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The Contract proposal
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2025-10-13 19:46:06(Damon’s POV)
I’d learned a long time ago that silence was more powerful than words. But that night — after the gala, after the flashing lights, after her — silence felt like a blade cutting through the air. The photo was everywhere by morning. Every business column, every gossip site, every investor update. “Billionaire Damon Hale Spotted with Mystery Woman — Engagement Rumors?” “Hale Heir’s Secret Bride?” Ridiculous. Yet the internet doesn’t ask for truth; it feeds on illusion. My PR team called before sunrise. My father called right after. The message was clear: Fix it. I sat in my penthouse office, the city spread beneath the glass like a map of my empire. My coffee was cold, untouched. Across the desk, Evan — my business partner and oldest friend — studied me with that familiar mix of worry and amusement. “You should’ve smiled for the camera, Damon. You look like you’re proposing.” “I wasn’t.” “Tell that to the tabloids. They’ve already written your wedding vows.” I ignored him and turned the tablet toward me. The photo filled the screen — Aria Collins, wide-eyed and blushing, her hand in mine. The moment looked cinematic, romantic even. Almost believable. Almost. “Who is she?” Evan asked. “An architect. Collins Design.” “Never heard of it.” “Most people haven’t.” He frowned. “So how did this happen?” “She tripped. Someone spilled a drink. The rest is chaos.” He chuckled softly. “And now you’re the lead in a modern fairy tale. You, the man who doesn’t even believe in dating.” I looked away, jaw tightening. I didn’t need the reminder. Relationships were liabilities. They cost focus. They broke men. My father’s empire had nearly collapsed because of one — his marriage to my mother. She’d left with half his pride and all his trust. I wasn’t built for that kind of weakness. But investors didn’t care about my beliefs. Neither did the board. The merger we were finalizing with the Japanese firm required stability, respectability — and no scandal. The tabloids threatened that. Which left me with one option. “Find her,” I said finally. Evan blinked. “What?” “The woman in the photo. I want her here. Today.” “Damon, that’s—” “Just do it.” He sighed, rubbing his temples. “You’re planning something reckless, aren’t you?” “Calculated,” I corrected. “Not reckless.” When the door closed behind him, I leaned back, staring out at the city. Aria Collins. Her name had been stuck in my mind since the moment she’d stood in front of me — nervous but defiant, fire in her eyes. She wasn’t like the people I usually met in this world. She didn’t flatter or flirt; she challenged. And that made her dangerous. Two hours later, my assistant announced her arrival. “Send her in.” She walked into my office wearing the same determination she’d worn at the gala — only now, her posture was straighter, her chin higher. The light from the window caught in her hair, and for a moment I forgot the problem we were here to fix. “Mr. Hale,” she said carefully. “Miss Collins.” I gestured to the chair across from me. “Sit.” She hesitated, then did. Her hands were folded tightly in her lap, but her voice was steady. “I’m assuming this is about the photo.” “You assume correctly.” “I didn’t intend for that to happen—” “I know,” I cut in. “But intention doesn’t matter. Perception does. And perception says we’re involved.” Her brows drew together. “Then we clarify it. A statement, maybe an interview—” “No,” I said. “That won’t be enough.” She blinked. “Then what do you suggest?” I studied her for a long moment, weighing the madness of what I was about to propose. It was wrong — unethical, maybe even unhinged — but it was the only way to contain the damage. And perhaps, deep down, part of me wanted to see how far that spark in her eyes could go. “You and I,” I said finally, “are going to get married.” Her mouth parted slightly. For a second, she didn’t speak — just stared at me as if I’d spoken another language. “Excuse me?” “Temporarily,” I clarified. “A contract marriage. Three months, maybe six. Long enough to stabilize the headlines, calm the investors, and then we dissolve it quietly.” She laughed — incredulous, nervous, almost angry. “You can’t be serious.” “I’m always serious.” “You want me to marry you — for business?” “For damage control,” I corrected. “You need the exposure. I need the illusion. It benefits us both.” She stood, shaking her head. “No. That’s insane.” “Is it?” I asked evenly. “Your company’s drowning in debt. I could save it overnight. One signature, and Collins Design gets the Hale Tower project — full credit.” Her eyes flashed. “So you think you can buy me?” “No,” I said quietly. “I think you’re smart enough to see a deal when it’s offered.” Silence stretched. The kind that hums with too many emotions to name. Finally, she exhaled slowly. “And if I say no?” I met her gaze, steady and cold. “Then you spend the next six months fighting rumors that you seduced a billionaire for attention. And your company goes under.” She flinched — just slightly, but I saw it. I hated that I had to use pressure. But the world didn’t reward softness, and I couldn’t afford another mistake. When she finally spoke again, her voice was barely above a whisper. “And if I say yes?” “Then we draft a contract. Terms, duration, conditions. You keep your independence. I keep my reputation.” Her hands trembled, but her eyes didn’t. “And when it’s over?” “When it’s over,” I said, “we both walk away richer.” A long silence followed. Then, slowly, she nodded. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll do it.” I expected relief. Instead, something unfamiliar flickered in my chest — a strange tightness I couldn’t name. As she turned to leave, I spoke softly, almost without meaning to. “You have no idea what you’ve agreed to, Miss Collins.” She paused, her voice just as quiet. “Neither do you, Mr. Hale.” The door closed behind her, and I found myself staring at it longer than I should have. For the first time in years, a deal didn’t feel like control. It felt like fire. 
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