CHAPTER 7: THE DECISION

**THIRTY-SIX HOURS LATER**

I hadn’t slept.

The digital clock on my nightstand mocked me: 3:47 a.m. In approximately fourteen hours, I’d have to face another family dinner—perhaps the last one before Grandpa’s birthday next month. With or without David Kane on my arm.

My phone sat silent on the bedside table. No calls. No texts. Nothing.

He was going to say no.

Of course he was going to say no. What sane person would agree to marry a near-stranger for money? What decent man would sell three years of his life to a woman who’d essentially leveraged his mother’s illness into a negotiation tool?

I’d been delusional to think this would work.

My phone buzzed—sharp, sudden, slicing through the dark.

I grabbed it so fast I nearly knocked over the water glass.

**Unknown Number: I have questions. Can we meet?**

Not a yes. Not a no. Questions.

I could work with questions.

**Me: My office. One hour.**

**Unknown: It’s 4 a.m.**

**Me: I’m aware. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.**

I was out of bed before he could respond, completing my fifty-second shower in forty-five because my hands shook too much to count properly.

Focus, Sophia. This is just business.

But the mirror told a different story. Dark circles under my eyes from three nights without real sleep. Hair washed too quickly, still damp and unruly at the ends. I looked like what I was—desperate beneath the armor.

I forced myself to slow down. Applied makeup with steady hands. Pulled my hair into a sleek ponytail—twenty-seven strokes. Dressed in charcoal suit: professional, untouchable, safe.

By the time Mr. Thomas pulled up to Phias Empire headquarters, I looked like myself again. Cold. Controlled. In command.

“Want me to wait?” he asked as I gathered my briefcase.

“No. Go home. Get some sleep.” I stepped out. “This won’t take long.”

“Sophia—”

“I’m fine, Thomas.”

He looked at me with those knowing eyes that had seen me at eight years old, pulled from a river, orphaned and terrified. That had watched me build walls higher than skyscrapers.

“You’re allowed to want this,” he said quietly. “You’re allowed to want him. It doesn’t make you weak.”

“I don’t want him. I want a solution to my problem.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

I closed the door before he could say more.

David was already waiting when I arrived. He’d somehow gotten past night security—probably charmed them with that steady, honest gaze. He stood at my office window, looking out at the pre-dawn city, still in jeans and a dark jacket. Like he’d been up all night too.

“How did you get in?” I asked, setting my briefcase down.

“I told the guard I was your fiancé.” He turned, contract in hand, pages flagged with sticky notes. “He congratulated me. Said you were a lucky catch.”

“I’ve been preparing for multiple outcomes.” I moved behind my desk, needing the barrier. “If you say yes, the groundwork is laid. If you say no, the rumors still serve a purpose.”

“Always have a backup plan.”

“Always.” I gestured to the chair. “You said you had questions.”

“I have a lot of questions.” He dropped the contract on my desk with a soft thud. “Starting with: are you insane?”

“We’ve established that I might be.”

“This contract is airtight.” He leaned forward, hands braced on the glass. “My lawyer spent six hours going through it. He said it’s the most comprehensive prenup he’s ever seen. You’ve thought of everything—what happens if one of us dies, if one wants out early, if one violates terms. There are clauses for things I didn’t even know could be clauses.”

“I’m thorough.”

“You’re terrified.”

The word landed like a slap. “Excuse me?”

“This contract isn’t about control. It’s about fear.” His ice-blue eyes pinned me in place. “You’re so afraid of being hurt that you’ve turned a marriage—even a fake one—into a business transaction where every possible emotion is contractually eliminated.”

“That’s the point.”

“No. The point is you’re asking me to be your husband, but you’re so scared of what that might mean that you’ve made sure it can never mean anything at all.” He straightened. “So my question is: what are you really afraid of, Sophia?”

My throat tightened. “I’m not afraid of anything.”

“Liar.” But his voice was gentle—dangerously so. “I’ve spent the last thirty-six hours researching you too. I know about the accident. About your parents. About how your family treated you after. About the figure who watched from the bridge and did nothing.” He paused. “I know why you don’t drive. Why you avoid water. Why you count seconds in the shower.”

Ice flooded my veins. “How do you—”

“Your driver is very protective. And very chatty when he thinks someone might actually care about your wellbeing.” David moved around the desk slowly, giving me time to retreat. I didn’t. “So I’ll ask again: what are you really afraid of?”

“This conversation is inappropriate—”

“This whole situation is inappropriate. You’re offering me a million dollars to pretend to love you while making sure I can never actually love you.” He stopped inches away—close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from him. “Why?”

“Because love makes you weak.” The words escaped before I could cage them. “Love makes you vulnerable. Love gets you killed.”

“Or love makes you strong enough to survive.”

“I survived by trusting no one.”

“You survived by being eight years old and having no choice.” His voice softened further. “But you’re twenty-eight now, Sophia. You have choices. And you’re choosing to stay in that river, drowning, rather than risk letting someone pull you out.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” He reached out slowly, telegraphing the movement. When I didn’t pull away, his hand cupped my cheek—warm, steady, callused thumb brushing my cheekbone. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“No. But I can promise I’ll try not to.” His thumb moved again—gentle, deliberate. “Here’s my counteroffer: I’ll sign your contract. I’ll be your husband for three years. I’ll play the role perfectly—publicly devoted, discreet, professional.”

Hope and fear warred in my chest. “But?”

“But I won’t promise not to fall in love with you.” His eyes held mine without flinching. “And I won’t promise to make it easy for you to keep hiding behind these walls. If we’re doing this, we do it honestly. Which means I get to care about you. I get to try to help you. I get to be a real partner, even if the marriage starts as fake.”

“That’s not what the contract says.”

“Then add an addendum.” A small smile tugged at his lips. “‘David Kane reserves the right to give a damn about his wife’s happiness.’” He paused. “Do we have a deal?”

I should say no. Should insist the terms were non-negotiable. Should find someone else who’d follow the rules without trying to dismantle my defenses.

But looking into those ice-blue eyes, feeling his hand warm against my skin, I heard myself whisper:

“We have a deal.”

His smile widened—slow, devastating, triumphant.

“Good. Because my mother is already planning the wedding, Emma’s picked out her maid of honor dress, and I told the night guard we’re engaged.”

“You were very confident I’d say yes.”

“No.” His thumb brushed my cheek one last time before he dropped his hand. “I was very hopeful you’d take a chance.”

I immediately missed the contact.

“So when do I meet the family?”

“Tonight. Dinner at seven.” I tried to regain footing. “I’ll have my stylist send over appropriate clothing—”

“I can dress myself, Sophia.”

“For an Ashford family dinner, you really can’t.” I pulled out my phone. “Trust me on this. First impressions matter.”

“Fine. But I’m driving us there.”

My stomach clenched hard. “I don’t—”

“I know. You don’t drive.” His voice gentled again. “But I do. And if I’m going to be your husband, you’re going to have to trust me with at least that much.”

Panic fluttered behind my ribs. Getting in a car. With someone else driving. In potential rain.

“I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” He stepped closer—close enough that I had to tilt my head to meet his eyes. “I checked the weather. Clear skies all evening. And Sophia?” His voice dropped. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

“You can’t promise that either.”

“Watch me.”

I looked at him—this man who’d just agreed to marry me for money but refused to promise not to care. This stranger who somehow saw through every layer I’d built. This contractor who was about to walk into a viper’s nest and pretend to be in love with a woman who’d forgotten how to feel anything but fear.

“Okay,” I whispered. “You can drive.”

His smile could have lit the entire city.

“See? You’re already braver than you think.”

I wasn’t brave.

I was terrified.

But for the first time in twenty years, maybe that was okay.