Stephanie stormed out of Blackthorn enterprises on unsteady legs, her pulse hammering against her ribs. The cool evening air slapped her face as she stumbled to the curb, her hand flying out to hail a cab, she was desperate to place herself as farthest to that man as possible. Him and his marriage proposal.
That man—Oliver Blackthorn. What a piece of work. She simply came for an interview and walked out with a marriage proposal?! Who even did that? Stephanie Anderson, who had spent the better part of a year bouncing between failed job interviews, had just been treated like the punchline of some billionaire's joke.
It wasn't even romantic. No flowers, no words of affection. Just a clinical declaration: 'Marry me." Stephanie imagined how she'd always thought her proposal would look. A man she loved, someone who loved her in return, kneeling under the stars or maybe at Christmas with lights twinkling behind him. A moment to cry tears of happiness. However Oliver Blackthorn was the opposite of that. Bold. Rigid. Utterly indifferent to her opinion. Her thoughts spiraled as the taxi door slammed shut behind her. She stared out of the back window, watching the glass fortress of Blackthorn Enterprises shrink into the distance.
I must be dreaming. No, this is a nightmare. A nightmare with a devilishly handsome CEO who thinks marriage is a business contract.
Oliver Blackthorn was a gift box wrapped in red silk—beautiful at first glance, but inside was a bomb waiting to explode.
"I will not marry that bastard," Stephanie whispered, pressing her forehead to the cool glass as the city blurred past. "No matter what, I will not."
"But you must marry the man, Stephanie!" Steph's best friend, Elise, shouted at her friend. She used Steph's full name which represented her seriousness.
Stephanie sighed, resurfacing herself from under the bathwater, wet hair sticking to her face like seaweed. She held up a hand for silence. "I can not marry the man, Elise. Did you not hear me? I dislike the man and rather greatly at that." She snatched the bottle of wine from Elise's manicured hand, who pleaded in front of her, and took gulps of it though she wasn't a person who had much taste for alcohol.
"Now please," She seated the bottle at her side, "Allow me to drown in peace. Your shouting disturbs me."
Elise, perched on the counter in her designer heels, yanked her wrist before she could sink back under, "You're lucky I'm not screaming about you ruining my expensive red dress!" She furrowed her thin, "Do you know how much that fabric costs?" Stephanie blinked down at herself. Yes, she was soaking in her friend's bathtub, Elise's cocktail dress clinging to her like wet velvet.
"Elise," Stephanie groaned, "Focus. A man just proposed to me."
"A handsome CEO proposed to you, none other than Oliver Blackthorn himself," Elise corrected, narrowing her eyes, "And you ran away. Tell me you're not playing hard to get."
Stephanie laughed, the sound bubbling out more like a sob, "Elise, the man doesn't even like me. You should've seen me—I looked like Voldemort with a hangover. My makeup melted off halfway through, my hair was a bird's nest. He doesn't want me. He just wants…something else."
Elise crossed her arms. "Sweetheart, I turned you into a vixen this morning. He definitely noticed. Men like him don't propose for nothing."
Stephanie laughed again, wetter this time. "Men like him don't propose at all. They acquire. They conquer. I'm not a woman to Oliver Blackthorn—I'm a chess piece."
"You're being dramatic," Elise said, rolling her eyes as she reached for the wine.
Stephanie snatched it back with a drunken glare."Dramatic? The man is a philandering asswipe! He doesn't care about me. He just wants to save himself."
"Save himself?"
Stephanie straightened suddenly, nearly sloshing bathwater over the rim. "Rumors. He said there were rumors. Look him up, Elise!"
Obediently, Elise pulled out her phone and tapped it with acrylic nails. "I mean, people are always trying to ruin him. Last week some woman said he killed her dog."
"Wouldn't surprise me."
Elise gasped. "He's that horrid? Steph, you don't even know him! You can't hate him just because of what the media—"
"I don't need to," Stephanie cut in. "I've read the magazines and papers my grandma left lying around. And today proved it. He's a handsome devil, and I'd happily slap him upside the head if I ever see him again."
Elise grinned. "He's a rich devil. Some people would pay just to touch him. Actually, I heard someone's selling his hair strand online for a million bucks."
Stephanie gawked. "A million? For hair?"
"I would," Elise admitted, lips curving cheekily.
Stephanie's eyes narrowed.
"For Ian Somerhalder," Elise added quickly. "Not Oliver Blackthorn. Calm down."
Stephanie groaned. "You're hopeless."
"Hopelessly right," Elise teased, twirling her hair. "Marriage to him wouldn't be so bad. Money, looks, body. You don't even need to love him. It's only, what—six months? Play pretend, collect the benefits, call it quits."
Stephanie opened her mouth to retort when the phone started buzzing in Elise's hand and she glanced down at the contact, "It's your sister." She showed it to Stephanie, "Why are there fifteen miss calls, Steph?!"
"Don't answer," Stephanie muttered, sinking deeper into the bath.
"Why not?"
"Because today's the memorial dinner." She replied flatly.
Elise's eyes widened. "Steph—are you serious? Then why are you here? You should be there."
Stephanie sighed, the bubbles rising around her chin. "That old man," she said bitterly, "he was spoiled and selfish. Trust me, Elise, you know the man he was. And as for the gathering, it won't be about remembrance—it'll be a show. A party dressed up as grief."
Most people mourned when someone died. But for Stephanie, there was nothing left to feel. She had long accepted that her father's passing was just a footnote in her life.
The phone buzzed again, insistently. Elise glanced at the screen. "It's your grandmother now."
Stephanie shook her head. 'So she couldn't get through to me and decided to contact Granny instead,' she thought. Not a surprise.
Clearing her throat, she slid the answer button. "Evening, Granny. What is it?" Her voice softened, taking on the warm, respectful tone her grandmother always drew from her. The change in demeanor was subtle but noticeable, even to Elise.
"My dear Stephanie," her grandmother's voice wavered. "I know it's the memorial tonight… Please, I want you to go." There was a catch of emotion, a rare tremor in her strong, steady voice. "It would mean so much to me."
Stephanie bit her lip, unsure how to respond. She hadn't yet told her grandmother that the job hunt had failed again, that she had barely enough to cover her own expenses. She opened her mouth, but a few seconds of silence were interrupted by the old lady's tears.
"Stephanie, darling… please, go. Not for them, but for me." Her voice cracked. "I won't be here forever, and I don't want you to be alone with grief when it finally does come. Please."
Hearing her grandmother cry, Stephanie's resolve crumbled. No matter how much she resented attending, she could not refuse the woman who had raised her. It was her grandmother, not her sister, asking. She owed her everything.
"I'll do it… for you, Granny," Stephanie whispered, a knot of guilt and resolve tightening in her chest. She hung up and looked at Elise. "Looks like I'll be going after all." She wrung the water from her hair, muttering, "Just when I thought today couldn't get worse, my luck decided to kick me in the ass again."