Chapter 2: The Offer

Cara had expected an office.

Not this.

Blackwood Industries occupied the top four floors of a glass tower in Canary Wharf that looked like it had been designed specifically to make people feel small. The lobby alone was larger than her entire flat, all marble floors and high ceilings and staff who moved with the quiet confidence of people who had never worried about an electricity bill in their lives.

She had worn her best outfit. Dark trousers, a cream blouse she had ironed twice. It felt insufficient the moment she walked through the revolving doors.

"Cara Bennett," she told the receptionist. "I have an appointment with Ethan Blackwood."

The woman smiled pleasantly and made a call.

Cara stood very straight and pretended she belonged there.

His assistant — a composed woman named Claire who moved like she had been professionally trained to be calming — led her to a private lift, up to the thirty-second floor, and into a corner office with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Thames.

Ethan Blackwood was on the phone when she entered.

He held up one finger without looking at her.

Cara sat down in the chair across from his desk and looked out at the view instead of at him. Grey river. Grey sky. London doing what London always did — looking dramatic about being miserable.

He ended the call and set the phone down.

"You called," he said.

"You left a card."

"Many people don't follow up."

"I'm not many people."

Something moved briefly in his expression. He leaned back in his chair and studied her the same way he had in the café — unhurried, almost clinical.

"No," he said quietly. "You're not."

He opened a folder on his desk and slid a single sheet of paper across to her.

Cara looked down.

At the top, in clean print: Terms of Agreement.

Her eyes moved to the number near the bottom.

£500,000.

She kept her face completely still. Years of waitressing had taught her that.

"Before I read anything," she said, "I want to hear it from you directly. What exactly are you asking me to do?"

Ethan clasped his hands on the desk.

"My grandfather is dying," he said. The words were straightforward. No performance of grief, no softening. Just fact. "He built this company from nothing and he controls forty percent of its shares. His will currently divides those shares between myself and my younger brother, provided certain conditions are met."

"What conditions?"

"That I am engaged to be married within six weeks."

Cara waited.

"He believes a man who cannot commit to a relationship cannot lead a company," Ethan continued. "It's an outdated view. It is also legally binding."

"And your brother?"

"Is already married." A pause. "Conveniently."

Cara looked back at the paper.

"So you need a fiancée."

"I need a convincing one," he said. "Someone my family will believe. Someone who won't be intimidated by the environment, won't become emotionally confused about the arrangement, and won't cause problems when it ends."

"And you think that's me."

"You argued back in a café full of people who were waiting for you to apologize," he said. "You weren't intimidated then. I don't expect you will be now."

Cara was quiet for a moment.

"How long?"

"Six weeks. Possibly eight."

"What does it involve?"

"Family dinners. Two or three public appearances. A weekend in the Cotswolds with my family at the end of the arrangement." He paused. "You would need to move into my apartment."

"Absolutely not."

"It would be necessary for—"

"No," she said simply. "I'll attend dinners. I'll attend events. I won't move in with a stranger."

He looked at her for a long moment.

"Fine," he said. "We negotiate that detail."

She hadn't expected him to concede that quickly.

She looked down at the paper again.

£500,000.

Her mother's bills. The rent arrears. Enough left over to actually breathe for the first time in three years.

"If I agree," she said carefully, "I need three things. The money split — half upfront, half at the end. A written agreement that this ends cleanly with no further obligations on either side. And you treat me with basic respect in every setting, private or public."

Ethan studied her.

"You've done this before?"

"I've survived difficult situations before," she said. "I've learned to set terms early."

A pause.

Then he reached forward and picked up a pen.

"Half upfront," he said, writing. "Binding exit agreement. Respectful conduct at all times." He looked up. "Anything else?"

Cara thought about it.

"Don't fall in love with me," she said.

The words came out steadier than she intended. More serious.

Ethan's pen stilled.

Then he set it down and looked at her directly.

"I don't fall in love," he said. "With anyone."

Cara nodded slowly.

"Good," she said. "Then we have a deal."

She picked up the pen and signed before she could talk herself out of it.

Outside, on the pavement in front of the tower, the cold air hit her face and she stood still for a moment.

£250,000 was being transferred to her account before the end of the day.

She should feel relieved.

Instead, standing on the street with the Thames grey and wide behind the buildings, she had the distinct feeling that she had just agreed to something that was going to be considerably more complicated than six weeks.

She pulled her coat tighter and walked toward the tube station.