CHAPTER 5: THE GREEK GOD

I forced air into my lungs. Forced composure back into place.

“I’m Sophia Ashford. I own this company.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly. Surprise flickered, then vanished behind calm control. He glanced down at his jeans and t-shirt, then back at me—expensive suit, heels, diamonds—and a faint flush touched his neck.

“Ms. Ashford.” He wiped his hands on a rag before extending one. “I wasn’t expecting—I would have dressed more appropriately.”

“Unannounced visit.” I shook his hand briefly. The contact was warm, firm, callused in a way that sent an unexpected spark up my arm. “I came about the delayed reports. And why one of my best branches has gone silent for three weeks.”

Wariness replaced the surprise. He released my hand but didn’t step back.

“I’m David Kane. Elizabeth Kane’s son. I’ve been handling reports while she’s… dealing with health issues.”

Health issues. Careful. Protective.

“What kind?”

“Personal ones.” His jaw set stubbornly. “She didn’t want special treatment. She’s been managing from home.”

“By working herself sick trying to keep up?” The words came out sharper than intended. “That’s not managing. That’s slowly destroying herself because she’s terrified of losing her job.”

His eyes flashed—defensive, tired, fiercely loyal. “You don’t know—”

“Don’t I?” I stepped closer, briefcase still in hand like a shield. “I know your mother has a flawless five-year record. I know she turned this branch into one of my most profitable divisions. I know she’s been hiding a serious illness because she’s seen people quietly pushed out after medical leave.”

He stared at me, surprise warring with something like hope. “You figured that out from three weeks of delays?”

“From twenty years of watching people destroy themselves in systems that don’t care enough to notice.” I set my briefcase on the edge of the desk. “Your mother has cancer, doesn’t she?”

He could deny it. Lie. Protect her privacy.

But exhaustion won.

“Early-stage breast cancer,” he said quietly. “Highly treatable. But the chemo is brutal. She’s exhausted, can barely focus.” His hands clenched at his sides. “But she keeps trying because she loves this job and she’s terrified we’ll lose everything if she stops.”

“She won’t be replaced.” The certainty in my voice made him look up sharply. “I’ll have HR formalize medical leave with full pay and benefits. When she’s recovered, her position will be waiting.”

“Just like that?” Skepticism colored his tone, but there was a crack in the armor now.

“I’ll email my head of HR right now, cc’ing you.” I pulled out my phone, fingers flying across the screen. “You’ll have written confirmation within twenty-four hours.”

His phone buzzed on the desk. He read the message, eyes scanning quickly. Something in his shoulders eased—not completely, but enough.

“Thank you,” he said, voice rough. “She’ll be relieved.”

“She shouldn’t have to be.” I looked around at the chaos. “How long have you been doing this?”

“Three weeks. Since treatment started.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I work my regular job during the day, then come here at night. It’s not ideal—”

“It’s unsustainable,” I interrupted. “You’re burning out.”

“What choice do I have? My sister Emma is seventeen, still in school. I’m the only one—”

“Let me hire temporary coverage.” I pulled up HR contacts again. “Your mother keeps her position, salary, benefits. We bring in someone to handle operations. You go back to your actual job.”

He stared like I’d spoken in a foreign language. “You’d just… hire someone?”

“It’s called proper management. Taking care of employees so they can recover.” I met his gaze directly. “Your mother has earned that care ten times over.”

Respect flickered in those ice-blue eyes, joining the wariness. Not trust—not yet—but something close.

“Why are you here?” he asked. “Really. You could have handled this with an email.”

“Because delayed reports mean either incompetence or crisis,” I said, which was true even if incomplete. “And your mother’s record indicated it couldn’t be incompetence.”

“You came to fire her.” Not a question.

“I came to fix the problem.” I held his gaze. “There’s a difference.”

He studied me for a long moment—those penetrating eyes seeing more than I wanted exposed.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said finally.

“What did you expect?”

“Someone colder. More corporate.” A small, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Someone who wouldn’t show up in Brooklyn on a weeknight in a suit that costs more than my truck.”

“This suit cost more than most people’s cars.” I returned the ghost of a smile. “And I was at a family event earlier.”

“Must have been some event, to leave early and come here.”

“Family gatherings are overrated. Especially mine.” I glanced at the monitors. “The reports—are they ready?”

“Finished an hour ago. Just reviewing before sending.” He moved to the computer, pulling up the files. “Three weeks of production data, financial summaries, employee metrics.”

“Show me.”

I came around the desk, acutely aware of how close we stood—close enough to catch the clean, masculine scent of his cologne mixed with faint traces of coffee and printer ink.

Focus, Sophia.

But as he walked me through the numbers—voice low, steady, intelligent—I found myself watching him more than the screen. The way his hands moved across the keyboard with quiet competence. The way his voice deepened when he pointed out efficiencies. The way those ice-blue eyes flicked to me every few seconds, checking if I was following.

He knew his stuff. This wasn’t obligation. He understood manufacturing, understood business, understood people.

“You’re a contractor?” I asked when he finished.

“Yeah. Commercial construction mostly. I have my own small firm.” He leaned against the desk, arms crossed. “But I grew up around places like this. My dad worked facilities management before he died.”

“Your father passed away?”

“When I was fifteen. Construction accident.” No self-pity, just quiet acceptance. “Mom raised Emma and me alone. Worked her way up. She’s the strongest person I know.”

The love in his voice made something ache in my chest. This was what family should be—unconditional support, genuine care, not resentment or manipulation or competition.

This was what I’d lost.

“She’s lucky to have you,” I said quietly.

“I’m lucky to have her.” He studied me again, head tilted slightly. “You really meant it? About the medical leave?”

“Every word. I’ll have paperwork to you by Monday.” I pulled out my personal business card—the one with my direct line, not the corporate one—and handed it to him. Our fingers brushed. Electricity raced up my arm again.

“Why would you give me your personal number?”

Because I’m already thinking about a proposition that will sound completely insane. Because you’re exactly what I need. Because you’re devastatingly attractive and clearly principled and apparently have the kind of loyalty I’ve spent twenty years searching for in the wrong places.

But what I said was: “Because your mother has earned it. And because when I promise something, I keep it.”

He nodded slowly, tucking the card into his pocket. “I appreciate that.”

We stood there, neither quite sure how to end the strange, charged moment. The office felt smaller, the air thicker.

“I should go,” I said, gathering my briefcase. “It’s late.”

“Yeah. Emma’s probably wondering where I am.” He walked me to the door. “Thank you again, Ms. Ashford.”

“Sophia,” I said impulsively. “Call me Sophia.”

His smile transformed his face—slow, genuine, devastating.

“Then call me David.”

David. Strong. Classic. Unpretentious.

“Goodnight, David.”

I walked out before I could do something reckless.

But as I descended the stairs, my mind was spinning faster than the numbers on those screens.

David Kane. Thirty-two. Contractor. Lives with his mother and sister. Devoted to family. Intelligent. Hardworking. Principled.

And single.

Perfect.

“How did it go?” Mr. Thomas asked when I slid into the back seat.

“I found out why the reports were delayed. Mrs. Kane has cancer. Her son’s been covering.”

“That explains it.”

“It explains why I’m about to do something either brilliant or completely insane.” I pulled out my phone. “Thomas, how exactly does one ask a stranger to enter a contract marriage?”

“I don’t think there’s a polite way, Miss Sophia.”

“Then I’ll figure out an impolite way that works.” I stared at the city lights blurring past. “Because I just found exactly what I need.”

“Someone you find attractive,” Mr. Thomas added quietly.

I didn’t answer.

He’d known me too long.

“Just be careful,” he said. “Mixing business with… whatever this is…”

“It’s not mixing anything. It’s a pure transaction.” I returned to my emails, deliberately not thinking about ice-blue eyes or callused hands. “I’m offering him a job.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

I ignored him.

But deep down, I knew the truth.

In five days, David Kane had gone from stranger to solution.

And somewhere between the chaotic office and the quiet drive home, he had become something far more dangerous.

He had become the problem itself.