CHAPTER 1: THE OFFER

Elara Quinn had mastered taking in rejection in style.

She sat in her corner office which was soon someone else’s, staring at the rejection email until the words blurred together.

“We regret to inform you that Quinn Interiors does not align with our current investment portfolio…”

Translation: Your father’s legacy is dying, and we don’t care.

She slammed her laptop shut, the click echoing in the empty office. Tears welled up in her eyes as she rubbed her temple seeking for an ease. Outside, her staff pretended to work, pretending they didn’t know the company was three weeks from collapse.

Her phone buzzed and she opened it to check the message notification. Of course, it wasn't a pleasant one too.

HOSPITAL ADMINISTRATION: Final notice. Payment extension expires in 72 hours. Please contact billing immediately to discuss your mother’s care.

Seventy-two hours.

Elara pressed her palms to her eyes. She could not afford to cry right now. She needed something within three days to pull off a miracle, or watch everything which included her mother, her father’s legacy, her pride, fall apart.

The intercom clicked.

“Ms. Quinn? A… gentleman is here. He has no appointment, but he says it’s urgent.”

She didn’t look up. “Tell him to join the line of people I can’t pay.”

Pause. Then softer: “He says his name is Lucien Blackwood.”

She caught her breath and her chest tightened

Everyone knew Lucien Blackwood. He was a real estate mogul and a well known corporate shark. He made his First million at twenty-three and first billion before thirty. He was the man who made competitors fold before talks even began.

And he was here. Asking for her.

“Send him in.”

With thirty seconds to compose herself, she stood, smoothed her navy dress, arranged her face so it didn’t scream desperate although she knew it probably won't make any difference.

He walked in like he owned the room. Tall, dark hair perfect, a suit that could pay her rent for a year. Steel-gray eyes cold as winter. If she wasn't in survival mode she would think he was darkly handsome. The kind of beauty that has you sucked in with a gaze.

“Ms. Quinn,” he said, in a smooth and controlled manner. “Thanks for seeing me.”

“I don’t recall having a choice, Mr. Blackwood. What brings you to a sinking ship?”

A flicker of amusement passed his otherwise stoic face. “Straight to the point. I like that.”

He sat without asking. The air itself shifted.

“I have a problem,” he said, gazing at her assertively. “You’re going to fix it.”

Elara laughed, a short and sharp sound. “I’m not in the problem-solving business anymore.”

“On the contrary.” He set a black leather folder on her desk. “You’re perfect for this. You're desperate, alone and out of options.”

It should have stung but it didn’t. It only confirmed the reality she's been living all these past few weeks.

“I need a wife,” he said like it was nothing. “Just for one year. You need money, I have enough to offer so this works for both of us.”

“Excuse me?”

“Marriage,” he said, leaning back on the seat. “It will be temporary, definitely a contract and mutually beneficial for us both.”

“You’re insane.” she could not hide the fact that she was mortified from her voice any longer.

“I’m pragmatic.” He said calmly while gesturing to the folder. “Open it.”

Inside was a contract with numbers that made her head spin.

Five hundred thousand upfront.

Fifty thousand a month.

Full medical for her mother.

Two million at the end.

“This is…” She couldn’t. 

“Generous?” He supplied. “All I ask is total commitment for a year. We'll make convincing public appearances, live together and act married.”

“Why?” Her voice cracked. “You could have anyone. Someone who actually—”

“Wants it real?” His smile was sharp. “No. I need business.”

She stared at the contract. The money that could save her mother, the company, herself.

“There’s a catch,” she said. There always was.

“Smart.” He stood, buttoning his jacket. “Read it. My lawyer will contact you in an hour, you've got seventy-two hours to decide.”

The same seventy-two hours the hospital gave her.

“How did you—” she started. “did you investigate me?”

“Due diligence.” He paused at the door. “I’m offering a way out. The question is, is your pride worth more than your mother’s life?”

What the hell. She paused in shock at the audacity of this man.

Elara stood, fury replacing shock. “Get out.”

“I’ll expect your answer by Friday.” He glanced back. “For what it’s worth, you’re perfect. Desperate enough to say yes, proud enough to keep appearances and smart enough to know a deal is all you have left.”

And he left. Leaving with the sound of the door clicking behind him.

Elara froze with the contract in her hands. A freedom and a cage.

Outside, the city kept moving, uncaring about the 28 year old female in a deliema. Somewhere, her mother waited with her life on the line. While, her father’s legacy gasped was at the verge of collapse. 

She gazed at the folder iIn her hands, salvation wrapped in surrender all in the name of a contract.

Her phone buzzed, pulling her out of her thoughts.

SOPHIA: Lunch tomorrow? You’ve been dodging me for three weeks, bitch. It's intervention time.

Elara stared at her best friend’s text, the contract, the rejec

tion email and the calendar besides her notepad.

Seventy-two hours.

She opened the folder and began to read.