Loving the Billionaire I hate
He pulled out the chair across from me and sat down without being invited, and then he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, took out a folded piece of paper, and placed it on top of my bank statement.
I looked down at it. It was a number. A very large number, written by hand, in clean precise handwriting.
"That covers your debt," he said. "The bakery, the utilities, everything is outstanding. With enough left over to keep you running for two years without touching your revenue."
My mouth went dry. I looked at the number again and then back at him.
"And what exactly," I said slowly, "do you want in return?"
He held my gaze without blinking.
"I want you to be my wife."
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