Charlotte adjusted the strap of her designer bag borrowed, not bought as she rode the mirrored elevator up the tallest tower in Geneva's financial district. Below her, the city gleamed with old money and new power: Lake Geneva reflecting the sunset, private banks lining the avenues, luxury cars and much more.She exhaled slowly. This wasn't just a meeting. This was her father's last chance. His company back in London was drowning debts, lawsuits, vultures circling. If she failed here, she would watch generations of legacy be torn apart.The elevator opened into a penthouse that didn't look like an office but a throne room of glass and steel. Mark Davaris stood with his back to her, overlooking the city. Geneva glittered below him which he owned.Even before he turned, his presence filled the space—tailored charcoal suit, posture sharp as a blade, aura of command that made people obey before he even spoke.
"Charlotte Miller," he said without turning, voice, deep, and smooth as scotch.
"Mr. Davaris." She forced steadiness into her voice. "Thank you for seeing me."
He turned then. His eyes were dark, unreadable, his face carved with arrogance and the kind of beauty that made weakness dangerous. He didn't smile. He studied her .
"You need money," he said. Not a question. A verdict.
Her throat tightened. "My father's company—"
"—is bleeding out," he interrupted. "I know. His debts exceed his assets. Investors won't touch him. Banks have blacklisted him. Which leaves… me."
Charlotte clenched her jaw. "I didn't come to beg. I came with a proposal."
That made his lips twitch, almost amused. "Go on."
She inhaled. "Invest in his company. I'll manage it. I can turn it around."
Mark walked toward her, slow and deliberate, his polished shoes echoing against marble. When he stopped close enough for her to catch his cologne—dark woods, understated power—her heartbeat stumbled.
"You're ambitious," he said softly. "I like that." His gaze narrowed. "But I don't gamble without guarantees."
Her breath caught. "What do you want?"
The silence between them was a taut wire. Then his words dropped like a blade:
"Marry me."
Charlotte blinked. The room tilted. "Excuse me?"
"Marry me," he repeated, calm as though he were suggesting lunch. "One year. A contract. In public, you'll be Mrs. Davaris—my perfect wife. In private, we keep our independence. After twelve months, we divorce. No entanglements."
Her laugh came sharp, incredulous. "This is insane. Marriage isn't—"
"In my world," he cut her off, "marriage is nothing but a contract. Optics. Appearances. My board expects stability. My international partners demand it. They want to invest in a man who looks settled, not a bachelor with scandals. You need money. I need a wife. This solves both problems."
Her chest burned with fury. "You think I'll sell myself just because you wave money at me?"
Mark's eyes hardened. "I think you'll do anything to save your father's company. Unlike the men outside these doors who will chew you up and spit you out, I'm offering terms. Control. Protection. And a future for what's left of your legacy."
The word control cut through her like fire.
Charlotte's jaw tightened. "You speak about marriage like you're buying a yacht or signing a merger."Mark didn't flinch. "That's exactly what it is. A merger. Between your desperation and my reputation."Her eyes flashed. "Do you even hear yourself? Marriage is supposed to mean something. It's vows, commitment""Don't romanticize what you can't afford," Mark cut in, his tone sharp. "Love doesn't pay debts, Charlotte. Commitment doesn't stop banks from seizing assets. What I'm offering you is not a fantasy—it's survival."Charlotte stepped closer, heat rising in her chest. "And in your version of survival, I lose myself. You think money makes you untouchable, but you're just—" She stopped herself, breathing hard.Mark arched a brow, amused by her fire. "Just what?""A man who buys everything he can't earn," she snapped.His smile was slow, dangerous. "Careful, Charlotte. That temper of yours might get you into trouble. But it also… intrigues me."She hated the way his gaze lingered on her, how the space between them seemed to shrink. "You're impossible.""And you're stubborn," he countered, voice dropping low. "But stubbornness won't keep your father's company alive."He turned to the bar, poured amber whiskey into crystal, and continued casually, "You'll sign a prenup. My fortune remains mine. Your father's company will be debt-free within a week. You'll have an allowance, freedom, a life of privilege. The only condition—you stand beside me when I require it."
Charlotte's pulse thundered. Images flashed in her head: her father's trembling hands signing yet another desperate loan, employees fearing layoffs, the shame in his tired eyes.
This wasn't just about her pride. This was survival.
Her voice came low, sharp. "And if I say no?"
Mark swirled his whiskey, the city's lights catching in the glass. Then his gaze sliced back to her, cold and final. "Then by next month, your father's company will belong to my competitors. They'll gut it, dismantle it, sell it off piece by piece. You'll watch strangers destroy the only legacy your family ever built."
Her stomach twisted. Rage and helplessness knotted inside her. She hated him—his arrogance, his manipulation—but she hated her powerlessness more.
She lifted her chin, steel in her spine. "Fine," she said, each word like a blade. "I'll marry you."
For the first time, something flickered in his eyes—not warmth, not tenderness, but a flicker of triumph, edged with something darker.
"Good choice," Mark murmured.
He extended his hand. The gesture was simple, but the weight behind it crushed her chest.
Charlotte stared at it. She knew if she touched him, if she agreed fully, her freedom ended here. But her father's future rested on this moment.
Her breath trembled. She placed her hand in his. His grip was firm, commanding, cold.
And just like that, the deal was sealed.
Charlotte had sold herself to the devil of Geneva. And Mark Davaris had secured his bride.