Chapter Four-Mary Me ,Mrs. Morgan

MARRY ME, MRS. MORGAN

Celeste had been betrayed by one man. She would not make the mistake of handing another man the power to destroy her.

She stood beside Damian Blackwood’s conference table, the marriage proposal still lying between them. Six months. That was all he wanted, according to the document. Six months of pretending to be his wife while the world watched.

She almost laughed.

“Tell me something, Mr. Blackwood. Do you always offer marriage to women whose husbands have just cheated on them, or am I receiving special treatment?”

Damian leaned back in his chair. His expression gave nothing away.

“You are not the first woman to misunderstand my intentions.”

“And I doubt I will be the last if you keep making offers like this.”

“I can explain. Please do. I would love to understand why a billionaire who has spent years fighting my husband suddenly wants to marry his wife.”

“Ex-wife, eventually,” he corrected.

“Not yet.”

“No. Not yet.”

The way he said it irritated her. He spoke as though he already knew how her divorce would end, as though the future were another business transaction he had studied and decided to control.

She picked up the proposal and dropped it in front of him.

“I am not interested.”

Damian looked at the paper, then at her.

“Have you read the entire agreement?”

“I read enough to know that you want a wife on paper.”

“Then you have not read enough to make an informed decision.”

Celeste folded her arms.

“Do not use that calm voice on me. It might work in your boardroom, but I am not one of your employees.”

For the first time, his expression shifted. A faint crease appeared between his brows, and she wondered whether anyone else spoke to him this way.

“Sit down, Celeste.”

“No.”

“All right.”

He stood instead, walked to the window, and looked out over the city. Below them, cars moved through the afternoon traffic while people hurried along the pavements, unaware that one woman’s entire life was being rearranged in a room high above their heads.

“Julian believes he has already won,” Damian began. “He thinks he can divorce you, keep control of Morgan Enterprises, and ensure you never discover what your mother left behind. If you challenge him, he will use his money, his lawyers, and his family connections to make the process as difficult as possible.”

“I know what he can do.”

“Do you know what he will do when he discovers you may have a legitimate claim to the founding shares?”

Celeste fell silent.

“He will try to discredit you,” Damian continued. “He may question your knowledge of the company, challenge the documents, or attempt to settle the matter before you understand what you are entitled to. I cannot predict his exact response, but I know he will protect his interests.”

“And marrying you changes that?”

“It changes the way people see you.”

She frowned.

“Explain.”

“Julian has spent years presenting you as a woman who depends on him. The moment you become my wife, that story becomes harder to sell. You will have access to independent resources, legal support, and a public platform that makes it more difficult for people to dismiss your concerns.”

“You make it sound as if I need another powerful man to be taken seriously.”

“You do not need me to be powerful. You need people to stop assuming you are powerless.”

The words caught her off guard.

She hated that they made sense.

Damian returned to his seat and opened the folder again.

“There is a business advantage for me as well. Our marriage would strengthen my public position during the ongoing competition between Blackwood Holdings and Morgan Enterprises. It would also make it harder for Julian to control the narrative around the share dispute.”

“So this is a business arrangement.”

“Partly.”

“What is the other part?”

His eyes met hers.

“That is more complicated.”

“Convenient.”

“I did not promise you a simple explanation.”

Celeste pulled out the chair opposite him and sat down.

“Fine. Let us talk about the business arrangement. If I even consider this, I will have conditions.”

“I expected that.”

“First, my shares remain mine. You will not buy them, transfer them, vote them, or make decisions about them without my explicit permission.”

“Agreed.”

“Second, my legal case remains independent. Your lawyers may provide information, but my own lawyer will represent me. You will not tell me what to sign or when to settle.”

“Agreed.”

“Third, I keep my own bank accounts and control my own money. I will not depend on you for personal expenses, and I will not surrender my financial independence because I marry you.”

Damian studied her for a moment.

“Reasonable.”

“Fourth, we sleep in separate bedrooms.”

“Agreed.”

She blinked.

“That was easy.”

“Would you prefer an argument?”

“No. I am simply surprised you did not negotiate.”

“I have no interest in sharing a bedroom with a woman who does not want to share one with me.”

His answer was so direct that warmth crept into her cheeks. She looked down at the document and pretended to examine the wording.

“Fifth, there will be no forced intimacy. No touching me to impress people, no expecting me to perform the duties of a wife in private, and no using this agreement to demand anything I have not freely agreed to.”

Damian’s face became serious.

“You will never owe me your body because of a contract. If we marry, your consent will remain yours.”

The quiet certainty in his voice unsettled her more than a flirtatious answer would have.

Julian had once promised to cherish her. Over time, he had treated her patience as permission, her loyalty as an obligation, and her sacrifices as things she was supposed to provide without question.

Damian, a man she barely knew, had just acknowledged a boundary without making her defend it.

She was not ready to trust him. But she noticed.

“One more condition,” she said. “You will not interfere with my decisions outside the agreement. I can visit my friends, continue my work, hire my own advisers, and leave this marriage when the agreed term ends. I will not be isolated in your house or expected to ask your permission to live my life.”

“Agreed.”

“You are accepting everything.”

“I am accepting reasonable terms.”

“And what do you get out of this?”

“A wife for six months.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It is the answer the public will understand.”

She stared at him.

“So you expect us to convince everyone that we are in love?”

“Not necessarily in love. But we must appear to have a genuine marriage. We cannot announce a wedding and then behave like strangers whenever someone takes a photograph.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“Being married to me may be many things, Celeste. Boring will not be one of them.”

She gave him a disbelieving look.

Was that a joke?

Damian's expression remained composed, but there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

She hated that she noticed them. She hated even more that a small part of her wanted to see him smile properly.

“How convincing does this performance need to be?” she asked.

“We will attend selected public events together. There may be interviews, photographs, and questions about how we met. We will need a consistent explanation of our relationship. At home, however, we will respect the boundaries we agree upon.”

“And if I refuse to hold your hand in public?”

“Then I will hold my own.”

Despite herself, Celeste laughed.

It was brief and unexpected. The sound seemed to surprise them both.

She quickly straightened.

“Do not think that means I am agreeing.”

“I would not dare.”

For one strange moment, the tension between them eased. She could almost imagine having a normal conversation with him, without lawyers or betrayal or the weight of a marriage neither of them understood.

Then she remembered who he was.

“Why me?” she asked.

Damian’s amusement disappeared.

“You could marry almost anyone. There are women who would be delighted to have your name attached to theirs. Women with money, influence, connections, and no complicated divorce hanging over their heads. Why choose me?”

He did not answer immediately.

Instead, his gaze moved to the small silver bracelet around her wrist. It was old and simple, with a tiny engraved charm that had belonged to her mother. Celeste wore it almost every day, though she rarely thought about it.

When she noticed him looking, she instinctively covered it with her other hand.

“Is there something wrong with my bracelet?”

“No.”

“Then why are you staring at it?”

“I was thinking.”

“About my jewellery?”

“About how much time people waste overlooking the things that matter.”

She studied him.

There it was again, that strange shift in his expression. For a moment, the controlled billionaire disappeared, and she saw something beneath his composure that looked almost like regret.

“What are you hiding?” she asked.

“Several things.”

“At least you admit it.”

“I would rather admit that there are things I cannot tell you yet than give you a lie that sounds convincing.”

It was not the answer she wanted. Still, she respected the distinction.

Damian closed the folder.

“There is a reason I chose you, Celeste. It is connected to Morgan Enterprises, to the original ownership records, and to something that happened years ago. Something your family has kept buried.”

“My family?”

“Richard Morgan knows more about the company’s founding than he has admitted. The records you found may be only the beginning.”

“Are you saying my mother’s shares are connected to some secret?”

“I am saying there is a question neither Julian nor Richard wants you to ask.”

“And you expect me to marry you before you tell me what that question is?”

“No. I expect you to consider whether working with me gives you a better chance of finding the answer.”

Celeste looked down at the proposal.

She had come to the meeting expecting manipulation. She had found a man who was certainly hiding something, but who had listened to every condition she laid out. He had not mocked her demands or told her to trust him blindly. He had offered her a choice, even if she did not yet understand the price attached to it.

Perhaps that was what made him dangerous.

A man who openly threatened you was easy to resist. A man who respected your boundaries while keeping his secrets was harder to read.

“I will consider it,” she said at last. “But I am not signing anything today.”

“Take the agreement to your lawyer.”

“I will. Every clause will be reviewed, and if my lawyer finds anything that puts my rights at risk, I will walk away.”

“Fair enough.”

“And if you have hidden conditions, I expect to know about them before I sign.”

“You have my word that the written agreement will be available for your lawyer to examine.”

“That is not quite the same as promising you have told me everything.”

“No,” Damian admitted. “It isn't.”

She rose and slipped the proposal into her handbag.

“I will contact you after my lawyer has reviewed it.”

“I will wait to hear from you.”

Celeste moved towards the door, but she had barely reached it when his voice stopped her.

“There is something else.”

She turned reluctantly.

“What now?”

Damian had risen from his chair. He looked less like a billionaire negotiating a contract and more like a man standing at the edge of a decision he had delayed for far too long.

“Seven years ago, you were in a small town outside Port Harcourt. It was raining heavily that evening. You found a boy injured by the roadside and stayed with him until help arrived.”

Celeste went completely still.

The room seemed to shrink around her.

She remembered the rain. She remembered a boy sitting against a broken wall, blood on his forehead and fear in his eyes. She remembered giving him her scarf, holding his hand, and begging him to stay awake while they waited for help.

She had never told Julian about that evening. She had never spoken about it to anyone in years.

“How do you know about that?”

Damian’s gaze settled on the small silver bracelet at her wrist.

“Because, Celeste, I've been looking for you for seven years.”