CHAPTER 16: The Proposal

Two weeks after the media storm broke, I was still finding paparazzi outside the building.

They'd learned my schedule. Knew when I left for work, when I came home, what coffee shop I frequented during lunch. My life had become a spectator sport.

"Miss Martinez! Is it true you're moving to California?"

"Bella! How does James feel about the baby?"

"Are you and Mr. Sterling getting married?"

I'd learned to keep my head down. Sunglasses on. No comments. Just keep walking until Thomas could get the car door open and shield me from the cameras.

Today was worse than usual. Someone had leaked that I had a doctor's appointment—my eight-week checkup with Dr. Roberts. Now they were camped outside Sterling Corporation's medical entrance.

"This is insane," I muttered to Thomas as he navigated through the crowd.

"Indeed, Miss Martinez. Mr. Sterling is quite concerned."

That was an understatement. Alexander had been increasingly protective, bordering on overprotective. He'd tried to convince me to work from home. I'd refused. Tried to insist on accompanying me to appointments. I'd refused that too.

I needed some independence, some control over my own life.

The appointment went well. Strong heartbeat. Good growth. Everything on track. Dr. Roberts assured me the stress wasn't affecting the baby, though she encouraged me to find ways to relax.

"Maybe a vacation?" she suggested. "Somewhere private. Away from the cameras."

"I can't just leave."

"Why not? You have sick days. Personal days. Use them."

I promised to think about it.

When I returned to the penthouse that evening, Alexander was already home. Unusual for a Tuesday.

"You're early," I said, setting down my bag.

"We need to talk."

Four words that never meant anything good.

"About?"

"This." He gestured to the window where, forty-five floors below, paparazzi were probably still lurking. "This situation. It's not sustainable, Bella."

"I know it's not ideal—"

"It's not safe. They're getting more aggressive. Yesterday someone followed you into the coffee shop. This morning they tried to get into the building."

"Security handled it."

"This time. But what about next time? What if they get too close? What if something happens to you or the baby?"

I sank onto the couch. "What do you want me to do? Hide in here forever?"

"No. I want you to marry me."

Silence.

Complete, total silence.

"What?" I finally managed.

Alexander sat across from me, his expression serious. "Marry me. Not—not for love or romance. A contract marriage. Legal protection for you and the baby. It would give you my name, my resources, my security."

"You want a contract marriage."

"I want you protected. The media is brutal to unwed mothers, especially in high-profile situations. But as my wife? They'd have to be more careful. More respectful."

"Or they'd be worse. 'Gold digger traps billionaire with pregnancy.'"

"Let them think what they want. You'd have legal protections. Medical coverage. Financial security. The baby would be legitimate in the eyes of society."

The word legitimate stung. "Our baby is legitimate regardless of a marriage certificate."

"I know that. You know that. But the world—" He ran a hand through his hair. "I'm not explaining this well."

"No, you're not."

He moved to sit beside me. "Bella, I'm watching you suffer. Every day, cameras in your face, strangers dissecting your life, my son making threats. I have the power to make some of that better. Marriage would provide legal protections, tax benefits, and social legitimacy that would shield both you and the baby."

"You're talking about this like a business transaction."

"Because in many ways, it would be. A contract. Terms. Benefits for both parties."

"What benefits do you get?"

"Peace of mind knowing you're protected. Legal rights to be involved in all decisions regarding the baby. And—" he paused, "—the satisfaction of doing the right thing."

I stood, needing distance. "The right thing. Like I'm some charity case you need to save."

"That's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean, Alexander? Because from where I'm standing, you just proposed a loveless business arrangement to fix a problem I created by getting pregnant."

"You didn't create this alone."

"But I'm the one paying the price!" The words exploded out of me. "You go to work, people treat you with respect. I go to work, people whisper behind my back. You're the powerful CEO who got unlucky. I'm the scheming gold digger who trapped you."

"No one who matters thinks that."

"Everyone thinks that!" Tears were streaming down my face now. Damn pregnancy hormones. "And now you want to marry me out of obligation? Out of some misguided sense of responsibility?"

"It's not misguided—"

"I don't want to be your responsibility, Alexander. I don't want to be the problem you solve with a contract and a prenup and legal protections. I want—"

I stopped.

"What do you want?" His voice was soft.

What did I want? To be loved. To be chosen not because of a baby or obligation but because I was worth choosing. To matter beyond being the mother of his child.

But I couldn't say that. Couldn't make myself that vulnerable.

"I want to raise our baby in peace," I said instead. "That's all."

He was quiet for a long moment. "Then marry me. For the baby's sake. For peace."

"And what happens after? When the baby's born and the media moves on to the next scandal? We just... stay married? Pretend to be a happy family?"

"We wouldn't have to pretend. We get along well. We respect each other. We could build something real."

"Built on obligation."

"Built on mutual care and respect. People have built marriages on less."

He wasn't wrong. But the thought of marrying him—of being legally bound to him—while knowing he didn't love me, that this was just duty...

It hurt more than the paparazzi cameras. More than the tabloid headlines. More than all of it.

"I need time to think," I said.

"Of course. Take all the time you need." He stood. "But Bella? I meant what I said. I want to protect you. Both of you. However I can."

After he left, I sat in the growing darkness, one hand on my stomach where our baby was growing.

Eight weeks along. Due in March. A whole life ahead that would be shaped by decisions I made now.

Marriage would solve problems. That was undeniable. Legal protections, financial security, social legitimacy—all things that mattered in the world we lived in.

But it wouldn't give me what I really wanted.

It wouldn't make Alexander love me.

And I was terrified of spending a lifetime married to a man who saw me as a responsibility rather than a choice.

My phone buzzed. A text from Sarah.

SARAH: Saw the paparazzi pics. You okay?

ME: Alexander proposed.

SARAH: WHAT?! Tell me everything!

ME: Contract marriage. For legal protection.

SARAH: Oh. Not romantic then.

ME: Not even a little.

SARAH: What are you going to do?

I stared at the question.

What was I going to do?