Chapter 5:First Glance,First Strike

The cafe was too bright and too quiet. Elena sat at a small table in the back, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea she hadn’t tasted. She wore the nicest clothes she owned—a simple linen dress and a cardigan. She felt like an imposter. Every nerve in her body was buzzing.

She watched the door. People came and went, laughing, talking about normal things. She envied them. Her knee bounced under the table. She forced it to stop. The bell above the door chimed again.

He walked in, and the air changed.

It wasn’t that people turned to stare. It was that the space around him seemed to grow still. Julian Thorne was taller than she’d imagined. His suit was a dark, perfect gray, fitting him like a second skin. His hair was dark, styled with a sharp precision that looked both effortless and expensive.

His eyes scanned the room. They were a cool, distant gray, like stone under winter water. They passed over her, then snapped back. There was no flicker of recognition, no polite smile. Just an assessment.

He moved toward her table. His walk was smooth, unhurried. He pulled out the chair opposite her without a word. He sat down, placing his phone screen-down on the table. He did not offer a hand.

“Ms. Vega.” His voice was lower than she expected. It was calm, utterly level. It held no warmth.

“Mr. Thorne.” Her own voice sounded thin. She cleared her throat.

A waiter appeared instantly. Julian didn’t look at the man. “Espresso. Double.” The waiter nodded and vanished. Julian’s attention returned to her. His gaze felt like a physical weight.

“Leo Brennan speaks highly of your dedication,” he said. It didn’t sound like a compliment. It sounded like a data point.

“He explained your… situation,” Elena replied. She met his eyes, refusing to look away first. His eyes were unnerving. They gave nothing away.

“Then we can dispense with the context.” He leaned back slightly, his posture relaxed but utterly controlled. “You have a failing asset. I have a procedural obstacle. My proposal removes both problems.”

“My family’s vineyard is not just an asset,” she said, the words coming out sharper than she intended.

“Everything is an asset, Ms. Vega. Or a liability.” He blinked slowly. “Your emotional attachment is a liability in this negotiation. I suggest you set it aside.”

Elena felt a hot flush rise up her neck. She took a deliberate sip of her cold tea. “You’re asking for five years of my life. You don’t get to tell me how to feel about it.”

“I’m not asking. I’m proposing a business agreement.” His espresso arrived. He took a small, precise sip, never breaking eye contact with her. “The term is five years for full security. A shorter term introduces risk. I do not deal in risk when the stakes are this high.”

“What does it actually involve?” she asked, gripping her mug tighter. “The… performance.”

“A legal marriage ceremony. You will move into the primary estate for a period of one year. This is non-negotiable. The trustees will require evidence of cohabitation.” He listed the points on his fingers. His hands were elegant, with clean nails. They looked like they had never touched dirt.

“We will attend a minimum of twelve sanctioned public events per year together. We will be photographed. You will be provided with a wardrobe and a script for public interactions. Discretion is absolute. You will not speak to the press.”

It sounded like a prison manual. “A script?”

“Talking points. Approved topics. The narrative is that we met through mutual business interests. We share a passion for legacy and preservation. It’s simple and believable.” He said it like he was reviewing a marketing plan.

“And in private?” The question slipped out. She immediately wished she could take it back.

His gaze sharpened. For the first time, she saw a flicker of something—annoyance? “Private life is delineated in the contract. Your suite will be in the east wing. Mine is in the west. Common areas are shared when necessary for appearance. Our lives, beyond the required public facade, remain separate.”

“So we just… ignore each other in a giant house.” She couldn’t picture it.

“It’s a large estate. Ignoring each other will be the easiest part.” He finished his espresso. “Your responsibilities at your vineyard can continue, within reason. Travel will be coordinated. Your primary job, however, will be to fulfill the contractual obligations here.”

He made her sound like an employee. A poorly paid one, trading in years, not dollars.

“What if I can’t do it?” she asked, challenging him. “What if I’m a terrible actress?”

“Then you breach the contract.” He said it simply. “The financial penalties would be severe. The initial investment would be returned, with considerable interest. Your vineyard would be lost before the ink was dry. I do not recommend testing this.”

The chill from his words settled in her bones. This was not a partnership. It was a takeover with rules.

“You’ve thought of everything,” she said, her voice hollow.

“It’s my job to think of everything.” He signaled for the check. The meeting was clearly winding down. He had gotten what he came for—her horrified understanding.

“Why me?” she whispered, as the waiter brought the small leather booklet. Julian placed a black credit card inside without looking at the total.

“You are motivated. You have a clear, quantifiable need. You are not part of my social circles, which minimizes complication. And Leo vouches for your character.” He took his card back, slipping it into his inner pocket. “Sentiment does not factor into it.”

He stood up, adjusting the cuff of his suit jacket. He looked down at her, still sitting, feeling small and uprooted. His icy assessment felt like a physical slap. It stripped her of her history, her passion, her fight. It reduced her to a problem he was solving.

“The contract will be delivered to your lawyer tomorrow. You have forty-eight hours to sign.”

He turned to leave, then paused. He looked back at her over his shoulder. His expression was one of cool, final warning.

“Let’s be clear, Ms. Vega,” he said, his voice cutting through the quiet cafe. “This is a business arrangement.”

He gave her a last, dismissive glance.

“Try not to fall in love with me.”