The Arrangement

She couldn’t breathe inside the elevator and not just because the walls were closing in, but because the weight of what she was about to do felt like a hand wrapped tight around her ribs. Her reflection in the elevator’s mirrored wall looked foreign—wavy black hair with her brown streaks on full display, faint purple under her eyes, a woman who’d said yes to marrying a stranger for money.

Not even for herself.

For the clinic. For the people who had no one else.

The steel doors opened with a hushed sigh.

And there he was.

Frederick Blackwell. Standing beside a floor-to-ceiling window, city lights burning behind him like a halo. He wasn’t in a suit today. A dark sweater hugged the edges of his broad shoulders, sleeves rolled to the elbows. There was something disarmingly human about the way he looked. Almost approachable. Almost.

She didn’t trust it.

“Dr. Hart,” he said, not turning around. “You’re prompt.”

“Habit,” she replied, stepping inside. “Emergency rooms don’t tolerate late arrivals.”

He turned then, slowly, and his gaze swept over her in a way that made her feel skinned open. Not with lust. With curiosity. As if he were cataloging every line of her face for a reason he hadn’t admitted to yet.

“Did you bring the contract?” he asked.

She nodded, pulled the envelope from her bag, and held it out.

But when he reached for it, she pulled it back.

“I added a clause.”

Frederick’s brow lifted slightly. A flicker of something unreadable passed through his expression—mild amusement, maybe, or surprise.

“You rewrote my contract?” His hands slowly folding across his chest.

“I amended it,” she said. “Clause Fifteen.”

He waited.

“If you fall in love with me, the agreement is void. Immediately.”

A beat of silence. Then two. The weight of the room shifted. It became something else. Something more dangerous.

“You assume I’d fall for you?” he said, voice soft but edged with something sharp.

“I assume people fall when they least intend to,” she replied. “And I want a way out if you decide I’m more than a business transaction.”

His eyes narrowed. Not in anger, but in consideration. She hated that he wasn’t the least bit thrown off.

“And if you fall for me?”

“I won’t.”

Her voice didn’t waver, but her stomach turned to stone.

He moved closer. One step. Then another. Not enough to invade, but enough to own the air between them.

“You’re that sure of yourself?” he murmured.

“No,” she whispered. “I’m that sure of you.”

His eyes stayed on hers a heartbeat too long.

Then he took the envelope, turned, and slid it into the top drawer of his desk without another word.

Just like that, she had a ring on her finger—even if it wasn’t made of gold.

*****

It was hours later when she found herself pacing her apartment, barefoot and furious.

Jane sat on the couch, one leg tucked under her, wine glass in hand. She watched Amelia as if waiting for her to explode.

“You signed it?” Jane asked again, slower this time.

“I did.”

“Clause Fifteen and all?”

Amelia sighed, running both hands through her hair. “You think I’m insane.”

“I think you’re a martyr with no exit plan,” Jane said, setting her wine down. “You trust him?”

“No.”

“But you trust the deal.”

Amelia stopped pacing. “I trust myself to survive it.”

Jane looked at her for a long moment, then stood and walked over, pulling her into a tight hug.

“You’re stronger than anyone I know,” she whispered, “but don’t forget you’re still human. You’re allowed to break.”

“I can’t afford to,” Amelia murmured into her shoulder. “Not this year.”

****

Three days passed before they saw each other again.

She walked into Blackwell Tower in a light blue floral maxi dress with white sandals and her hair in a messy yet elegant bun. She decided against using makeup and settled for only a lip gloss instead. The entire point of this evening was to prove that she wasn't here for the money and actually in love.

The receptionist greeted her like royalty, which made her stomach churn.

A different elevator. A higher floor.

The doors opened to reveal a room filled with polished executives in casuals and too many expensive smiles. Frederick organized a wine tasting banquet with the Gordon's. On the surface, to build more connections. Deep down, a subtle announcement of his engagement.

She scanned the faces and found him instantly—standing tall in a navy blue sweater that made her chest ache in ways she didn’t want to acknowledge.

He crossed the room to meet her, his steps unhurried. Purposeful.

“I was wondering if you’d come,” he said.

“You gave me an itinerary,” she replied. “Hard to ignore.”

He offered his arm. She hesitated. Then took it.

The warmth of him bled through the fabric of his suit jacket. Her pulse stuttered.

For the next hour, she was his fiancée.

He introduced her to CEOs and editors and investors. He didn’t flinch when she corrected him mid-conversation. He didn’t soften his edges. He didn’t pretend to smile unless it served a purpose.

And yet, once—just once—he looked at her while she was speaking, and his eyes weren’t calculating. They weren’t cool.

They were something else.

They were soft.

And that scared her more than anything he’d ever said.

*****

Later, after the event, he led her to the rooftop garden of the tower—an oasis of moonlight and wind. The city spread beneath them like a sleeping beast, glittering and dangerous.

She leaned against the railing, arms crossed.

“You did well tonight,” he said.

“I wasn’t performing.”

“I know.”

He moved beside her, not touching but close enough that her skin responded anyway.

“Why did you really choose me?” she asked, not looking at him. “Why not some actress or trust-fund heiress willing to fake the whole thing?”

He didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was quieter than she’d ever heard it.

“Because you don’t lie to yourself. Or anyone else. Because you’re inconveniently real. Because... I knew you’d say no.”

That startled her. “What?”

“I knew you’d refuse me at first. I counted on it.” He turned to face her. “If you’d said yes too easily, I wouldn’t have trusted you.”

She laughed, sharp and hollow. “So this was a test?”

“No,” he said. “It was a gamble.”

He was looking at her again. That look. That unguarded thing she didn’t have a name for.

“You’re my fiancée now, Amelia,” he said. “Even if it’s just a contract.”

Something in the way he said her name made her shiver.

“You say that like it means something.”

“It does.”

He took a step forward. The space between them disappeared.

“You don’t get to look at me like that,” she whispered.

“Like what?”

“Like you mean it.”

He tilted his head. “And if I did?”

She shook her head. “Clause Fifteen.”

He smiled, but there was no mockery in it. Only ache.

“I remember.”

Then he turned and walked away.

And left her staring at the skyline, alone, with a storm blooming quietly in her chest.