His Calculated Proposal

Chapter 1

Celeste Hale

“The final projection puts our Q4 losses at ninety two percent.”

The words hang in the sterile air of the boardroom. Ninety two percent. The number echoes in the cavernous space of my skull. It feels less like a statistic and more like a final sentence. Around the polished mahogany table, twelve faces, men my father has known for decades, turn to stone. Their expensive suits suddenly look like costumes for a play that has ended in tragedy.

“Ninety two?” Mr. Abernathy, our CFO, repeats the number as if tasting poison. His voice is a dry rasp. “Robert, that’s not just bad. That’s… that’s an extinction level event.”

My father, Robert Hale, sits at the head of the table. He looks like a king surveying a kingdom that has already burned to ash. His spine is ramrod straight, a habit from a lifetime of projecting unwavering authority. But I can see the tremor in the hand resting on a stack of useless papers. I see the tiny muscle twitching in his jaw. He is crumbling from the inside out.

“We are aware of the severity, Richard,” my father’s voice is low, a gravelly sound that fails to command the room. It just sounds tired. “The data breach was more catastrophic than we initially understood. They didn’t just steal the schematics for the Phoenix Project. They corrupted nearly a decade of our R and D.”

My project. My breath catches in my throat. I poured three years of my life into the Phoenix Project. It was supposed to be our future. A revolutionary energy storage solution that would have made Hale Innovations a household name again. Now it’s just another casualty.

“And Thorne Industries just happened to announce a strikingly similar project last week,” I say, my voice sharper than I intend. All heads snap toward me. I am the only woman at this table. The only Hale besides my father. And, as always, the one they see as a footnote.

My father’s gaze flickers to me. It’s not angry. It’s weary. A look that says, ‘Not now, Celeste.’

“It’s a bit more than a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?” I press on, my hands clenching into fists under the table. “Their launch timeline, their technical specifications. It’s a carbon copy of my initial proposal.”

“Celeste, this is not the time for unsubstantiated accusations,” Mr. Henderson, our lead counsel, interjects smoothly. He’s always been a master of saying nothing with perfect enunciation.

“Unsubstantiated? They poached our lead engineer six months ago. The same lead engineer who suddenly quit two days before the breach was discovered,” I fire back. The same lead engineer Julian Thorne took out for celebratory drinks the week he joined Thorne Industries.

The room falls into a heavy, suffocating silence. They all know. Of course they know. But admitting it means admitting they were outmaneuvered. That a twenty eight year old upstart, my arrogant ex boyfriend, had dismantled a fifty year legacy from the inside out.

“What are the banks saying?” Abernathy asks, turning back to my father, dismissing me completely.

“They’re calling in our loans,” my father admits, and the air goes out of the room. “All of them. We have thirty days to cover our debts or we begin liquidation proceedings.”

Thirty days. Thirty days until my grandfather’s company, my father’s life’s work, my entire future, is sold for parts. A wave of nausea rolls through me. I push my chair back and stand, my legs unsteady.

“Excuse me,” I murmur, not looking at anyone. I can feel their eyes on my back as I walk toward the door. The pity is worse than the anger. I can’t breathe. I just need to get out of this room.

The hallway is blessedly empty. I lean against the cool glass wall overlooking the city, my forehead pressed against the pane. Far below, the world moves on, tiny cars and people scurrying about their lives, completely unaware that mine has just ended. My phone buzzes in my pocket, a persistent, angry vibration against my leg.

I pull it out, my thumb hovering over the screen. It’s a number I deleted months ago but could never forget.

Julian.

My finger betrays me, tapping the notification. A single message.

*Heard the news. Looks like my new home is treating me better than my old one. Should’ve listened to me when I told you Phoenix was a pipe dream.*

A fresh wave of sickness crashes over me. Bile rises in my throat. He didn’t just steal my work. He didn’t just break my heart. He is dancing on the grave of my family’s legacy. He had called my designs brilliant, revolutionary. He whispered those words to me in bed, his hands tracing the lines of the blueprints spread across our sheets. It was all a lie. Every touch, every word. He was just mining me for information.

My grip on the phone tightens until my knuckles are white. I want to throw it against the wall, watch it shatter into a million pieces. I want to scream.

Instead, I take a shuddering breath and walk back into the boardroom. The meeting has devolved into quiet, panicked murmurs. My father is the only one who looks up when I enter. He looks a decade older than he did this morning.

“The meeting is over,” he announces, his voice final. The other men gather their things, avoiding our eyes, escaping the sinking ship as fast as their polished leather shoes can carry them. Soon, it is just the two of us left in the silent room, surrounded by ghosts.

“He texted me,” I say, my voice flat. “Julian.”

My father closes his eyes. A pained expression flits across his face. “Celeste, don’t.”

“He’s gloating,” I continue, the words tasting like ash. “He’s celebrating what he did to us. To you.”

“What’s done is done,” he says, finally looking at me. The defeat in his eyes is absolute. “We’ve lost. The banks are done with us. Our investors have vanished. There are no more moves to make.”

“There has to be something. Someone. Another company we can approach? A private equity firm?” My mind races, scrambling for a foothold in the landslide. This can’t be it. I refuse to let Julian win this completely.

“I’ve called everyone, Celeste. Everyone. No one will touch us. We’re toxic. Thorne Industries has made sure of that.” He sighs, a sound that seems to carry the weight of his entire life. “It’s over. Hale Innovations is finished.”

Finished. The word hangs between us. The end of everything. I think of the long nights in the lab, the thrill of a breakthrough, the pride on my grandfather’s face when I showed him my first prototype as a teenager. All of it, gone. Turned to dust by a man I once thought I loved.

We stand in silence for a long moment, the hum of the city outside the only sound. I am about to say something, anything to break the horrible finality of the moment, when the intercom on the conference phone chirps.

My father’s assistant’s voice, usually unflappably calm, sounds strained. “Mr. Hale? I apologize for the interruption, but there is a call for you. He was very insistent.”

“Take a message, Susan. I’m not speaking to anyone,” my father says, his voice ragged.

“Sir… it’s Caden Blackwood’s office.”

My father and I exchange a look of pure confusion. Caden Blackwood. The name is a legend. A myth. A corporate phantom who built a global empire out of nothing before he was thirty. He is notoriously reclusive, impossibly powerful, and ruthlessly cold. Blackwood Holdings doesn’t invest in failing tech companies. They acquire empires and dismantle competitors with terrifying efficiency. Why on earth would he be calling us?

“Put him through,” my father says, his brow furrowed. He presses the speaker button on the phone.

“Robert Hale speaking.”

A crisp, female voice, devoid of any warmth, comes through the speaker. “Mr. Hale. Please hold for Mr. Blackwood.”

We wait. The seconds stretch into an eternity. I hold my breath. Then, a new voice fills the room. It is deep, smooth, and colder than a winter storm.

“Mr. Hale.”

“Mr. Blackwood,” my father replies, a hint of his old authority returning. “This is an unexpected surprise.”

“I imagine it is,” the voice says. There is no preamble, no small talk. “I am aware of your current situation with Thorne Industries and your creditors.”

Of course he is. Caden Blackwood probably knows what I had for breakfast. The thought sends a shiver down my spine.

“We are managing the situation,” my father lies, the words sounding hollow even to me.

A low, humorless chuckle comes through the speaker. “Let’s not waste each other’s time with pleasantries, Robert. Your company has thirty days until it ceases to exist. You are out of options. You have no leverage. You have nothing.”

The brutal, unvarnished truth of it is like a slap in the face. I can see the color drain from my father’s cheeks.

“Why are you calling, Mr. Blackwood?” he asks, his voice tight.

“I am prepared to offer you a solution. I will absorb all of Hale Innovations’ debt. I will provide the capital to not only stabilize the company but to fund your next five years of research and development. I will personally ensure Thorne Industries pays for their transgression.”

I stare at the phone, my heart starting to pound. It’s too good to be true. It’s a miracle. A buyout, then. He’ll own the company, but at least it will survive. The name Hale will survive.

My father is clearly thinking the same thing. “And in return? What percentage of the company are you asking for?”

There is a pause. A beat of silence that feels charged with electricity.

“I am not interested in your company, Robert,” Caden Blackwood says, his voice dropping to an even colder, more deliberate tone.

My father is speechless. “Then… what is it you want?”

“Your daughter.”

I flinch as if I’ve been struck. My head snaps up, my eyes wide, locking with my father’s horrified gaze. Did I hear that correctly?

“I beg your pardon?” my father chokes out.

“The deal is simple,” Blackwood continues, completely unfazed. “I save your legacy. I destroy your enemies. And in return, Celeste Hale will become my wife.”

The world tilts on its axis. The air in my lungs turns to ice. This isn’t a business negotiation. This is something from another century. A barbaric trade.

“That’s insane,” my father sputters. “That’s… impossible. My daughter is not for sale.”

“Everything is for sale, Robert. It is simply a matter of price,” Blackwood says, his voice utterly devoid of emotion. “My offer is a one year contractual marriage. We will present a united front to the public for exactly three hundred and sixty five days. At the end of the term, we will part ways amicably. She will be free, and your company will be secure. Those are my terms. Non negotiable.”

A year. He wants to buy a year of my life. A year of me.

“Why?” I hear myself ask, the word a strangled whisper. “Why me? I’ve never even met you.”

The line is silent for a moment. I can almost picture him on the other end, a man made of shadows and steel, considering my question.

“Because you are the most valuable asset your father has,” Caden Blackwood says finally. His voice sends an inexplicable chill through me. “And because I have my reasons. You have twenty four hours to decide. After that, the offer is withdrawn, and I will stand by and watch Thorne Industries pick the bones of your family’s carcass clean.”

And with that, the line goes dead.

Silence descends on the room again, but this time it is a thousand times heavier. It’s a wild, impossible, insulting proposition. It’s also the only one we have.

My father stares at me, his face a mask of shock and shame. “Celeste, I… I would never…”

I hold up a hand to stop him, my mind a whirlwind of chaos. I see the boardroom, the faces of the men who dismissed me. I see my father’s broken expression. I see the blinking cursor on my phone, next to Julian’s smug, triumphant message.

He thought he had taken everything. He thought he had won.

A strange, cold resolve begins to crystallize in my chest. This isn’t just about saving the company anymore. This is about revenge. This is about survival.

I look from the dead phone on the table to my father’s desperate face.

“Tell me more about this contract.”

Chapter 2

Celeste Hale

Blackwood Tower is not a building. It is a statement. A shard of obsidian tearing a hole in the sky. The lobby is a cavern of white marble and echoing silence. No art hangs on the walls. No music plays. There is only the quiet, unnerving hum of immense power.

I give my name to a woman who looks more like a sculpture than a person. She does not smile. She simply nods and gestures toward a private elevator.

The ride is silent and smooth. A disorienting, rapid ascent that makes my stomach feel hollow. When the doors slide open, they reveal not a hallway, but the office itself. The entire top floor is one room.

And he is there.

He stands in front of a wall of glass that overlooks the city. He is exactly as the whispers described. Tall, dressed in a black suit so perfectly tailored it seems fused to him. His hair is dark, his posture is rigid. When he turns, his face is all sharp angles and unforgiving planes. Devastatingly handsome, in the way a storm is beautiful. And his eyes, they are the color of smoke, and utterly, completely empty.

“Miss Hale,” he says. His voice is the same one from the phone. Cold, deep, and without inflection. It is not a greeting. It is an acknowledgement of my presence, like noting a piece of furniture has been delivered.

“Mr. Blackwood.” I keep my own voice steady, refusing to be intimidated by the space, by the man.

He gestures to a single black leather chair positioned opposite a massive, empty desk. “Please.”

I sit. The leather is cold against my skin. The desk is a vast expanse of polished black granite. There is nothing on it. No computer, no papers, no personal effects. Just a single, thick document bound in black leather, sitting precisely in the center.

He doesn't sit. He remains standing, a dark silhouette against the sprawling city below. It makes me feel small. Interviewed. Judged.

“I assume you have considered my offer,” he says, his gaze fixed on me.

“I have questions.”

“I have a contract,” he counters, his voice flat. He moves to the desk, his movements economical and precise. He slides the heavy document across the granite. It stops perfectly in front of me. “All of your questions will be answered within.”

My hand trembles slightly as I reach for it. The leather is cool and smooth. I open it. The pages are thick, the text dense and unforgiving. Legalese. Clauses and subclauses. I flip through the first few pages. Financial arrangements. Debt assumption. Capital infusion schedules for Hale Innovations. It is all there. Meticulous. Overwhelmingly generous. The lifeline my father couldn't find.

“It seems straightforward enough,” I say, looking up at him. “A business arrangement.”

“Of a sort,” he concedes. He finally moves to his own chair, a high backed throne of black leather, and sits. He still manages to loom.

“I don’t understand the marriage part of it. A strategic partnership would achieve the same goals for the company.”

“I am not interested in a strategic partnership,” he says simply. “I am interested in you.”

The words hang in the air. They should sound flattering. From him, they sound like an acquisition strategy.

“Why?”

“My reasons are my own,” he says, dismissing my question as irrelevant. “Direct your attention to Section Four. Personal Conduct.”

I find the section. My eyes scan the lines of text. My breath hitches.

*Clause 4.1: Cohabitation. The parties shall reside together at a primary residence designated by Caden Blackwood for the full term of the agreement.*

“We are to live together,” I state, my voice barely a whisper.

“That is the customary arrangement for a married couple,” he says, his tone glacial.

I read on, my heart beginning to hammer against my ribs.

*Clause 4.2: Public Presentation. The parties shall present a convincing and affectionate facade of a loving marital union in all public appearances, social engagements, and media interactions.*

My eyes flick up to his. “A convincing facade?”

“Anything less would invite scrutiny. Scrutiny is inefficient.”

I feel a sick, cold dread pooling in my stomach. I keep reading, my gaze dropping to the next line, the one that makes the air leave my lungs in a sudden rush.

*Clause 4.3: Domestic Arrangements. The parties shall share the master bedroom and a marital bed.*

I snap the document shut. The sound cracks through the sterile silence of the office.

“No.” The word is out of my mouth before I can stop it. “Absolutely not.”

He doesn't react. His expression remains unchanged. An unreadable mask of cold control. “It is a non negotiable term.”

“This is insane,” I say, pushing the contract back across the desk. “This isn’t a marriage. It’s… it’s indentured servitude.”

“It is a one year contract, Miss Hale,” he corrects me calmly. “After which, you will be a very wealthy woman in your own right, and your family’s company will be solvent and secure. Your servitude, as you call it, has a rather high price.”

“You want to buy me.”

“I want to buy a specific outcome,” he clarifies. “Your participation is a necessary component.”

I stand up, my entire body thrumming with a mixture of fury and fear. “Why? Why go to such lengths? There has to be more to it. No one does this.”

He leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. For the first time, he looks at me as if I am more than just a variable in an equation.

“You graduated top of your class at MIT. Double major in electrical engineering and theoretical physics. Yet, your father has had you running diagnostics and junior projects for five years.”

The accuracy of his knowledge is jarring. He has done more than a cursory background check.

“Your name is on the foundational patents for the Phoenix Project’s core technology,” he continues, his voice a low, steady monotone. “The very technology Julian Thorne stole and is now taking credit for at a rival company.”

My name. He knows my name is on the patents. Even my father tends to forget that, referring to it as the 'company's' intellectual property.

“I fail to see what my resume has to do with sharing a bedroom with you.” My voice is sharp, defensive.

“It has everything to do with it,” he says. “It speaks to your unrealized potential.”

There it is. That phrase. A strange, unexpected crack in his armor of pure logic. It’s not a compliment. It’s an assessment. Cold. Clinical. And yet… it’s the one thing no one has ever said to me.

My father sees me as his daughter, his subordinate. The board sees me as the founder’s girl. Julian saw me as a resource to be plundered. No one has ever looked at my mind, at my work, and seen potential. They’ve only seen a woman who should be grateful to be in the room.

I am still standing. My legs feel weak. I think of Julian’s smug text. I think of the defeated look in my father’s eyes. I think of the dozens of families whose livelihoods depend on Hale Innovations. People who would lose everything.

This man, this cold, calculating billionaire, is offering me a weapon. A monstrous, terrifying weapon that comes at an unbearable personal cost.

But what is the alternative? Annihilation. Watching Julian win. Watching my father lose everything he and my grandfather ever built. That is a different kind of death.

“You are not to touch me,” I say, the words coming out hard and brittle. A demand. My only piece of leverage.

He raises a single, dark eyebrow. “Are you proposing an amendment to the contract, Miss Hale?”

“I am stating a term of my own.”

He considers me for a long moment. The silence stretches, thick with tension. I can feel my heart pounding, a frantic drum against the quiet hum of the room.

“Physical intimacy is not, and was never, a requirement of this arrangement,” he says finally. “The clause is for appearances only. A couple that sleeps in separate rooms is a couple that invites gossip. I do not like gossip.”

The relief is so sharp it almost makes me dizzy. But it’s followed by a new wave of humiliation. The idea was so far from his mind he hadn’t even considered it a possibility. To him, this is no different than acquiring a new subsidiary.

I sink back into the chair, my resolve crumbling under the weight of inevitability.

He sees the shift in me. Of course he does. He probably anticipated every stage of this conversation before I even stepped into the elevator.

“The contract is binding and absolute,” he states. “Should you break any of the terms, the funding for Hale Innovations ceases immediately, and Blackwood Holdings will assume all assets as collateral.”

He is putting the gun in my hand and pointing it at my own family’s head.

“Do you have a pen?” I ask, my voice sounding distant, as if it belongs to someone else.

He produces one from a hidden drawer in the desk. It is heavy, cold, and made of silver. He places it on top of the contract. It feels like a ceremonial weapon.

I stare at the signature line. Celeste Hale. My name. My identity. Signing it away for three hundred and sixty five days.

I think of Julian. I picture his face when he hears the news. Celeste Hale, the girl he discarded and robbed, married to Caden Blackwood, the most powerful man in the city. A man who could crush Thorne Industries like an insect.

The thought sends a shard of icy satisfaction through me. It is a bitter, poisonous feeling, but it is enough. It is the fuel I need.

I pick up the pen. The metal is cold against my fingers. I uncap it and sign my name on the line.

The ink is black against the stark white page. A final, irrevocable mark.

I slide the contract back across the desk to him. My hand is perfectly steady now.

He takes it, gives my signature a cursory glance, and then signs his own name with a few quick, sharp strokes. Caden Blackwood. The name looks like a weapon.

He closes the document.

“Congratulations, Mrs. Blackwood,” he says, his voice devoid of any warmth or irony. “My driver will be at your apartment in one hour to collect you. Pack for an extended stay.”

And just like that, the deal is done. I have sold myself to save my family. I look out the window at the city sprawling below us. It looks like a kingdom. And I have just been locked in the tower with the king.

Chapter 3

Celeste Hale

The dress is a weapon. It hangs in the cavernous walk in closet Caden has designated as mine, a sliver of deep emerald silk surrounded by my own comparatively drab clothing. It arrived in a box an hour ago. No note. None was needed. Tonight is the performance. Tonight, I become Celeste Blackwood in the eyes of the world.

My reflection in the mirror is a stranger. The woman staring back is polished, her hair swept into a complicated arrangement at the nape of her neck, diamonds dripping from her ears. They were in the box too. A loan, I tell myself. Everything is a loan.

The past few days have been a blur of logistics. Lawyers, press releases, a single, sterile phone call with my father where he tried to find the words to ask if I was okay and failed. Hale Innovations is saved. The capital appeared in our accounts like a miracle. The news of my engagement to Caden Blackwood hit the financial world like a shockwave. Thorne Industries’ stock took a small but noticeable dip.

That small victory feels like a drop of honey in an ocean of poison.

I step into the silk. It’s cool against my skin, settling over my body as if it were made for me. It probably was. Caden Blackwood seems like the kind of man who doesn’t believe in off the rack solutions.

A light knock sounds on the bedroom door.

“They are waiting, Mrs. Blackwood,” a disembodied voice says. One of his staff. They move through this silent penthouse like ghosts.

“I’ll be right out.”

Caden is waiting in the main living area, his back to me, looking out at the city lights. He wears a tuxedo with the same effortless command he wears a business suit. He is a creature of power and sharp edges.

He turns as I approach. His smoky eyes rake over me, from the diamonds at my ears to the hem of the dress. It is not a look of appreciation. It is an inspection. An inventory of an asset.

“Acceptable,” he says. His voice is a low rumble.

“I’m overwhelmed by the compliment.”

A corner of his mouth quirks, a microscopic movement that is gone as quickly as it appears. “Sarcasm does not suit the occasion. Tonight, you are my adoring fiancée. You look at me with devotion. You laugh at my remarks, should I choose to make any. You touch my arm when we walk. Do you understand?”

“I read the contract. Section Four: Public Presentation. I’m a quick study.”

“See that you are,” he says, turning toward the door without another word. I am meant to follow. A well behaved part of his entourage.

The gala is a glittering nightmare. A sea of a thousand faces, all of them turning toward us as we enter. The whispers are a physical force, a wave of sound that washes over me. I can feel their eyes dissecting me, calculating my worth, wondering how the quiet, overlooked Hale daughter landed the city’s most powerful and elusive billionaire.

Caden’s hand rests on the small of my back. It is not a caress. It is a prompt. A brand. He guides me through the crowd with an unnerving grace, nodding curtly to people who look at him with a mixture of fear and awe.

I play my part. I smile until my cheeks ache. I look up at him as if he hung the moon. I touch his arm, and the fabric of his suit is so fine it feels like armor. He is an impenetrable fortress, and I am the flag he has just planted on the battlements.

“Caden, wonderful to see you,” an older man with a booming voice says, clapping him on the shoulder. “And this must be the lovely Celeste. My dear, you have done the impossible. You’ve managed to drag this man out into society.”

I offer a polite laugh. “He has his charms.”

The man laughs, but Caden’s expression doesn’t change. He is a statue amidst the swirling chaos of the party. After a few more stilted pleasantries, he guides me toward a secluded alcove overlooking the grand ballroom.

“I need to speak with a business associate. Do not move from this spot. Do not speak to anyone you do not know,” he commands, his voice low and for my ears only.

“And what if I get thirsty?” I ask, the question laced with a defiance I can’t quite suppress.

He looks at me, his gaze unblinking. “Then you will be thirsty.”

He turns and disappears into the throng, leaving me alone. I feel like a porcelain doll left on a shelf, a pretty object to be observed but not touched. The isolation is almost worse than being on his arm. Now the stares are more direct, less veiled.

I take a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, directly disobeying his silent order. The bubbles are a small, crisp rebellion in my throat.

“Well, well. Celeste Hale.”

The voice freezes the blood in my veins. I know that smug, condescending tone better than my own heartbeat. I turn slowly.

Julian Thorne stands there, a flute of champagne in his hand, a predatory smirk on his face. He looks me up and down, his gaze lingering in a way that makes my skin crawl.

“I always knew you had a price,” he says, his voice a low sneer. “I just never guessed it would be quite this high. Congratulations. You’ve successfully leveraged the family bankruptcy into a merger and acquisition of your own.”

My hand tightens on my glass. “Leave me alone, Julian.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. The whole city is talking about it. The tragic little tech princess saved by the dark king. It’s quite the fairytale. Tell me, are the terms favorable? What exactly does a man like Blackwood get for his investment?” He takes a deliberate step closer, invading my space.

“That’s none of your business.”

“It was my business for two years,” he whispers, his eyes glinting with malice. “I know all your secrets, Celeste. Does he? Does he know he’s purchased damaged goods?”

The insult lands like a physical blow. Bile rises in my throat. This is what he does. He finds the cracks in your foundation and pours poison into them.

“You are a thief and a liar,” I say, my voice trembling with a rage I can barely control. “You stole my work. You tried to destroy my family.”

“I took what was offered,” he says with a shrug. “You were so eager to please. So desperate for approval. You laid out your best ideas for me like a feast. It would have been rude not to indulge.” He reaches out, his fingers about to brush my arm.

I flinch back. “Don’t touch me.”

“Is there a problem here?”

The new voice is not loud. It is quiet. It is cold. And it cuts through the air like a shard of ice.

Julian freezes. The smirk on his face falters as he turns. Caden is there. He did not walk up. He simply materialized. A shadow detaching itself from the others. His presence is a physical weight, instantly changing the gravity of our small circle.

Julian recovers quickly, pasting on a confident smile. “Blackwood. Just congratulating your lovely fiancée. We’re old friends.”

Caden’s eyes do not flicker to Julian. They are fixed on me, a question in their smoky depths. I give a nearly imperceptible shake of my head.

That’s all he needs.

He turns his head slowly, his gaze finally settling on Julian. It is not an angry look. It is a look of utter disinterest, as if he were examining a mildly irritating insect.

“Mr. Thorne,” Caden says, his voice a flat, deadly monotone. “You work for Thorne Industries. Correct?”

“That’s right,” Julian says, puffing out his chest slightly. “Head of new project development.”

“The project based on stolen schematics from Hale Innovations,” Caden states. It is not a question. It is a fact being entered into evidence.

Julian’s face pales. “Now wait a minute, that’s a baseless accusation.”

“I don’t make accusations, Mr. Thorne. I state realities,” Caden says, taking a single, unhurried step forward. He is now standing between me and Julian, a formidable, physical shield. “I am a man who keeps a close watch on all my assets. Both corporate,” he pauses, his eyes flicking over Julian’s suddenly ill fitting suit, “and personal.”

The implication is clear. The threat hangs in the air, unspoken and absolute.

“You are speaking to my fiancée,” Caden continues, his voice dropping even lower, becoming more dangerous. “Choose your next words with the care your future career deserves.”

Julian is speechless. The color has completely drained from his face. He looks from Caden’s implacable expression to my own, and all he sees is a closed door. A world he has been violently and permanently ejected from. He opens his mouth, then closes it again. Without another word, he turns and practically flees into the crowd.

The entire exchange took less than a minute. Caden has not raised his voice. He has not made a single threatening gesture. And yet, he has utterly dismantled him.

The moment Julian is gone, I feel a tremor run through my body. The adrenaline, the rage, the humiliation. It all comes crashing down on me. I sway slightly.

Before I can fall, Caden moves. His arm goes around my waist, pulling me against him. His other hand comes up to cup the side of my face, his thumb gently stroking my cheekbone. He turns my face toward his.

“Smile,” he murmurs, his voice for me alone. “Everyone is watching.”

I look out and he is right. We are the center of attention. A dozen phones are pointed in our direction. For the cameras.

I obey, forcing a tremulous smile onto my lips. But my mind is reeling from the contact. The contract, our conversation in his office, my one demand, it all vanishes. All I can feel is the solid, unyielding strength of his body pressed against mine. The warmth of his hand on my skin. He smells of clean linen and cold, hard currency.

The jolt is real. Frighteningly real.

For a man so cold, he is surprisingly warm. His arm around my waist is a steel band, but it doesn’t feel like a cage. In this glittering, hostile world, under the weight of a thousand judgmental eyes, it feels like the only safe place on earth.

He holds me there for a long moment, a perfect tableau of the loving, protective fiancé. My heart is hammering against my ribs, a frantic, wild rhythm that has nothing to do with Julian and everything to do with the man holding me.

He has fulfilled his contract. He has protected his asset.

But as I stand there in his arms, the flash of cameras painting us in light, I feel a terrifying, confusing thought surface.

It felt real. And that was not part of the deal at all.