CHAPTER 4: Negotiation

POV: Avalon Pierce

Avalon usually steered clear of dive bars like this one. The floors were sticky enough to make you think twice about where you stepped, and the walls were decked out with those bright, buzzing neon beer signs that seemed to glow in every colour imaginable. In the corner, a jukebox was cranking out music that was supposed to be Johnny Cash, but honestly, it sounded more like a cat wailing its heart out — definitely hard to tell with all the background noise. Around here, the sound of pool balls clacking together mixed with the low hum of a TV tuned to a Warriors game that pretty much everyone was ignoring. It was a noisy, chaotic scene, the kind of joint most people wouldn’t give a second glance, let alone Avalon.

He showed up about 15 minutes early, just doing a little scouting. The bartender was an older woman, probably in her sixties, who looked like she’d heard every tall tale you could imagine—and didn’t buy a single one. She poured him a scotch in a glass that, while technically clean, clearly had a lot of history and had probably been around for way better days. He asked for the scotch neat, but she handed him a Bud Light instead.

“We don’t carry scotch,” she said, but in a way that wasn’t rude—more just matter-of-fact. “You want the beer, or you wanna bounce?”

He went with the beer.

Now he sat tucked away in a corner booth, slowly sipping his Bud Light as he tried not to obsess over the number of health code violations happening right under his nose. Margaret would’ve found this whole scene absolutely priceless. She’d probably say this was exactly the kind of wake-up call he needed—to remind him there’s a messy, chaotic world out there beyond the shiny comfort of his forty-fifth-floor office.

The problem was that Margaret wasn’t here tonight.

Then the door swung open, and suddenly Avalon felt his stomach do this weird, complicated flip that he definitely wasn’t ready for.

Selene Castellano walked in wearing jeans that had seen better years and a jacket that was more practical than fashionable. Her dark hair was pulled into a messy bun. No makeup. She looked tired but beautiful. She looked like every reason he’d spent ten years building walls around his heart.

She spotted him right away. Her brown eyes, sprinkled with those tiny gold flecks he used to obsess over during countless late-night study marathons, locked onto his. Something flickered between them—maybe recognition, regret, or a bit of bitterness creeping through.

Without a word, she made her way over and slid into the booth seat across from him, no greeting needed.

“You look different,” she said, breaking the silence.

“You too,” he replied.

“I guess age has caught up with me.”

“Yeah, same here.”

Just then, the bartender came over. “What’ll you have, hon?”

“Whiskey. Gimme whatever’s cheapest.”

The bartender raised an eyebrow at Avalon’s Bud Light, clearly noting the discrepancy between his suit and his beverage choice, then disappeared.

There was this heavy silence hanging between them, like an uninvited guest sitting right at the table. Avalon had gone over this moment in his head a million times—what he’d say, how he'd keep things cool and professional, like just a business deal. But the second Selene looked at him, all that careful planning just flew out the window. All of that evaporated when Selene looked at him.

“So,” she said. “You want to marry me for an inheritance.”

“No, it’s about honouring my grandmother’s last wish and protecting what she left behind.”

“From your uncle, right?”

“Yeah, Marcus. He’s been scheming to grab control for years. Nene was the one keeping him in check. Now that she’s gone, the only thing in Marcus’s way is a clause in her will—me marrying you.”

Just then, Selene’s whiskey showed up. She grabbed the glass and knocked back half of it like she was trying to rush through some awkward moment. Avalon couldn’t help but notice—in the past, she always drank quickly, like she was on the move, trying to escape something.

“Why me?” she asked. “You could marry anyone. Models, socialites, women who actually belong in your world.”

“The will specifically says  you by name.”

Her hand stopped mid-air, halfway to the glass. “Wait, what?”

“My grandmother made it very clear: I, Avalon, have to marry you, Selene Castellano, within thirty days or everything goes to Marcus.”

“That’s insane.”

“That’s Nene for you.” Avalon took a sip of the awful beer in front of him. “She always thought she knew what was best.”

“She actually named me?” Selene’s voice was soft, like she was trying to wrap her head around it all. “I’ve only met her twice—once at your graduation, and once at…”

She stopped. Something shuttered behind her eyes.

Then she trailed off, something dark flickering behind her eyes.

“Once at what?” Avalon urged gently.

“Nothing. Another time.” She finished her whiskey. “So you’re here because you have no choice.”

Looks like we’re both stuck in a corner here. You need some cash, and I need a wife. When you break it down, it just adds up perfectly.

She chuckled, but there was an edge to it, like the joke wasn’t really funny. “That’s what we’re calling it now? ‘The math works?”

“What else would it be?”

She sighed. “A bad idea. A ticking time bomb about to blow. Take your pick.” 

Avalon leaned in a little closer, his tone calm but serious. “Or maybe we just see this as a straightforward deal between two grown-ups who can keep personal stuff separate from business.”

Selene looked at him closely, really giving him that same sharp, thoughtful look she used back in college when they’d debate things like behavioural economics. She was always great at reading between the lines and seeing what was really going on beneath the surface.

He hoped his walls would keep holding strong.

Looks like we’re both stuck in a corner here. You need some cash, and I need a wife. When you break it down, it just adds up perfectly.

She chuckled, but there was an edge to it, like the joke wasn’t really funny. “That’s what we’re calling it now? ‘The math works?”

“What else would it be?”

She sighed. “A bad idea. A ticking time bomb about to blow. Take your pick.” 

Avalon leaned in a little closer, his tone calm but serious. “Or maybe we just see this as a straightforward deal between two grown-ups who can keep personal stuff separate from business.”

Selene looked at him closely, really giving him that same sharp, thoughtful look she used back in college when they’d debate things like behavioural economics. She was always great at reading between the lines and seeing what was really going on beneath the surface.

He hoped his walls would keep holding strong.

“Two hundred and fifty thousand,” she said firmly. “That’s what you promised me last night.”

“Yeah.”

“I want it all upfront. Before any wedding bells ring.”

He shook his head slowly. “We split it — half before, half after we finish the year.”

“No way.” Her voice was cold and steady, like steel. “I want every cent upfront, or I walk.”

“That’s not how these kinds of deals work,” he replied.

“Wrong. A bad call. A total disaster just waiting to happen. Take your pick.”

“Or,” Avalon leaned in a bit, “we call it what it really is—a straightforward business deal between two adults capable of putting past dramas aside and focusing on what matters.”

Selene looked at him closely. Really took him in, just like back in college during their heated debates on behavioural economics. She had a knack for reading people—seeing beyond the facade to the real emotions underneath.

He silently hoped his defences were strong enough.

“She looked at him like he’d just said something incredibly stupid. “I don’t trust that circumstances won’t change. Marcus won’t find a loophole that your lawyers won’t discover a clause that voids the agreement. I need guaranteed money, now, for my sister. That’s the only reason I’m here.”

Fair point. He’d written enough contracts to know how easily they could be contested.

“Fine,” Avalon said. “Two hundred and fifty thousand, upfront, but I want ironclad terms. You live in my home, attend all required social functions. You make this look real to anyone watching. No slip-ups. No revelations. We convince everyone this is a legitimate marriage.”

“And after the year?”

“Clean divorce. Mutual agreement to part ways. You go back to your life, I go back to mine.”

"Like we never knew each other.”

“Exactly.”

Selene flagged down the bartender and ordered another whiskey. When it arrived, she held it but didn’t drink—just turned the glass in her hands, watching the amber liquid catch the neon light.

“I have conditions,” she said.

“Name them.”

“I want my own room, a seperate space. We’re not actually married, so we don’t act married behind closed doors.”

“Agreed.”

“I want control over my own schedule. I have jobs and commitments. I’ll attend your functions, but you don’t get to dictate the rest of my time.”

“Reasonable.”

“And this stays between us; no one knows it’s fake. Not your mother, not your board, not anyone.”

Avalon hesitated. “Margaret knows.”

“Who?”

“My CFO. She knew about the will before I did. She’ll suspect, if she doesn’t know already.”

Selene considered this. “Margaret Chen?”

“You know her?”

“She gave a guest lecture in my economics seminar. Senior year.” Something flickered across Selene’s face. Pain, maybe. Senior year was when everything had ended. “She’s brilliant.”

“She is.”

“If she knows, she knows. But no one else.”

“Agreed.”

They just sat there quietly, not saying a word. The jukebox suddenly switched songs, and whatever was playing was definitely not anything like Johnny Cash’s style. Somewhere nearby, someone let out a loud, frustrated curse by the pool table. Over in the corner, it looked like the Warriors were having a tough time—the scoreboard wasn't in their favour at all.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Selene said quietly.

“You’re doing it for your sister.”

“And you’re doing it for four thousand employees and a dead grandmother’s wishes.”

“Yes.”

“We’re both terrible people.”

“Or we’re both practical people in impossible situations.”

Selene finally drank her second whiskey. Set down the glass with finality. “When’s the wedding?”

“Three weeks. We’ll need time to make it look like a real courtship. Brief engagement, whirlwind romance, that kind of narrative.”

“Anyone who knew us in college will know that’s bullshit.”

Anyone who knew us back in college hasn’t seen us in over ten years. People grow and change, and sometimes old connections spark back to life. It’s totally believable, right?

“Is it, though?” she asked, giving him that look—the same one that used to make him believe in soulmates and forever love. “Do we really look like two people who’ve just reconnected and warmed things up again?”

Honestly, no. We looked more like two survivors from the same wreckage, stuck in a rundown bar, hashing out the messy aftermath of whatever went wrong between us.

But he kept that thought to himself.

“We’ll make it believable,” Avalon said with a smirk. “That’s exactly why they’re paying us.”

“You’re getting paid in inheritance. I’m getting a paycheck,” she shot back.

“Same difference,” he shrugged.

“Nope. That’s called truth.”

She stood. Extended her hand across the table like they were closing a business deal. Which, technically, they were.

“One year,” Selene said. “Then we never have to see each other again.”

Avalon took her hand. Her skin was still soft and warm. Still familiar in a way that made his chest ache.

"One year,” he agreed.

They shook. Contract made.

Avalon was sitting alone in the booth, surrounded by the buzzing glow of neon lights, the hum of the noisy bar, and the lingering shadows of who they once were. The bartender approached, wiping down Selene’s glasses with a practised ease. “You two? You’ve got a story, don’t you?”

“Is it really that clear?”

“Sweetie, the way you look at each other—it’s like you’re trying to piece together a mystery. Either you’re exes with some serious history, or you’re moments away from a showdown.”

“Maybe a little of both,” Avalon admitted with a half-smile.

The bartender chuckled. “Well, whatever it is, good luck dealing with all that.”

Avalon left a tip on the table, more than just the beer’s price. The bartender definitely earned some extra for enduring that awkward vibe.

Outside, the San Francisco fog was creeping in, thick and chilly, like it always does—cold, damp, and impossible to ignore.

In three weeks, he’d be tying the knot with Selene Castellano.

In a year, he’d finally be free.

Twelve months left to act like the past never happened.

How tough could it really be?