Chapter 2: The Proposal

I stared at him, blinking like I hadn’t heard him right.

“Excuse me?” I asked, my voice barely louder than the jazz humming from the speakers.

The man — Ethan — didn’t flinch. He didn’t laugh or take it back. He simply lifted his glass again and took a slow sip, like offering marriage to a woman he just met wasn’t the most insane thing in the world.

“Marry me,” he repeated, as if the words were perfectly ordinary.

I should’ve laughed. Should’ve called him crazy, told him to leave me alone and walk out of this bar like any normal woman would.

But I didn’t.

Maybe it was the tequila burning in my throat.

Maybe it was the hollow in my chest that Miguel left behind.

Or maybe… maybe I just didn’t want to go back to that hotel room where my wedding dress still waited like a ghost.

“I don’t even know you,” I whispered.

“You don’t need to,” he replied calmly. “I’m not asking for love.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Then what are you asking for?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “A deal. A contract. You marry me, and in exchange, I’ll give you whatever you need to rebuild what they destroyed.”

I stared at him, stunned by the way he said they, like he already knew the story behind the betrayal. Like this wasn’t about love or comfort — it was about control. Power.

And revenge.

“What’s in it for you?” I asked slowly.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the bar. “Let’s just say… having a wife like you will solve a problem I’ve been trying to deal with for months.”

I gave him a look. “So this is what? A business merger disguised as a marriage?”

His lips quirked. “Something like that.”

I scoffed. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“You’re Ariana De Leon. Twenty-six. Owner of Adore Events. Formerly under contract with Miguel Santos’ firm before you broke off and started your own company. Your mother is a retired teacher, and your father left when you were seven. You hate gin, allergic to strawberries, and your dream is to have a studio near the beach.”

I stared.

“I do my research,” he said simply. “Especially when I see something I want.”

Something you want.

The way he said it wasn’t flirtatious. It wasn’t romantic.

It was… calculated.

As if I were a puzzle piece that fit perfectly into a space he’d been saving.

“And what if I say no?”

He shrugged. “Then you finish your drink, go back to your hotel, and pretend tomorrow didn’t exist.”

I looked down at my glass.

I could still walk away. This whole night could fade into memory — a cautionary tale I’d tell no one.

But my body wasn’t moving.

Because some part of me was tired of being powerless. Of being the girl who always played it safe. Who forgave too easily. Who smiled through betrayal.

I didn’t want to be that girl anymore.

“What’s the catch?” I asked.

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “There’s always a catch.”

I waited.

“You’d have to disappear,” he said. “At least, the version of you everyone knows. You’d become Mrs. Ariana Navarro — not a wedding planner, not the jilted bride. My wife. For one year.”

“And after that?”

“You walk away. With your name cleared, your business secured, and enough money to start over.”

I should’ve walked away.

But instead, I asked, “Why me?”

He paused.

And for a second — just one second — I saw something in his eyes shift. A flicker of something softer. Sadder.

But it was gone before I could name it.

“Because you don’t break,” he said.

I felt my throat tighten.

“You saw the man you were supposed to marry betray you,” he continued. “And you walked out with your head high. You didn’t cause a scene. You didn’t fall apart. That kind of strength is rare.”

I swallowed hard.

“I didn’t feel strong,” I admitted. “I felt numb.”

“Even better,” he said. “Numbness makes it easier.”

I shook my head. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe,” he said. “But I’m also serious.”

Silence stretched between us, thick and heavy.

“Why tonight?” I asked. “Why now?”

He leaned back, fingers tracing the rim of his glass. “Because you’re at your lowest. You’ve got nothing left to lose.”

I laughed bitterly. “And you think that’s romantic?”

He didn’t laugh.

“This isn’t a romance, Ariana,” he said. “It’s war.”

—

The next thing I knew, we were outside.

The bar was quieter now. The city had dimmed slightly, the streets less crowded.

I didn’t know why I followed him, or why I let him open the car door for me, but I found myself slipping into the backseat of a black BMW with tinted windows and the scent of leather and something expensive I couldn’t name.

I felt like I was floating — or falling.

“You’ll stay at my place tonight,” he said casually, slipping into the seat beside me.

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You can’t go back to the hotel. Not when the press starts sniffing around. Word will get out by morning.”

I frowned. “How would they even know?”

He gave me a look. “You think Camille will stay quiet? She’s probably already posting cryptic stories on I*******m.”

I didn’t want to believe that.

But I knew he was right.

She would twist the story. Make herself the victim.

Maybe even say I ran out because I got cold feet.

“I’ll have my assistant prepare a room for you,” Ethan continued. “We can talk more tomorrow. I’ll draw up the contract.”

I stared at him, trying to find the cracks in his confidence.

There weren’t any.

“Don’t you care that this is insane?” I asked.

He met my gaze.

“No,” he said. “Because I think you need this as much as I do.”

And the worst part?

He wasn’t wrong.