Chapter 2

Penelope Monroe

The clock flashed 7:00 AM as I lazily brushed my teeth, already dreading the day ahead. Today, I had to meet him, the arrogant asshole who had made me wait over a month for a meeting that should have been important enough for him to prioritize. But no, to him, this was just another business transaction.

The audacity of it made my blood boil.

I finished brushing and glanced at the weighing scale in the corner of my room. I hated that thing. Especially now, knowing I had gained at least ten pounds after Christmas.

And all because of plum cakes. Once I start eating them, there's no stopping me. It's like they possess me. But honestly, I don't discriminate, I love sweets, I love savoury. If food had a dating profile, I'd swipe right every time. It's the love of my life, and everything else is just background noise, which isn't a good thing as my metabolism is very slow.

But none of that mattered right now. What mattered was the fact that I had to face Ethan Rutherford today while not looking my best.

I hated him. But I hated even more how badly I wanted him to find me attractive.

I looked at my reflection in the mirror. My wavy, not-quite-curly, not-quite-straight brown hair barely grazed my shoulders, and I decided to leave it open. My big brown eyes stared back at me, and I sighed. I looked tired because of all the bills I was struggling to pay. I wish I could just find that stubborn, impossible man a wife so that I can get paid.

His assistant had called last night, dropping the meeting on me at the last minute like I was supposed to be grateful. But I knew the truth.

This only happened because, after waiting for weeks, I finally pulled my trump card.

I called his mother.

And of course, she forced him to give me a slot.

Feeling slightly smug about that, I glanced at the time and promptly panicked.

Shit.

I threw on my knee-length black turtleneck dress, grabbed my bag and files, and rushed out the door.

It was time to face the devil.

At 8:50 AM, I arrived outside his sleek, modern office, breathing a sigh of relief, I wasn't late. And I knew Ethan despised lateness.

At exactly 9:00 AM, his assistant led me in. A group of sharply dressed businessmen and women were just exiting his office. How early do his meetings even start? As a natural night owl, early risers always astounded me.

I stepped inside, and Ethan Rutherford looked up from his desk.

My breath hitched.

Goddamn it.

I hated the way he affected me.

Ethan was unfairly good-looking. Broad-shouldered, tall, and effortlessly commanding in a charcoal suit that fit him like a second skin. His dark, unreadable eyes locked onto mine, and for a second, the room felt smaller. The sharp cut of his jaw, the effortless way he exuded power everything about him was designed to unravel me.

I straightened my spine, masking my reaction.

"Good morning, Mr. Rutherford," I greeted in a bright, practiced voice.

"Miss Monroe," he said smoothly, gesturing for his assistant to leave. The door clicked shut, and suddenly, I was alone with him.

My heart lurched. Why does he scare me? And why the hell do I like it?

"Someone's not having a good day," he remarked, his voice calm, but his eyes too sharp like he was enjoying picking me apart.

I tensed. "What do you mean?"

I hadn't said or done anything out of the ordinary had I? Had he read me that easily? Was it just a guess? Or did I make a face?

Instead of answering, he simply leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming lazily against his desk as he looked at my face, studying it.

Infuriating man.

"Is that the envelope you sent me a month ago?" he asked instead.

I hated how he ignored my question. I hated people who did that. Normally, with clients, I let things like this slide. But with him? I cared. And I didn't know why.

"Yes, it is," I said, forcing composure as I handed it over. "You never responded."

I watched as he opened the envelope, pulling out the crisp photographs and information sheets.

"These are your prospective brides," I continued. "Their profiles contain everything you need to know. Of course, we need to arrange meetings so you can determine if there's any mutual interest. I mean they might change their mind after meeting you or vice versa." My tone was polite but a little snarky—I couldn't help it.

A slow, knowing smile crossed his lips.

"You don't hide it well," he mused. "I expected you to be more professional—better at concealing your emotions. Isn't that a big part of your job?"

My breath caught.

He was toying with me.

He had found my trigger, and he was enjoying it.

God, I hate him.

I took a deep, steadying breath and flashed him my sweetest, most insincere smile. "I apologize. It's not you, I'm just having a bad day. But you're right, I shouldn't bring personal matters into work. I'll do better."

His smile deepened: slow, calculated, dangerous.

"Miss Monroe," Ethan murmured, his voice smooth as silk. "You've met these women yourself?"

"Yes," I answered firmly.

He flipped through the profiles, his expression unreadable. "They're pretty enough. But which one is docile?" His dark eyes lifted to meet mine. "I don't mind them stupid, but I don't like arrogance."

I barely stifled a scoff, turning it into a cough.

Oh my God. What the hell is wrong with me? Why can't I be professional?

"Miss Monroe," he said, his voice like a slow, deliberate stroke against my skin. "Is something bothering you?"

His lips curled slightly, he knew he was getting under my skin.

Why did he have to look so good while doing it?

"No," I clipped out. "Please, continue."

"I don't want my wife to be arrogant," he said as if I hadn't reacted at all. "Just sweet. And docile." He leaned back, confidence oozing from every inch of him. "Set up meetings with those kinds of women only."

"Got it," I said, gathering my things, eager to escape the suffocating tension in the room.

I turned toward the door, but then...

"Also," his voice was impossibly smooth, like he was waiting for this moment, "these are just their faces."

I froze.

Slowly, I turned back around.

He was leaning against his desk now, watching me.

"I'd like them to be physically appealing to me," he continued, his voice calm, controlled. But beneath it, something else flickered something thick in the air between us. His gaze travelled downward, dragging slowly over my body before settling on my hips.

"Thicker in the hips is something I prefer."

The way he said it, so casual, yet so intentional—made my breath catch.

His gaze didn't move. He wasn't just looking; he was studying.

Heat crawled up my neck, spreading to my chest. My black, body-hugging tunic had felt perfectly fine this morning. Now, under his scrutiny, it felt too tight, the fabric clinging to my curves in a way that made me want to shrink into myself.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

I straightened my spine, clearing my throat. "Sure. Anything else?"

I expected him to look away, to act like this was just another dull business transaction.

But he didn't.

Instead, his smirk deepened. His voice dropped just a fraction. "Yes. I like really big eyes. Shy women. But too snarky to keep their mouths shut... and they always end up getting into trouble."

A slow chill ran down my spine.

I swallowed.

I wasn't stupid. I knew what he was doing.

But knowing didn't make it any easier to ignore the way my stomach tightened, or the way my fingers curled around the edges of my files, gripping them too hard.

Was he talking about me?

I needed to say something, anything, but my mind was blank.

His smirk deepened, as if he could hear my thoughts.

I forced myself to focus. "I'll... try to find someone like that for you." My voice wasn't as steady as I wanted it to be.

His eyes didn't leave mine.

I became acutely aware of how close he was, of the warmth radiating from his body. His fingers tapped idly against the desk behind him, slow, rhythmic, like he had all the time in the world to unnerve me.

I should have stepped back.

I should have ended this conversation.

But instead, I looked up at him.

Big mistake.

Because the second I did, I felt it—something shift.

His gaze wasn't just playful anymore. It wasn't teasing or just testing how much he could get away with. There was something else lurking beneath the surface.

Something dangerous.

I sucked in a breath, but I couldn't seem to move.

His posture was still relaxed, but the energy between us was anything but.

My pulse pounded at my throat, my skin growing warmer with every passing second.

He tilted his head slightly, gaze searching mine, like he was waiting for me to crack.

I broke away first, clearing my throat. "I'll, um, send you more profiles soon."

I turned toward the door, but I still felt his eyes on me.

Watching. Waiting.

His voice was almost bored when he spoke again. "And the woman you sent me earlier?"

I blinked as I turned around, still rattled. "Serena Livingstone?"

"Yes." He exhaled slowly. "I'd like to know more about why you think she's a good match for me. Honestly, I'm not sure if I like her that much."

My head snapped up.

"What?" His indifference made something in me snap, "You haven't even met her yet, and you're already writing her off?" My voice came out sharper than I intended, my frustration bubbling over. I gestured at the files in front of him, baffled. "She's one of the most beautiful, well-bred, perfectly matched women I've ever found for a client. Just look at her."

He didn't even glance at the profile.

"I told you to send me a full-length picture," he said instead, completely unbothered.

I clenched my jaw, my stomach twisting as I yanked out my phone. "Fine. Here."

I scrolled through Serena's I*******m, tilting my phone toward him.

He barely glanced at the screen before shrugging. "No. Not my type."

I turned to him in disbelief.

"What are you talking about?"

This wasn't happening. This could not be happening.

Ethan leaned back, his expression unreadable. "I'll be very loyal to the woman I'm going to marry. If I have to sleep with just one woman for the rest of my life, she has to be my type. This? She isn't."

His words sent an odd, unsettling sensation through me.

I avoided his gaze, suddenly finding it difficult to meet his eyes.

Something about the way he said my type made my skin tighten.

But I couldn't afford to get distracted. This wasn't just about him. This was about me. I had spent weeks orchestrating this. I needed this match to work.

If Ethan married Serena, it would be huge for me. A Livingstone-Rutherford wedding was career-changing—the kind of event that would cement my company as the best in the industry.

The kind of event that would solve all my problems.

I was already drowning in unpaid invoices, dodging vendor calls, barely keeping my company afloat. And if I couldn't land this, if I couldn't make this happen—

No.

I wouldn't let him ruin this for me.

"Mr. Rutherford," I said, forcing my voice to remain calm. "This woman is gorgeous. She's smart, sophisticated, perfect. You haven't even met her yet, and you're already dismissing her?"

He shrugged, shooting me an indifferent look. "I know what I like."

I sucked in a breath, gripping my phone a little too tight.

He was so frustrating.

"Just one date," I pushed, leaning forward. "That's all I'm asking. One meeting. If you don't like her, fine. But at least give her a chance."

Still, he said nothing.

I could see the resistance in his eyes, the way he enjoyed making me work for this.

So I tried again.

"Please?" I asked, my voice quieter now, more desperate than I wanted it to be.

His gaze flickered to mine.

The moment stretched—heavy, charged.

I didn't realize how close we were until I felt his breath, warm against my skin.

For a second, I thought he might say no.

But then—

His lips curved into that infuriating smirk, the one that always made my pulse stutter.

"Fine," he said finally. "One date."