Location: Blackwood International Tower, Manhattan – 54th Floor | Time: Next Day
The lobby of Blackwood International was a temple of steel, glass, and intimidation. The building looked like it had been plucked out of a dystopian billionaire fantasy—tall, dark, and gleaming with the kind of confidence that made people uncomfortable.
Hartley stood among power suits and polished shoes, clutching her purse like it was a life vest.
She shouldn't be here.
But Leo's face—pale and fading in that hospital bed—was burned into her thoughts. And so, she tugged at her sleeves like she belonged there.
Trying not to stare at the security guard who definitely looked like he moonlighted as a bodyguard for MI6.
The receptionist—an icy blonde with cheekbones sharp enough to cut diamonds—spoke into a headset.
"Miss Sinclair to the executive floor."
A low beep. The elevator behind her opened silently.
"Mr. Westcott is expecting you," the woman said, her smile thinner than air.
Of course he is.
—------
The 54th floor was silent—so silent it felt like the furniture was holding its breath.
The doors opened to a massive office that could have doubled as a luxury suite. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked Manhattan's skyline. The air smelled like cedar and cold ambition.
Declan stood with his back to her, sipping espresso. "I was wondering if you'd come."
"I didn't have a choice."
He turned, one brow arched. "Everyone has a choice. But desperation tends to erase the better ones."
"Your brother's hospital bill," he said, clicking his pen closed. "Is nearing $92,000."
Her stomach dropped.
"You… looked me up?"
"I ran a basic background check. You gave me your name. What did you expect—flowers?"
"I expected you to be a jerk, but this is... way impressive even for me."
"You said something about a job."
He gestured to a leather chair across his desk. "Not a job. A deal."
"I'm not doing... that again," she responded feeling a bit embarrassed
He smirked. "Don't flatter yourself. This is business". Declan leaned forward, fingers steepled.
"Let's not waste time. I can pay off your brother's medical expenses. Get him the best treatment. You want to save your brother? I need a wife."
She blinked. "I'm sorry, what now?"
"A contract marriage," he said. "Twelve months. You play the part of my loving wife in public. In private, we stay out of each other's way."
"You need a—like, a real wife? With… rings and vows and matching pajamas?"
"I don't care about pajamas."
"Why would you need a fake wife?"
He didn't blink. "My inheritance is locked behind a marital clause. My board is threatening a hostile takeover unless I project stability."
She shook her head. "Okay. First of all, that's the most sociopathic sentence I've ever heard—"
"Surely there must be a hundred women out there who'd do it in a heartbeat."
"They'd fall in love. Cause drama. I need someone convincing. Someone who won't fall in love with me, won't embarrass me, and won't try to poison my drink. You, Hartley, strike me as someone who wants nothing from me but money."
She stood. "This is insane."
"It's one year. You'll live here. Travel with me. Attend galas. Pretend to be mine. In exchange, your brother's hospital bills will be covered. You'll get five hundred thousand dollars when the contract ends. Clean. No strings."
Hartley's heart thudded. "And if I refuse?"
"Then your brother dies," he said, too casually. "And you go back to your little cubicle pretending you still have options."
Tears burned her eyes. "You're a monster."
"Maybe," he said. "But I'm the monster with the cure."
She sat back down, shaking.
"I'll need legal protection," she whispered. "No touching. No… expectations."
He slid a folder across the desk, inside was a starting page of the contract that states:
Clause One: $500,000. Tax-free. Upon divorce after one year.
"Already drafted. My legal team will give you a copy to review. But know this—if you break it, you pay everything back, with interest," Declan warned.
Her eyes scanned the pages. Words blurred. She saw her brother's name. A wire transfer. A non-disclosure agreement.
"How do I know you'll keep your word?" she asked.
Declan leaned closer, his voice like steel. "Because I don't lie, Hartley. Yes, I manipulate, threaten, and occasionally ruin people—but I don't lie."
A pen sat in front of her.
She stared at it. Then at him.
One signature could save Leo. One stroke could destroy her life.
Her hand trembled as she signed.
He leaned back, satisfied. "Congratulations, Mrs. Westcott. The performance begins now."
Hartley looked up, panic rising. "Now?"
He stood. "You have exactly four hours to move into my penthouse. My driver is waiting."
"Don't I get to tell my brother?"
"You can tell him you're marrying someone. But not who. And not why."
Her knees went weak.
But the final blow came as Declan walked toward the elevator.
"Oh," he added, without looking at her, "And if you think you can back out… I suggest you read clause sixteen."
She opened the folder again. Her breath caught.
Clause 16: Full custodial rights over Leo Sinclair will be transferred to Blackwood Holdings in the event of contract breach.
Her vision blurred.
He owned her.
And now—he owned her brother, too.
—--------
By the time she hit the lobby, she was still shaking—but not from fear, from fury.
She rode the elevator down with the folder in her hands and tears in her eyes.
Subsequently, her phone rang again—and she heard Leo's voice, weak and
small and hopeful—she knew what she was going to do.
She hated Declan Westcott.
But she needed him.
And that made her hate herself more