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CHAPTER 5 

Brandon's POV 

I adjusted the cuff of my shirt as I stared out the tall windows of my office. The skyline of the city didn’t calm me like it usually did. Not today.

My father’s ultimatum lingered above my head like a threat wrapped with a silk bow: “Get married, and as if that weren't bad enough, I have to stay in the forsaken marriage for at least six months.” It was laughable—if it weren’t so serious. 

Ugh. I groaned, already feeling another headache coming on. Marriage, love, attachment—emotional contracts masked as romantic ones. I had no interest. I believed in leverage, in control—not in vows.

I picked up the folder my assistant had left on my desk—a portfolio of "acceptable candidates my father had his secretary put together." Women with generational wealth, Ivy League backgrounds, and last names that belonged on buildings or charities. All of them looked rehearsed. Plastic. Boring.

I tossed the folder aside.

“Morning, groomzilla,” came a voice from the door.

I didn’t even bother to look up. Knowing only Sam could be so chirpy this early in the morning.

" Don’t you have a company to run into the ground?” I said.

Sam walked in, uninvited as usual, balancing two coffees and a paper bag. 

“And miss your descent into desperation? Please. I wouldn’t miss this even if Priyanka Chopra asked me to, and that's saying a lot, knowing how I'm madly in love with her.”

I gave him a look.

Sam just grinned. “So, have you picked a lucky wife yet, or are we doing a Cinderella-style casting call?”

“No casting calls. I want this over with quietly,” I muttered.

Sam plopped into the leather chair across from me and unwrapped a croissant. “You know, if you want quiet, maybe you should hire that waitress from last night.”

I blinked. “What waitress?”

“You know, the Latina one you tried to annihilate. The girl didn’t even flinch and still told you off in Spanish. I nearly died.”

She's ballsy, I’ll give her that. I like her already—a match made in heaven or hell, if I'm being honest. 

I paused, then shrugged. “I don’t remember, and this is serious. You, of all people, should know how serious this is.”

Sam snorted. “Of course not. You wouldn’t recognize a hurricane unless it sent you a memo. And I know this is serious—which is why I’m helping.”

“Also, even if you do find someone who fits your criteria, what makes you think your dad will believe you’re in love with her?”

“That’s where you’re wrong. The clause doesn’t say I have to be in love with her; it says I have to be married for at least six months, and that’s what I’ll give him.”

I leaned back in my chair. “I need someone practical. Not a debutante. Not dramatic. Someone who needs the arrangement as much as I do.”

“Oh, I know! It will be fast and clean. How about a stripper? No, no—an influencer. She’ll need to... oh no, that’s loud, not quiet. I know the one: you can’t refuse this one. It's gold—a Vegas bride! I can already picture it! I can book the flight if you want, and..."

Just then, I was interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Yes, come in,” I said.

“Sir?”

“Yes, Stacy?”

Sir, it's your parents they are…

Before she could finish her sentence, The door swung open and nearly missed her by an inch.

“Absolutely preposterous,” my father thundered as he strode into my office like he owned the place—which, unfortunately, he technically still did.

Behind him, my stepmother followed, lips pursed in faux concern, and beside her—like a dagger to my ribs—was my stepsister, daphne. She offered me a small smile, the only genuine thing in the room, and I nodded back subtly. No matter how much I loathed the people around her, she remained untouched. Untainted.

“Good morning to you too, Father,” I said, rising slowly and straightening my spine.

“I trust your morning has been productive,” he said coolly, eyeing Sam with distaste.

“Oh, extremely,” Sam piped up before I could respond. “We’ve narrowed it down to three future wives, two scandals, and one elopement. Quite the efficient Tuesday! We’ve even decided to just get married to each other; it would be sweet since we’re childhood sweethearts, and merging our companies would be amazing, isn't that right, honey?” he said, blinking lovingly.

Daphne silently snickered behind him.

My father ignored Sam, walking toward my desk with narrowed eyes. “I heard you dismissed the list my assistant curated—a list that took time, money, and discretion.”

“Yes,” I replied simply.

“And why is that?” he pressed.

“Because none of them suit my needs.”

His jaw ticked, and I could already see the storm building behind his eyes. “Brandon, this isn’t a negotiation. If you want the company—”

“I will have the company,” I said, my voice low and steely. “But I won’t parade around with a mannequin just to entertain your fantasies.”

“You think I’m doing this for fun?”

“No. I think you’re doing this because you’re afraid I’ll succeed without you, and you want a puppet who can watch my every move 24/7 and report back to you."

Silence. Heavy. Tense.

My stepmother stepped forward, her voice syrupy sweet. “Darling, this hostility won’t help your cause. We only want what’s best for you.”

“Save it,” I cut in, my voice icy. “Your definition of 'best' has always been suspiciously self-serving.”

She gasped slightly. My father sighed. Daphne shot me a warning glance—don’t push too far.

But I had already crossed the line.

“Six months, Brandon,” my father said. “You marry and maintain it—or the board votes without you.”

He turned, waving his hand dismissively. “We’re done here.”

Daphne silently mouthed, "Sorry" to me and added, "I’ll call you later."

They walked out, leaving a silence that felt more suffocating than their presence.

Sam let out a low whistle. “Damn. You sure know how to host a breakfast meeting.”

“I need air,” I muttered, grabbing my coat.

“Where are you going?” Sam asked.

“Anywhere but here.”

The city felt too bright, too loud. I ducked into the plaza across from the office, a place I rarely visited. It had a glass ceiling and overpriced coffee, and the scent of desperation mixed with espresso lingered in the air.

As I entered the coffee shop, I tried to gain control of the storm raging in my chest.

I received a notification on my phone and pulled it out to see a text from Daphne coming in just as I approached the counter:

"Sorry about Dad and my mom. I’ll call you later. I love you."

Crash.

That’s when I felt warm liquid soaking through my suit and shirt. 

I looked up and there she was.

The waitress.

Standing in front of me with a paper bag and two cups of coffee in one hand, a phone pressed to her ear with the other. Her hair was pulled back this time, and her face was bare. She was clearly in a rush, and that’s why she bumped into me.

Literally.

“Oh my—watch where you’re—” she started, then froze.

I stared at her, recognition flickering in her eyes.

“You,” she said, a mix of annoyance and surprise.

“You again,” I muttered. “Figures.”

She scoffed. “You must really enjoy scaring women in public.”

“I wasn’t the one who just spilled coffee on someone.”

“I was working the last time we met, but maybe, just maybe, if you looked up from your silver spoon once in a while, this wouldn’t have happened.”

I turned to leave, irritated with the whole day and having zero interest in continuing this conversation when I felt an arm stop me.

I turned to see her drop the coffee and the paper bag on a side table, then grab napkins from a nearby table. She pulled me close, trying to dab at my shirt.

I recoiled; she rolled her eyes, making my irritation grow even more. 

She pulled me closer, unbuttoning my jacket to clean my shirt properly. She got mere inches from my face, completely focused on getting as much coffee off my shirt as she could. I looked down at her.

Before I could say anything, I heard it.

A click. Then two.

I turned my head slowly.

Paparazzi.

Two of them, cameras trained on us from outside the shop as if we were a tabloid moment.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said.

Lexi was already swearing under her breath in Spanish. “You could just give me the suit. I can dry-clean it and send it back to you.”

At that, I pushed her away, irritated by the entire situation, and turned to leave, leaving her stunned behind me.

Later that night, I was home, looking through some finance briefs that had been sent to me when Sam burst into my living room without knocking—again.

“You. Genius. Goddamn genius,” he said, holding up his phone.

I blinked. “What?”

“You’re trending.”

“I’m always trending,” I replied. I don’’t have the energy to know why this time nor the energy to entertain you tonight.

“First off, ouch. Secondly, no, just look!” 

“What?”

He handed me the phone, which displayed a headline: “Mystery Latina Beauty Spotted with Billionaire Heir – Secret Romance or PR Stunt?”

There were five photos. One of her scowling, one of me talking, another of her fixing my jacket button, and one that looked as if she was about to kiss me. They all looked intimate.

“It’s not what it seems,” I said.

“Isn’t that the waitress from the event the other day?”

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

“Yes, it is. But forget that for a second. This could work.”

“What?” 

“Think about it. It could be that you’ve been in a secret relationship all this while, and you’ve finally been exposed.”

I looked at him as if he’d grown another head. “You don’t get it?”

“Okay, look. You need someone to marry with no strings attached—no expectations, just a transaction between two adults. And it’s been exposed that you have been in a secret relationship. Why not build on that? Find something she needs, make a deal, and put a ring on it. That way, it won't be suspicious if you suddenly get engaged.”

“What makes you think she would agree also what makes you think I'll want her?”

“Umm, maybe the fact that everyone needs something, it could be money, fame whatever and secondly you don't get to be picky in this situation.”

“This could actually work,” I said slowly.

Sam grinned. “Oh yeah?”

“She’s not part of the inner circle. Not a socialite. It’ll feel real to them. Like a romance novel come to life,” Sam added. “Which makes her the perfect candidate.”

I stood up. “This could actually work?”

“If you play your cards right, it just might.”

“Get me her name. Her contact information. Everything about her.”

“Whoa there, sir! I believe I’m not your secretary nor do I work for you, but this is going to be fun, so I’ll have my private investigator do it.”

“You have a PI?”

“Don’t ask,” he said.

“Thanks. Please, if I can get everything by tomorrow.”

“Whoa, so you’re really doing this?”

“Yes. If the world wants a love story, I’ll give them one. Paper rings and all.”