The elevator climbed to the top of Drake Industries, each floor number lighting up like a countdown to war.
Mia watched her reflection in the mirrored doors: steady gaze, immaculate black suit, red matte lipstick like armor. Every line of her body screamed composure. Inside, her pulse thudded with quiet rage.
She clutched the thin leather folder in her hand the last documents tied to her father's estate. It felt symbolic. A relic of everything she'd lost.
The elevator chimed. Top floor.
The receptionist rose immediately when the doors opened. "Mrs…."
"Miss," Mia corrected smoothly. "Miss Hart. Adrian Drake is expecting me."
The woman hesitated just a fraction too long before forcing a polite smile. "Right this way."
The office looked nothing like the world she'd come from.
Where Hart Atelier had been warmth and artistry, this was precision and control. Steel and marble. Power distilled into architecture.
And there he was.
Adrian Drake stood by the window, back turned to her, framed by the skyline. The morning light carved his silhouette into something godlike and unapproachable.
"Miss Hart," he said, voice deep, smooth, and clipped, the kind that made everything sound like a verdict.
"Mr. Drake."
He turned.
She remembered him vaguely from charity galas years ago, younger then, less hardened. But the man before her now was carved from discipline. Sharp cheekbones, expensive suit, dark eyes that looked like they'd already measured and priced her.
"You came alone," he noted.
"You asked me to."
"I wasn't sure you would."
"Then you don't know me."
A faint smirk curved his lips. "I'm beginning to."
Mia set the folder on his desk. "You wanted to talk about my father's debt. Let's talk."
He didn't move. "Do you know the amount?"
"Yes." Her voice was steady. "And I'll repay every cent."
"With what?"
Her chin lifted. "I'll sell what's left of the Hart properties. The designs. The name."
Adrian's eyes flickered, not with pity, but amusement. "The name you're sitting here defending no longer holds value. It's tainted, Miss Hart."
"Then I'll rebuild it."
He studied her for a moment, unreadable. Then he walked closer, his cologne clean and faintly bitter, like rain on stone.
"You have your father's fire," he said quietly. "It's why he lost everything."
Her eyes narrowed. "And your father lost his life chasing revenge. Don't quote me morality, Mr. Drake."
For a split second, his jaw tightened. Then, just as quickly, he smoothed it away. "You're right. Let's talk business instead."
He walked to his desk, opened a folder, and slid a document across the polished surface.
Mia glanced down.
It wasn't a loan agreement. It wasn't a buyout.
It was a marriage contract.
Her head snapped up. "This is a joke."
"I don't make jokes."
She stared at him. "You're out of your mind."
"I'm offering you a solution," he said calmly. "One that clears every debt your family owes to me and restores your access to the resources you need to rebuild your brand."
Her pulse quickened. "By marrying you."
"For one year."
Mia laughed, sharp and disbelieving. "You think I'd sell myself to you for a signature?"
His gaze didn't flinch. "I think you're practical enough to know when you've run out of options."
"I'd rather live in ruin than become your pawn."
Adrian leaned back slightly, unbothered. "You already are, Miss Hart. Whether you like it or not, everything tied to the Hart name belongs to me."
The words hit like a slap, cold and hard.
She stepped closer to the desk, voice low. "What is this, Adrian? Some twisted revenge fantasy? You destroy my father's company, and now you want me as a trophy?"
He tilted his head, studying her as though weighing every word. "Not a trophy. A statement."
Her eyes flashed. "Of what?"
"That the past doesn't control me. That I can turn my father's greatest betrayal into my cleanest victory."
Her hands clenched at her sides. "You want to use me."
He smiled faintly. "I prefer the word partnership."
"I prefer delusion."
Adrian rose from his chair, slowly, deliberately. He was tall enough that she had to tilt her chin to hold his gaze.
The air between them tightened.
"You don't have to like me," he said softly. "You just have to agree."
"And what do you get, exactly?"
"A wife for appearances. A merger on my terms. And the satisfaction of watching the Harts finally pay what they owe."
Her jaw trembled, not with weakness, but fury. "You're disgusting."
"Maybe." He stepped closer. "But I'm the only chance you have."
Mia's breath hitched. For a second, the power between them shifted, not dominance, not submission, but something else entirely, a feeling she couldn't quite understand.
She looked down at the contract again. Her signature line waited, mocking her.
"One year?" she repeated.
"One year," he said. "No strings after that. You walk away free. Debt erased. Name restored."
"And in that year?"
He met her eyes. "You'll play the role of Mrs. Adrian Drake."
Her voice dropped. "And if I refuse?"
He smiled, that calm, infuriating smile of a man who already owned the ending.
"Then I'll liquidate what's left of Hart Atelier. Publicly. Your father's designs will be auctioned as collector's curiosities. His name will fade and yours along with it."
For a moment, the room spun. Her pulse roared in her ears.
Mia took a slow breath, forcing calm. "You think I'm afraid of starting over?"
"I think you're afraid of being forgotten."
Silence.
Then, quietly, she said, "You're wrong."
He watched her, searching her face for something. Fear. Anger. Maybe surrender.
Instead, he found steel.
She picked up the pen, twirled it between her fingers, then placed it back down. "I'll give you your answer tomorrow."
"Don't take too long," he said. "I'm not known for my patience."
"Good," she shot back, already walking toward the door. "Because I'm not known for my obedience."
His voice followed her. "Miss Hart."
She paused, hand on the door handle.
"When you come back," he said, "don't wear black. You're not here to mourn. You're here to make history."
She didn't look back but her pulse betrayed her, uneven and furious.
When the elevator doors closed behind her, she pressed her palms against the cold metal and let out the breath she'd been holding.
"History," she muttered. "We'll see who writes it, Drake."