Chapter 2: Desperate Measures

Rain streaked down the glass walls of Sterling Tower, turning the St. Louis skyline into a blur of gray. Jackson Sterling stood at the window, jaw tight, one hand shoved into the pocket of his tailored trousers. From this height the city looked manageable, tiny cars, smaller people, but the illusion did nothing to calm the chaos closing in around him.

Behind him, the boardroom door hissed open.

“Sir, they’re ready for you,” his assistant said quietly.

Jackson turned, sliding back into the mask that everyone expected, the calm, calculating CEO whose empire never cracked. He walked into the conference room where his board members waited like wolves scenting weakness. Balance sheets glowed on the wall screen, red numbers slicing through his reputation.

“Let’s get this over with,” he said, taking his seat at the head of the table.

Beau Langford, his oldest friend and chief financial officer, leaned forward. “Sterling Enterprises is bleeding. If the investors pull out, we’re exposed.”

“I’m aware,” Jackson replied, voice flat.

“What you may not be aware of,” Beau continued, “is that your father’s trust clause activates next quarter. If you’re not married by then, the controlling shares revert to him.”

A low murmur rippled through the room. Jackson felt the familiar coil of anger tighten in his chest. Of course his father would dangle the company like bait, forcing him to comply with the one condition he swore he’d never meet again.

“Find a way around it,” Jackson said.

Beau sighed. “We’ve tried. The only way around it is a wife.”

Silence stretched. Jackson’s knuckles whitened against the glass table. Marriage. The word was a wound he thought had scarred over. It still burned.

After the meeting, he strode back to his office, the city spread beneath him like an indifferent god. Marriage. He’d done love once, trusted, believed, and paid for it with humiliation and betrayal. Never again. If he had to marry, it would be on his terms: emotionless, contractual, efficient. A merger, not a romance.

Grayson Holt, his lawyer, waited by the desk with a folder in hand. “Sir, there’s another issue. The Sterling & Blackwell foreclosure list you requested.”

Jackson flipped through the files absently until one name caught his eye, Savannah Montgomery. The photo attached showed a woman with dark eyes and defiance even in a driver’s-license snapshot. He remembered the property; small, valuable, sitting on land his father had wanted for a new distribution center.

“What’s her situation?” he asked.

“Past due six months,” Grayson said. “Foreclosure notice delivered this morning.”

Jackson studied the file longer than he meant to. She owed barely a fraction of what the company lost in an hour, yet she was about to lose everything. Her profile noted freelance designer, primary caregiver, no savings. Something about the quiet resilience in the picture lodged under his skin.

He set the folder down. “Call her.”

“Excuse me?”

“Tell her I want to meet. This afternoon.”

Grayson hesitated. “Mr. Sterling, with respect, this woman isn’t exactly, ”

“Just do it,” Jackson snapped. “And prepare a proposal.”

When the lawyer left, Jackson moved back to the window. The rain had stopped, leaving streaks across the glass like veins. He told himself this was strategy: a way to fulfill the trust clause, secure the property, silence the board, and keep his father out of his empire. The woman was convenient. Nothing more.

So why couldn’t he stop thinking about the stubborn tilt of her chin?

Hours later, as his car pulled into the modest Arizona neighborhood, Jackson felt the unease crawl back. The houses here were small, their lawns trimmed with the kind of care that came from pride, not wealth. He stepped out into the warm dusk, the scent of rain on pavement sharp in the air.

Grayson lingered by the gate. “You really want to do this yourself?”

Jackson adjusted his cufflinks. “People respond better face-to-face.”

He climbed the porch steps and knocked once. Inside, footsteps shuffled; then the door opened.

Savannah Montgomery stood there, barefoot, tense, and heartbreakingly beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with glamour. For a heartbeat neither of them spoke. Her eyes widened as recognition hit.

“Jackson Sterling,” she breathed.

“Savannah Montgomery,” he returned evenly. Her name rolled off his tongue smoother than expected. He stepped past her before she could protest, scanning the small living room, the worn couch, the sketches pinned above a battered desk, the faint smell of coffee and rain.

“We need to talk,” he said.

She closed the door slowly, suspicion sharpening her tone. “What are you doing here?”

“I think you already know.” He faced her fully now, taking in the faint tremor in her hands, the pride in the way she lifted her chin. “You’re about to lose this house.”

Color drained from her face. “How do you know about that?”

“I make it my business to know what affects my company,” Jackson said, voice cool. “Sterling & Blackwell is a subsidiary of mine. Your mortgage falls under my control.”

Her lips parted, fury flashing through the fear. “So you came here to gloat?”

“If I wanted to gloat, I’d have let the bank handle it,” he said softly. “I came to offer you a solution.”

Her brow furrowed. “A solution?”

Jackson took a measured breath. This was the moment, the line between reason and impulse. “I need a wife, Ms. Montgomery. Temporarily. One year. In exchange, I’ll pay your debts in full, keep your home, and guarantee your father’s medical expenses.”

She stared at him as if he’d spoken another language. Then she laughed, short and disbelieving. “You’re joking.”

“I never joke about contracts.” He stepped closer, close enough to see the tiny freckles across her nose. “It’s simple. You get stability. I get compliance. We both win.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then the foreclosure proceeds as scheduled.”

For a long moment, only the ticking clock filled the room. Savannah’s breath hitched, her shoulders stiffening as if bracing for impact. He could see the calculation in her eyes, the same instinct that had built his empire: survival.

“This is insane,” she whispered.

“Maybe,” he said. “But it’s also your best option.”

He reached into his coat and pulled out a slim folder, placing it on the coffee table. “The terms. Review them. You have one week to decide.”

Her hand hovered over the folder, trembling slightly. Jackson turned toward the door, pausing when she spoke again, voice low and raw.

“Why me?”

He looked back at her, meeting those storm-dark eyes. For a moment, the truth threatened to slip out, that something about her photograph had felt like a challenge, that her defiance stirred something he thought he’d buried. Instead, he said the only thing that kept him safe.

“Because you were convenient.”

He left before she could reply.

Outside, the night air hit cold against his skin, but it didn’t clear the strange heaviness in his chest. In the car’s reflection, he saw his own expression, calm, composed, and utterly empty.

It should have felt like victory.

It didn’t.