CHAPTER 6: THE PROPOSITION

**THREE DAYS LATER**

I’d rehearsed the conversation a hundred times.

In the shower—forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty—counting seconds while the water ran cold. In the back of the Mercedes with Mr. Thomas pretending not to notice my restless fingers tapping the armrest. In my office at 2 a.m., pacing between floor-to-ceiling windows, city lights blurring into streaks below.

None of the rehearsals prepared me for the moment David Kane actually walked into the conference room.

He’d dressed up. Dark suit that fit his broad shoulders perfectly, white shirt open at the collar, no tie—casual confidence rather than corporate stiffness. Hair still slightly damp, as if he’d showered right before coming. Professional. Devastating.

“Ms. Ashford.” He extended his hand across the polished table. “Your assistant said you wanted to discuss my mother’s situation?”

I shook it briefly, ignoring the warmth that lingered on my palm. “Sophia. And yes, please sit.”

He settled into the chair opposite me, those ice-blue eyes watchful. Curious, but guarded. Smart man.

“The interim manager started yesterday,” I said, sliding the first folder across the glass surface. “Your mother’s medical leave is formalized. Full salary and benefits for up to six months, extendable if treatment requires more time. I’ve also approved coverage for any experimental therapies her oncologist recommends.”

He opened the folder, scanning the documents with the same focused attention he’d given the production reports. Something in his posture eased—shoulders dropping a fraction, jaw unclenching.

“This is…” He looked up. “More than generous. More than I expected.”

“It’s what should have been standard.” I pulled out the second folder—thicker, bound with a black clip. “Which brings me to why I actually asked you here today.”

His eyebrows rose. “That wasn’t the only reason?”

“Partially.” I opened the contract and pushed it toward him. “I have a business proposition for you, Mr. Kane.”

“David,” he corrected automatically, eyes dropping to the document. “What kind of proposition?”

Here goes nothing.

Or everything.

“I need a husband.”

Silence stretched between us—thick, electric, absolute.

He stared at me like I’d grown a second head.

“Excuse me?”

“Not a real husband,” I clarified quickly. “A contractual one.” I tapped the contract. “Three years. You play the role of my devoted partner. Public appearances, family events, living arrangements in my penthouse—separate bedrooms, of course. In exchange, I pay off your business loans in full, establish a trust fund for Emma’s college education at any school she qualifies for, and provide you with a substantial annual salary plus performance bonuses.”

He didn’t touch the contract. Just kept staring.

“You’re serious.”

“Completely.” I leaned back, forcing my hands to stay still on the table. “My family is attempting to force me into a marriage with someone I have no interest in. They plan to announce it publicly at my grandfather’s birthday next month. I need a countermeasure that doesn’t involve their manipulation. You need financial security for your family. It’s mutually beneficial.”

“You want to buy a husband.”

“I want to hire one for a specific, clearly defined role.” I met his gaze steadily. “Everything is outlined here. No physical intimacy unless mutually agreed upon. Complete discretion. At the end of three years, we divorce amicably—irreconcilable differences, no fault. You walk away with enough capital to expand your construction firm tenfold and secure your family’s future for generations.”

He finally picked up the contract, flipping through pages slowly. His expression remained unreadable—jaw tight, eyes scanning clauses with the same precision he’d used on spreadsheets.

“This is insane.”

“It’s practical.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough.” I ticked off points on my fingers. “You’re intelligent. Hardworking. Devoted to your family. You understand contracts and obligations through your own business. You’re presentable enough to make this believable in public.” I paused. “And you need the money.”

His jaw tightened further. “How do you know that?”

“Your construction firm has three outstanding loans—two short-term, one balloon payment due in eighteen months. You’ve been covering your mother’s uncovered medical expenses out of pocket because her insurance has high deductibles and copays. Emma’s college applications are strong, but the scholarships won’t cover everything at the schools she’s targeting.” I held his gaze without flinching. “I did my research, David. That’s what I do before any major transaction.”

“You investigated me.” It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation, quiet but sharp.

“I investigate everyone I do business with. This is business.”

“This is crazy.” He stood abruptly, pacing to the window. The city sprawled below us—cars like toys, people like ants. “You can’t just… people don’t do this.”

“People do this all the time. Arranged marriages, marriages of convenience, contractual partnerships for citizenship or assets. This is simply more honest about the terms.” I remained seated, projecting calm I didn’t entirely feel. “No pretense of love. No false expectations. No messy emotions. Just clear obligations and mutual benefit.”

He turned back, arms crossed, studying me like a puzzle he couldn’t solve.

“Why me?”

The honest answer would have been dangerous: Because when you smiled in that office, I forgot how to breathe for three seconds. Because your hands look like they could build something lasting. Because you’re the first person in twenty years who made me feel something besides cold calculation.

But I said: “Because you’re the right combination of need and capability. And because I trust you’ll honor the contract once you sign it.”

“You don’t trust anyone.”

“I trust contracts.” I stood slowly, moving around the table but keeping distance. “Look, I understand this is unconventional. But consider it: three years of your life, and every financial problem you have disappears. Your mother gets the absolute best cancer treatment available—private specialists, clinical trials if she qualifies. Emma attends whatever university she wants without debt hanging over her. Your business expands without loans strangling cash flow.”

“And what do you get?”

“Freedom from my family’s manipulation. Control over my own choices. A partner I can trust not to have hidden agendas because everything is spelled out legally and enforceable.”

He studied me for another long moment. “What happens if we actually… if feelings develop?”

The question caught me off guard. My pulse kicked hard.

“They won’t.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I can. I don’t do feelings, David. I do strategy. Control. Contracts.” My voice stayed firm. “That’s why this works. No messy emotions. No complicated expectations. Just business.”

Something flickered in his eyes—disappointment? Challenge? I couldn’t read it.

“I need to think about it.”

“Of course.” I gestured to the contract. “Take it. Read it thoroughly. Consult a lawyer if you want—I’ll cover the fees. You have forty-eight hours. After that, I’ll need to pursue other options.”

He picked up the document and my business card from earlier, fingers brushing the edge.

“Why forty-eight hours?”

“Because in seventy-two hours, I have another family dinner. And I need to walk in with a solution to my problem.” I met his gaze directly. “Preferably you.”

He shook his head slowly, almost amused despite himself. “You’re either the most brilliant woman I’ve ever met or completely insane.”

“Cannot I be both?”

A reluctant smile tugged at his lips—the same one that had undone me in his mother’s office. “I’ll read the contract.”

“That’s all I ask.”

He headed for the door, then paused with his hand on the handle.

“Sophia?”

“Yes?”

“If I say yes… how do we make people believe it’s real?”

I smiled—cold, calculated, confident.

“Leave that to me. I’m very good at making people believe exactly what I want them to believe.”

He nodded once, slowly, and left.

I sank back into my chair, heart hammering against my ribs.

Forty-eight hours.

In forty-eight hours, I’d either have a counter to my family’s trap…

…or I’d be back to square one.

My phone buzzed on the table.

**Mr. Thomas: How did it go?**

**Me: He’s thinking about it.**

**Mr. Thomas: And if he says no?**

I stared at the empty doorway where David had disappeared.

**Me: Then I find someone else. This is just business.**

But even as I typed the words, I knew they were a lie.

Because somewhere between the moment he’d walked into that conference room and the moment he’d walked out, David Kane had stopped being just a solution.

He’d become the only solution I wanted.