His smirk returned, softer this time, more curious than mocking. "But they're not you."
"Agreed. I am not most women," I shot back, my chin tilting up in stubborn defiance. My heartbeat was in my throat, pounding loud enough to drown out the distant crickets singing in the garden. I wasn't like those women who fluttered their lashes at him, hoping to be noticed. I wasn't some society doll waiting to be placed on his billionaire shelf. I was me and unwilling to be bought.
"I can see that." His reply was surprisingly calm. He probably had noticed how I kept shuffling further away every time he leaned in because, instead of crowding me, he lowered himself onto the ground. His movements were unhurried, almost disarming. Dry leaves crunched under his weight as he sat, making sure to leave at least five feet between us. The distance was enough to breathe, yet close enough that I could still smell the faint trace of his cologne. He leaned back on his palms, tilting his head toward me. "Benita, I'm not exactly thrilled about this arrangement either. Believe it or not, marriage is the last thing I had on my mind. I'm a businessman trying to carve out a name in a world where I only matter because my father once ruled it. If I want to be seen as more than just the spoiled heir, I've got to do what I've got to do."
The honesty in his voice startled me for half a second, but anger quickly resurfaced. I folded my arms across my chest, glaring at him as if my stare alone could burn holes in his perfect suit. "As always, everything is about you and what you want," I snapped. "Well, newsflash, it's not my problem. It's yours. I don't give a rat's ass about your problem." I hated that he could still look so infuriatingly calm while my entire world spun like a broken carousel.
"You speak like you know me…" His eyes narrowed, studying me. "Let me refresh your memory." He leaned forward just enough that the moonlight caught on his cheekbones, sharpening the planes of his face. "Your family is about to lose everything. And I mean everything. The only lifeline left is the Numero name. Not even a loan would buy your father time anymore. People don't trust him. They trust the Numero brand."
I sucked in a sharp breath. My stomach twisted with humiliation. He wasn't wrong. My father's debts had become whispers. Everyone knew.
"So let me put it to you this way." He raised an eyebrow, the gesture maddeningly charismatic. "Bankruptcy…" he dragged out the word, "…or marrying a stranger who, by the way, smells great?" His lips curled into a half-smile, an attempt at levity that shouldn't have worked but somehow, almost did.
I looked at him for a long moment, my chest tightening as the weight of inevitability pressed down on me. He was right, damn him. I was trapped and we both knew it. The truth sat heavy on my tongue. "You don't even recognize me, do you?"
"Should I?"
I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to sting, fighting back the tears burning in my eyes. No way was I going to give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry. Not him. Not Junior. "Why me, though? You're rich, handsome and I'm sure you have hundreds of women to choose from. Models, heiresses, desperate socialites. You could pick anyone."
The corner of his lips twitched, and he leaned back on his hands with a lazy ease, as if this was all a joke to him. "I'm going to ignore the part where you slipped a compliment in there and pretend you're being objective," he said with a small smirk. "And just to answer your question—my mum doesn't trust me. She's convinced I'd bring home a woman I met an hour ago at some club. To be fair… she's probably right."
I tilted my head, narrowing my eyes at him. "So, you're a mommy's boy. The kind who says, 'yes, ma'am' and does whatever his mother tells him." I made sure my voice dripped with sarcasm, even though my chest was still tight with unshed tears.
He groaned dramatically and rubbed the back of his neck. "Girl, you're giving me whiplash. First, you say I look good enough to eat—"
"I didn't say that!" I snapped, heat flooding my cheeks.
"—and then," he continued smoothly as if I hadn't interrupted, "you throw in mockery like it's seasoning. Pick a lane, Benita." He let out a long sigh, the playfulness fading as his shoulders dropped. "Look… I just don't have the motivation to argue with her about this. My mother and I—" he paused, visibly uncomfortable, "we… have a… uhm… complicated relationship."
"Look…let's cut to the chase. How about we make this some kind of business contract?"
A business contract? My curiosity got the better of me. "What do you mean?"
He sighed deeply, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair until it looked deliciously mussed. His frustration filled the air. "We get married for one year."
I stared at him incredulously, every nerve in my body buzzing. Was he serious? He looked serious. His face was all sharp lines and businesslike composure, but there was that faint twitch at the corner of his mouth that told me he knew just how ridiculous this sounded. My jaw dropped. "We get married for one year," I repeated slowly, as if saying it back would reveal the punchline. Spoiler: it didn't.
"The business school you attended should give you your money back if you don't know the basic concept of business." Then I looked back at him, incredulity plastered all over my face. "Honestly, you should sue for fraud. They clearly failed you."
"Girl! Hold on for one frigging second, I am not done." He threw his hands up. The way his chest rose and fell, the faint flare of his nostrils—it was obvious I was driving him up a wall. Good. Anything to give him grief.