Chapter 2: A Too-Good Offer to Turn Down

There was an overwhelming quiet in the room. I tried to take in what I had just heard as I looked at him. What would you think about marrying me? Absurd and unreal, the words replayed in my mind like a nightmare I was unable to wake from.

"Pardon me?" I succeeded, speaking hardly louder than a whisper.

Leaning back in his chair, Williams Franklin's eyes were composed and strategic. "I think I was explicit. I'm proposing to you—under a contract, of course.

A bitter, disbelieving laugh rose up in my throat. "Is this a joke of some sort?"

His face remained unwavering. "Joke is a waste of time for me."

As a reaction to protect myself from the situation's utter ridiculousness, I crossed my arms. "You're not even familiar with me. Why would you—

"Are you not present here? at *Love Affair*. With an irksomely matter-of-fact tone, he said, "That tells me everything I need to know."

My cheeks became heated. "You know absolutely nothing about me."

"I know enough," he shot back. You're in a desperate situation. You need security and money, which you can't acquire from your previous location.

Since his statements were accurate, they were a stomach strike. I didn't have to stand here and take it, though. "What's your excuse, too? Are dates no longer available to billionaires?

His lips twitched into a half-smile that stopped short of his eyes. This has nothing to do with romance. It has to do with necessity. To keep my job in my family's business, I need a wife for five years. Nothing more, nothing less.

The parts began to come together as I blinked. "This is business, then?"

"Exactly."

With the situation's weight bearing down on me, I stepped back. "Why me?"

Like he was talking about a job interview, he remarked bluntly, "You fit the profile." "You're modest enough to avoid attracting needless attention, and you don't have any important relationships or family ties that could cause problems."

modest. I didn't want to admit how much the term hurt.

I shook my head and remarked, "This is crazy." "You can't simply approach someone and propose marriage."

"I am, and I can," he answered. "And you should hear the terms before you dismiss it."

I paused. Even though this was absurd, something in me paused when the word "terms" was mentioned. I was working dead-end temporary jobs, drowning in student loan debt, and making ends meet in a city that didn't give a damn if I swam or sank. Perhaps I should have at least listened to him.

"All right," I answered cautiously. "These terms—what are they?"

He pointed to the seat on the other side. "Take a seat."

I sat on the edge of the soft chair as if it might swallow me whole and reluctantly obeyed.

"This is how it operates," he started. "We sign a contract that specifies the terms of our agreement. You publicly, legally, and merely in name consent to be my wife for five years. In exchange, you will get a lump sum payment of $5 million at the conclusion of the term, a monthly allowance, and complete access to my resources.

My breath caught. Five million dollars. It was a lifeline, not just a life-altering sum of money.

"What's the catch?" I squinted as I asked.

"There isn't a catch," he stated with ease. "Aside from keeping up the impression of being married, we lead different lives. No emotional entanglements, no romantic commitments. It is only a transaction.

Too wonderful to be true, it seemed. "And why are you in such dire need of this?"

His jaw tensed, and I briefly believed he would not respond. Then he added, "The rules of my family's business have a clause. I must demonstrate my stability in order to receive my portion of the company. Specifically, married.

I tried to hide my distaste as I said, "So, this is about money."

"Survival is the goal," he clarified. Additionally, don't act like you're above it. Both of us are aware that you are thinking about it.

I wanted to argue and leave that room without turning around. In actuality, though, he was correct. The prospect of five million dollars was a siren song I couldn't ignore, and the desperation I'd worked so hard to conceal was about to show.

"What occurs five years later?" I enquired.

He said simply, "We part ways." "There are no conditions. I'll have what I need to keep my job, and you'll have the means to start again.

My rational side cried out for me to turn away, but a different voice said in a whisper, *This might be your opportunity. This was a door I never thought would open in my life, which had been a string of dead ends.

"Do I have time to consider it?" My voice trembled a little as I asked.

He got up from his chair and responded, "Of course." But not for too long. My offer won't remain open indefinitely.

His name was etched in silver on a sleek black card that he handed to me. If you accept, give this number a call. The specifics will be handled by my assistant.

For a split second, my fingertips touched his as I accepted the card. Unreadable and unnerving, his eyes remained on mine.

After saying, "Goodnight, Ms. Harrington," he pivoted on his heel and vanished through the door.

The card felt heavy in my fingers as I sat there for what seemed like an eternity. Was this something I was actually thinking about? Giving up my future and my life for a contract marriage?

However, the other option wasn't all that much better. It was oppressive to think about going back to my small flat, where I would be faced with a mountain of expenses and unfulfilling work.

At last, I got up, put the card in my coat pocket, and made my way to the door. The smell of wet concrete permeated the air even though the rain had stopped.

I mentally recited Williams Franklin's comments as I strolled down the deserted street. *This has nothing to do with romance. It's all about surviving.

I thought I might have an option for the first time in a long time. However, the concept evoked anxiety rather than relief. Because I secretly knew that there would be no going back once I dialled that number.

I stopped at the corner and looked up at the night sky. The sky was a blank canvas as the city lights obscured the stars.

Then a man appeared behind me in an alleyway, like a ghost in the darkness. I turned, clutching my purse tighter as my heart leaped into my throat.

"Ms. Harrington," said a drawling voice.

Williams Franklin wasn't the one. This older man's eyes had a harsher edge, and his suit was crisp.

"If I were you, I would reevaluate that offer," he remarked in a menacing tone.

My heart pounded in my ears as I stepped back. "Who are you?"

"That isn't significant," he answered. The fact that Franklin's transactions are always costly is what counts. One that you are unwilling to pay for.

I was alone with a cold that had nothing to do with the weather when he vanished into the darkness before I could reply.