Not All Offers Are Good

Isabella

I was stunned by his question.

"How much do they need?"

Why was he offering to pay? He never did anything for free — I knew that much about him after three months of taking his orders. So I asked him outright, "Why are you here?"

He ignored the question entirely. "Your grandmother needs the surgery." His eyes drifted toward her hospital room, and something cold settled in my stomach.

*Is he here because I resigned?* Of all the people I wanted to see right now, Leonardo Moretti was dead last on the list.

"Did you come here because I resigned?" I asked again. "Why are you *here*, Leonardo?"

"I have my ways of getting information about you," he said, coldly casual, like we were discussing the weather. "That shouldn't be your focus right now. Your focus should be how to pay for your grandmother's surgery."

I stared at him, unable to find words. There was something about his calm that unsettled me more than if he'd shouted.

**Leonardo**

"I have an offer for you," I said. "Let's talk in the cafeteria."

She shook her head, stubborn as ever. "No."

"It's serious. And it concerns your grandmother."

That made her hesitate. She turned to Maya, who'd just come back from the house with a bag of Isabella's things. "Stay with Grandma. I'll be back."

Then she followed me.

In the cafeteria, I took a seat and slid the document across the table. She looked at it like it might bite her, hesitating before she finally picked it up. I watched her face as she read — shock, then anger, then something closer to disbelief — until she slammed it back down onto the table.

"No." Her voice didn't waver. "I will never be your wife."

I leaned back in my chair. She really believed she could just walk away from this.

I laughed, quiet and humorless. "You won't marry me?"

"Never." She lifted her chin, defiant. "I'll find the money for my grandmother's surgery myself."

"How, exactly?"

She said nothing, because there was nothing to say.

"Your father's company is already bankrupt," I reminded her. "Are you going to beg my sister for it? Or use your friendship with Fiamma to cover your own desperation?"

Her eyes flashed. "Don't you dare bring Fiamma into this."

I held her gaze. "This is a three-year contract. In exchange, I pay for your grandmother's surgery and her ongoing care. I also step in financially so the bank doesn't seize your father's company." I let that settle before continuing. "In return, you become my wife. Publicly."

Her eyes widened, just slightly.

"You'll live with me. You'll make the world believe we're in love. You'll attend business functions at my side and carry out every responsibility expected of my wife." I paused deliberately. "And you'll give birth to a child during the marriage."

Her face went rigid.

"I'll compensate you generously once the three years are over." I pushed the document another inch toward her. "Take your time. I don't need an answer today."

I stood and walked out, leaving her alone with it.

**Isabella**

I stared down at the document long after he'd gone, still not quite believing what I was reading. How dare he. He was using my desperation — my grandmother's *life* — to draft me into a marriage contract. He wanted me to live with him, perform love for the cameras, and hand him an heir like it was a line item.

It was humiliating.

I found him again before I left the cafeteria, and I told him exactly what I thought. "I will never, ever marry you."

His expression didn't so much as flicker. "Oh, poor Isabella." The arrogance in his voice made my blood boil. "After working under me for months, you really learned nothing?" He leaned in. "I always get what I want."

"You can't get this."

I clenched my fists at my sides. "This time, CEO, you've failed. Because I will never be your wife." I turned and walked away before he could see how frightened I actually was underneath it.

Back in Grandma's room, I went straight to the doctor, my composure cracking at the edges. "Please — can I pay part of it now? A quarter, even. Just start the surgery. I'll find the rest, I swear."

He sighed, and it was the kind of sigh that already told me the answer. "I wish I could help you, Ms. Vance. My hands are tied. You need to find the money. Without the surgery, your grandmother may not survive."

I walked back toward her room on legs that didn't feel like mine. She was the only person who had ever loved me without conditions attached — the woman who took me in when my own father wouldn't look at me twice. I couldn't lose her. Not her too.

My phone rang. Fiamma.

I wiped my face before I answered. "Hello?"

"Isa! How's your grandmother?"

I made myself sound steady. "She's fine."

"Don't lie to me."

"She's sleeping. Doctors say it's nothing serious — she should be discharged tomorrow."

Silence. Then, quieter: "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Isabella, I know you. Something's wrong."

"Everything's fine, Fiamma." I closed my eyes and pushed the words out evenly. "I promise."

It took a few more rounds of gentle interrogation before she finally let it go. The second the call ended, the tears came back, and I looked through the glass at Grandma's still body in that bed and hated myself for the lie.

I had refused him. I'd told myself I'd find another way.

But I had no job. My father's company was collapsing. My grandmother needed a surgery I couldn't afford, and I had absolutely no idea where the money was supposed to come from.

I sank into the chair outside her room and put my face in my hands.

My phone buzzed again. Not Fiamma this time.

An email. My stomach dropped when I saw the sender.

*Leonardo Moretti.*

I hesitated before opening it. One sentence.

*Your grandmother's surgery has been scheduled for tomorrow morning.*

My blood went cold. I glanced toward the nurses' station, as if they'd have an explanation for how this had happened without me signing anything.

Another notification followed — a payment confirmation. €50,000, paid in full.

I stared at the screen. He'd done it anyway. Paid for the surgery after I'd told him, to his face, exactly where he could put his contract.

Beneath that, a second message.

*You have twenty-four hours to reconsider my offer.*

I stopped breathing.

Because underneath the message was a photograph — one I'd never seen before. Me and Leonardo. Taken years ago.

My fingers started to shake.

How did he have that picture?