The Offer

CHAPTER 8 

Lexi's POV 

I stared at him as if he had grown a second head. 

“¿Estás loco?” (Are you insane?)

Brandon didn’t flinch. Not at the Spanish, not at my tone.

“I’m serious,” he said, calm and composed, as if he were offering me a seat on a crowded train—not proposing a deal that could blow up both our lives.

I took a sharp step back. “You think this is funny?”

“I didn’t say it was funny.”

“You just show up—again—uninvited, corner me at work, and say, ‘Let’s pretend to date’? Are you even hearing yourself?”

“I said let them believe it,” he corrected smoothly. “People already do.”

“You said it yourself,” he repeated quietly. “People already believe we’re together. Why not let them?”

I scoffed and stepped back. “Right. Let the world believe I’m your pet project? Some poor waitress you swept up to save face for whatever drama you have going on? Because believe me, I know rich people always have some sort of drama.”

He didn’t blink. “This is business.”

“Exactly. Which means my two minutes are up.” I turned toward the café entrance. “Thanks for the entertainment, but I need to go earn enough tips to maybe pay for one vial of my sister’s medication.”

“I’ll pay you.”

I stopped cold. “Excuse me?”

“I’ll pay you,” he repeated, his voice even and smooth. “Five hundred thousand. A month.”

I turned slowly. “You’re joking.”

“Half a million, every thirty days,” he said. “For six months.”

I stared at him, words trapped somewhere between rage and disbelief.

“That’s not including your sister's transplant,” he added. “I’ll handle that separately. Her surgery, her medication, recovery, checkups. I’ll take care of everything she needs.”

I blinked.

“And you,” he continued, “will walk away with three million dollars. Clean.”

It felt like the world had gone silent.

I laughed—no, I didn't just giggle; I laughed like it was the most absurd thing I’d ever heard. 

He looked at me as if I had suddenly gone mad.

“Sorry, sorry, you're just so funny... So you pay me half a million monthly to do what? Pose for pictures and say 'yes, papi'? No, thank you. And you know what? I should sue you for… for invasion of privacy.”

“How'd you know?” I continued. “How'd you know what’s going on in my life? How'd you even know about my sister? Huh? Yeah, I thought so—it's invasion of privacy.”

“That’s not a real thing,” he said.

“And this?” I said incredulously. “This is supposed to be real? This is your logic? The internet ran its mouth, so now I should what—marry you? Because you couldn't look where you were going and I spilled coffee on you, my life hasn't been the same ever since, and now because of that, I'm supposed to marry you? Unbelievable.”

He tilted his head slightly, unreadable as ever. “Not marry. Not yet. I said let them believe it. We start small. Appearances. Familiarity. A story. And then… we move forward.”

I blinked. “Wait—you are talking about marriage.”

He didn’t answer.

Which was answer enough.

Three million dollars. The amount echoed in my head.

“You think money fixes everything?” I whispered.

“No,” he said. “But it buys time. And time saves lives.”

My hands were shaking. My jaw clenched.

I folded my arms, partly to keep from shaking. “You are unbelievable. Have I mentioned that?”

He stepped closer. Not threatening—just present. Towering. I hated how steady he looked, like he was already five moves ahead in some rich-boy chess game and I was just the pawn he needed to sacrifice.

“You need money,” he said bluntly.

“And you need a wife,” I snapped. “What a romantic fairy tale.”

His jaw didn’t tighten. His expression didn’t shift.

“Six months,” he said. “That’s all. After that, it’s over. You walk away with enough for the rest of your life, and I pay for your sister’s transplant, medication, recovery, and more. And I get what I need.”

I looked at him like he was a bomb about to detonate. “You are seriously standing here, in my reality, and trying to buy me?”

“No,” he said calmly. “I’m hiring you.”

I almost slapped him. “You’re disgusting.”

“I’m honest.”

I turned away, running a hand over my face. My whole body was burning—not with heat—but with rage. Rage at him for being so cold. Rage at myself for the part of me that didn’t immediately scream no. Because that part was thinking about Aria. About the $446,000 I didn’t have. About the ticking clock.

“I can’t believe this,” I muttered.

“You don’t have to decide now,” he said. His voice had the same detached tone as always, as if this were just a boardroom pitch. “But we both know time isn’t on your side.”

I clenched my jaw.

He reached into his jacket and held out a card. “My direct line. Call me if—when—you’re ready.”

I didn’t move.

He kept his arm extended, waiting.

My hand moved before I could stop it, traitor that it was.”

 I snatched the card from his hand and stuffed it into my apron pocket like it was poison I needed to hide.

“I hate you,” I whispered.

He nodded once. “Then we understand each other.”

The card was still burning in my apron. My fists clenched at my sides.

“You think this is easy for me?” I said, my voice shaking. “You walk in here with your polished shoes and pocket deals like you’re saving the world, but you don’t know me. You don’t know how hard I’ve worked, how hard I’ve tried to protect her, to do this without selling my soul.”

His eyes didn’t soften, but they did quiet. “I’m not asking for your soul.”

“You’re asking for my name. My face. My life.”

He said nothing.

“And what happens when it ends, huh?” I demanded. “What happens when the six months are up and I disappear back into my regular life? When people realize it was fake? What then?”

“You’ll have more than you came in with.”

“That’s not the point,” I snapped. “People will laugh. They’ll drag me through the mud. They’ll say I was just another girl who opened her legs for a payout—”

He stepped forward suddenly—not threatening, but sharp and intentional.

“They’ll say what they want either way,” he replied. “They already are. But if you say yes, Aria lives. You both survive. And the rest?” He gave a slight shrug. “The rest is just noise.”

I looked away, swallowing hard.

I hated him.

But God, I hated that he was right even more.

I didn’t say anything, just stared down at the sidewalk like it might provide answers.

“Why me?” I asked finally, my voice small.

“You were already chosen,” he said simply. “By the cameras, by the gossip. I’m just following the momentum.”

I hated that answer too.

After a long pause, I finally whispered, “I need to get back inside.”

He nodded. “I’ll wait.”

My head snapped up. “No. I’m not agreeing to anything.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“Then stop acting like this is done.”

“It’s not,” he said. “It’s just started.”

I turned from him before I could scream, push him, or cry—because all three felt dangerously close.

My voice came out low. “Get out of here.”

He nodded once. “Good evening, Alexis.”

Then he walked off, as if he hadn't just lit my entire life on fire.

My hands trembled as I walked back into the café, the bell above the door jingling as if it had no idea my whole world had shifted.

I went back behind the counter in a daze. Dan looked at me as if he wanted to ask a hundred questions, but one glance shut him up.

I finished my shift like a machine—taking orders, serving trays, cleaning up, then clocking out.

The card felt like it was burning a hole through my pocket the entire time.

After work, Dan dropped me off, and we didn’t say anything during the car ride. I appreciated him for not pushing. I said goodbye to Dan and walked toward the door still in a daze.

I didn’t say a word when I walked into our tiny apartment.

Aria was asleep. Her sketchbook rested on her chest, a half-finished painting of sunflowers barely dry on the page. She looked peaceful.

I collapsed into the kitchen chair, pulled out the card, and stared at it.

Brandon Wilson  

Private Line

Nothing else. No warmth. No logo. Just like him—cold, precise, powerful.

I held it for a long time, my fingers trembling.

I’m trying. I really am.  

But it’s not enough.  

I’m not enough.

And that thought hurt worse than anything he could have said.