builder’s hands, callused, capable.

Then he turned.

Ice-blue eyes met mine. Sharp. Intelligent. Assessing me in one sweep: expensive suit, diamonds, the fact that I clearly didn’t belong in this fluorescent-lit office at nearly eight o’clock on a weeknight.

His face was all hard angles—strong jaw, high cheekbones, a faint scar above his left eyebrow that only made him more striking. Not pretty-boy polished like Jake Morrison. Something rougher. More real. More dangerous to my composure.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

For the first time in twenty years, Sophia Ashford found herself completely speechless.