Chapter Two: Terms and Conditions

By the time Lola made it to the twenty-third floor, her hands were shaking.

Not from fear exactly. From adrenaline. From disbelief. From the lingering warmth of a man she absolutely should not be thinking about.

She stepped out of the elevator and was immediately swallowed by glass, steel, and quiet authority. The executive floor smelled like money and restraint. Everything gleamed. Everything whispered you do not belong here.

A woman with a headset and a smile too tight to be real intercepted her.

“Miss Foster,” she said briskly. “Mr. Blackwood is expecting you.”

Of course, he was.

Lola followed her down a corridor lined with framed magazine covers. Adrian Blackwood stared back at her from at least six of them. Younger in some. Sharper in all. Always unsmiling.

Power looked good on him. That fact annoyed her.

The assistant stopped outside a door that didn’t need a nameplate. Everyone already knew who lived behind it.

“Good luck,” the woman murmured, with the faint pity usually reserved for people about to be fired.

Lola inhaled once. Then knocked.

“Come in.”

His voice was calm. Controlled and like nothing unusual had happened that morning. Like he hadn’t grabbed her waist and rewritten her life before breakfast.

She stepped inside.

The office was enormous. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A desk that could double as a small aircraft runway. Bookshelves lined with hardcovers that looked read, not decorative.

Adrian Blackwood stared back at her from at least six magazine covers lining the far wall. Younger in some. Sharper in all. Always unsmiling.

Power looked good on him. That fact irritated her.

Adrian stood by the window, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, phone pressed to his ear.

“Yes,” he was saying. “Everything is under control.”

He glanced over his shoulder and met her eyes.

Something unreadable passed between them.

“I’ll call you back,” he said into the phone, then ended the call.

Silence settled.

He turned fully toward her.

“Sit,” he said.

She didn’t.

“I’d rather stand,” she replied.

His eyebrow lifted slightly. Amused. Annoyed. Possibly both.

“As you wish.”

He moved toward his desk, unhurried. Every step is deliberate. The kind of man who never rushed because the world always waited.

Lola hugged her bag closer to her body, grounding herself.

“You threatened to fire me,” she said. “I’d like to start there.”

Adrian leaned back against the desk, arms folding across his chest. The movement stretched the fabric of his shirt in a way that was deeply unnecessary.

“I gave you a choice.”

“That’s what people say when they’re being manipulative.”

“Yet you’re still here.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Hated that he was right.

He watched her carefully. Not her face. Her posture. Her breathing. Like he was cataloguing her reactions.

“Relax,” he said. “If I wanted you gone, you’d already be downstairs.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“It should be.”

He gestured toward the chair again. This time, she sat.

The leather was expensive. Everything in this room probably costs more than her monthly salary.

Adrian took his seat across from her and slid a thick folder across the desk.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Your lifeline.”

She opened it cautiously.

Legal language greeted her. Dense. Precise. Intimidating.

“NDA?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Plural?”

“Yes.”

She flipped pages, eyes widening.

“Non-disclosure, non-disparagement, media conduct—are you serious?”

“Completely.”

“This is for… three weeks?”

“Three weeks,” he confirmed.

She looked up at him. “You’re planning on lying very loudly.”

His mouth twitched. “I plan on surviving my mother.”

Lola leaned back, processing.

“You could’ve hired someone,” she said. “An actress. A model. Someone who didn’t spill coffee on you.”

“I could have,” he agreed.

“Then why me?”

The question lingered.

For a moment, he didn’t answer.

Then, “You were there.”

“That’s it?”

“You reacted honestly. You didn’t flirt. You didn’t panic when I touched you.”

Her pulse jumped. “I froze.”

“Exactly.”

She frowned. “That’s not a compliment.”

“No,” he said quietly. “It’s a qualification.”

Something about the way he said it made her uneasy.

She flipped another page. “What exactly does being your fiancée involve?”

“Public appearances. Interviews. Dinners. Minimal affection.”

“Minimal,” she repeated.

His gaze flicked to her mouth. Just briefly.

“Enough to be believable.”

“And privately?”

He leaned forward, forearms resting on the desk now, closing the distance just enough to shift the air between them.

“Privately,” he said, voice lower, “we maintain boundaries.”

Her fingers tightened on the folder. “What kind of boundaries?”

“The kind that stops this from becoming complicated.”

She laughed softly. “You dragged a stranger into your life, put a ring on her finger, and you’re worried about complicated?”

A corner of his mouth lifted. “I don’t enjoy chaos, Miss Foster.”

“Lola.”

His eyes lifted again. Held hers.

“Lola,” he corrected.

The way he said it felt like a test.

She exhaled. “What happens after three weeks?”

He leaned back. Distance restored.

“The engagement ends. You return to anonymity. You receive compensation generous enough to forget this ever happened.”

“And if I don’t forget?”

His gaze sharpened. “You will.”

She stared at him, then closed the folder.

“How much?” she asked.

He blinked once. “Excuse me?”

“How much are you paying me to lie to your mother?”

A pause.

Then, slowly, he smiled.

Not the polite one from earlier. Something warmer. Something dangerous.

“I like you,” he said.

She swallowed. “That’s unfortunate.”

“Yes,” he agreed calmly. “For both of us.”

Adrian stood abruptly and pulled her close, one hand settling at her waist. “You need to get used to this,” he murmured, his breath brushing her ear. Lola’s chest tightened, and before she could think, she gasped, heat creeping through her. He released her instantly. The tension lingered, heavy, steamy, teasy.