Chapter 6

The car idled outside her building at 7:15 sharp.

Alexander sat in the back, scrolling emails he wasn’t reading, watching the front door of the walk-up like it owed him something.

Rain streaked the windows in steady sheets—New York doing its dramatic winter thing. He’d sent the Mercedes instead of the Maybach. Less ostentatious. Though he wasn’t sure anything with a driver truly qualified as low-key.

He’d chosen Il Buco carefully. Intimate but public. Good food, dim lighting, tables far enough apart that conversation stayed private. Neutral ground, as promised.

But nothing about this felt neutral.

His phone buzzed. Elena.

Elena: Nakamura team confirmed for Jan 10. They’re asking about “personal updates” again.

He typed back: Handle it.

Meaning: stall.

He needed this deal locked before the ink dried on any marriage certificate—real or fake. The timing had to be perfect.

The door to her building opened.

Evelyn stepped out, wrestling with a black umbrella that immediately turned inside out in the wind. She cursed,he could almost hear it from here and fought it back into shape. Then she paused under the awning, smoothing her dress.

Black dress.

Simple. Sleeveless. Cut just above the knee. Nothing flashy, but on her it was devastating. The fabric skimmed her curves without trying too hard, neckline low enough to hint, high enough to make him want more. Her hair was down tonight, dark waves damp from the rain, brushing her bare shoulders.

She looked like trouble wrapped in elegance.

Beautiful, stubborn trouble.

The driver got out, umbrella ready, and escorted her to the car. She slid into the back seat, bringing cold air and the faint scent of rain and something soft—vanilla, maybe.

“Hi,” she said, a little breathless. “Sorry. Umbrella betrayal.”

He allowed himself a small smile. “You won.”

“Barely.”

The door closed. The car pulled away from the curb.

She settled against the leather seat, clutching a small purse in her lap. No painting. He noticed immediately.

“No canvas tonight?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I couldn’t carry it on the subway if I’d said no to the car. And I figured… we’re just talking.”

“We are.”

Silence stretched for a block. Not uncomfortable, exactly. Charged.

“You look beautiful,” he said.

She glanced at him, surprised. “Thanks. You look… like you always do.”

“Expensive?”

“I was going to say put-together.” A hint of a smile. “But yeah, that too.”

He let it go. Watched her instead as the city lights played across her face.

“How was your day?” he asked.

“Long. Busy. I spilled oat milk down my apron three times.” She laughed softly. “Glamorous life.”

“Better than board meetings.”

“I doubt that.”

“You’d be surprised.”

They fell quiet again. She stared out the window, fingers twisting the strap of her purse.

He wanted to reach over. Cover her hand with his. Tell her to relax.

He didn’t.

Il Buco was tucked down a quiet street, warm light spilling from the windows. The driver opened the door, umbrella shielding her as she stepped out. Alexander followed, guiding her inside with a light touch at the small of her back.

The host greeted him by name—quietly, discreetly—and led them to the corner table he’d requested. Brick walls, candlelight, low murmur of conversation. Perfect.

They sat. Menus appeared. Wine list.

Evelyn scanned it, eyes widening slightly at the prices.

“I can order water,” she said.

He signaled the sommelier. “The ‘18 Barolo. And sparkling water for the table.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You drink Barolo on a Wednesday?”

“When the company’s good.”

She blushed. Actually blushed.

Good.

They ordered—pasta for her, risotto for him. Simple. No need to impress with excess.

Small talk came easier than expected. She asked about his day (he gave her the sanitized version). He asked about her art (she lit up, then caught herself and dimmed again).

The wine arrived. Poured. Tasted.

He waited until their plates were in front of them before steering the conversation where it needed to go.

“I’m going to make you a different offer tonight.”

She paused, fork halfway to her mouth. “Different from twenty-five thousand?”

“Very.”

She set the fork down. Folded her hands in her lap. “Okay.”

He leaned forward slightly. Lowered his voice.

“I need a wife.”

She blinked. Once.

Then laughed—short, incredulous. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Not permanently,” he said quickly. “One year. A marriage on paper. Public appearances. Separate lives otherwise.”

She stared at him. The laughter gone.

“You’re serious.”

“Completely.”

She reached for her water, took a long drink. “Why?”

“Business. A merger I’m closing requires… stability. The investors are traditional. They want to see a family man.”

“So buy a ring and hire an actress.”

“I considered it. But it needs to feel real. Last long enough to satisfy them. And I don’t trust actresses.”

“But you trust me? A barista you met two days ago?”

“I trust that you need the money.”

Her spine straightened. Eyes flashed.

“Careful.”

“I’m not insulting you,” he said calmly. “I’m being honest. You’re struggling. I can help.”

“With a million dollars wired the day I sign, I assume?”

He didn’t flinch. “Yes. Plus whatever you need during the year—rent, loans, supplies, travel. All covered.”

She looked away. Toward the candle flickering between them.

“And after?”

“Quiet divorce. You walk away with everything agreed upon. No strings.”

She was quiet for a long moment.

“Separate lives,” she repeated.

“Separate bedrooms. Separate schedules when we’re not in public. You keep your apartment, your job, your life. I’ll even convert a room in the penthouse into a studio if you want.”

She turned back to him. “And if I say no?”

“Then I pay twenty-five thousand for the painting and we never see each other again.”

Another long silence.

The waiter refilled their water. Disappeared.

Finally: “This is insane.”

“I know.”

“People don’t do this.”

“Some do.”

She picked up her wine. Drained half the glass.

“I need to think.”

“Of course.”

“I’m not saying yes.”

“I’m not asking you to tonight.”

She set the glass down carefully.

“Why me?” she asked quietly. “Really.”

He considered lying again. Something about convenience, proximity.

Instead: “Because you looked at me like I was just a man. Not a headline. Not a net worth. And because when I saw your painting, I felt something I haven’t in years.”

Her breath caught. Barely.

She looked down at her plate. Pushed a strand of hair behind her ear.

“I need time,” she said.

“Take all you need.”

The rest of dinner passed in quieter tones. Less business. More careful circling—favorite books (hers: art monographs and worn paperbacks; his: biographies and market analyses), music (she liked indie folk; he admitted to classical when working), New York stories.

He paid. They left.

In the car, she was silent until they reached her building.

She turned to him.

“I’ll think about it. Really think.”

He nodded.

“And Alexander?”

He waited.

“Thank you for dinner. And for… not pushing.”

He almost smiled. “Goodnight, Evelyn.”

She stepped out into the rain. Didn’t look back.

He watched until she disappeared inside.

Then he leaned back, closed his eyes, and exhaled for the first time all night.

She hadn’t said no.

And that was more than he’d dared hope for.