ALEXANDER'S POV
The phone sat on my desk, black and silent.
I had been staring at it for ten minutes. The reports in front of me—quarterly earnings, merger proposals—were just a blur of text and numbers. My mind was elsewhere. In a dimly lit bar, three nights ago, looking into the broken eyes of a woman in a ruined wedding dress.
"You've been staring at that phone for a while now. Are you expecting an important call?"
Marcus's voice cut through the quiet of my office. He stood by the door, holding a file, his head tilted. He knew me too well. He'd been my assistant for eight years. He'd seen me build my company from a startup to a billion-pound empire. He'd also seen the walls go up, brick by brick, after Isabella.
"It's nothing," I said, my voice flat. forcing my gaze away from the phone. "Just finalizing the arrangement I told you about."
"The contract marriage candidate," Marcus said, stepping inside. He didn't ask. He knew. "The one from the bar."
"Yes." I picked up a pen, just to have something to do with my hands. "She fits the requirements. She's in a vulnerable position. She needs financial security. I need an heir to satisfy my parents'… persistent expectations. It's a clean transaction."
Marcus walked over and placed the file on my desk. His expression was neutral, but his eyes were too observant. "And she hasn't called yet."
It wasn't a question. I didn't answer. I just looked at the city skyline through the floor-to-ceiling window. The gray clouds matched my mood.
"I haven't seen you care this much about a phone call from anyone in a long time," he remarked casually.
A flicker of irritation sparked in my chest. "I don't care, Marcus. I am efficient. This is the most logical solution to a problem. My parents will not stop hounding me about producing an heir until I provide one. This woman provides a path to that end. I am merely waiting for her to confirm so we can proceed. That is all."
My own words sounded hollow, even to me. That is all.
But it wasn't, and Marcus's slight, knowing silence told me he understood that. He had been there five years ago, when Isabella's betrayal became public. When she told everyone she was only pretend for my money . When my father, in one of his rare moments, had said, "This is why you guard your heart, Alexander. This is why you make deals, not attachments."
I had taken that lesson to heart. I had built my life into a fortress of control. Every relationship was a negotiation.
So why couldn't I forget the way Maya's voice had cracked when she said, "He said I'm not sophisticated enough." Why did the memory of her trying to hold back tears in that bar feel like a thumb pressing on a bruise?
"I'll be at my desk if you need me," Marcus said softly, pulling me from my thoughts. He turned to leave, pausing at the door. "For what it's worth, sir… from what you described of her, she sounds like she has strength. Not just desperation. There's a difference."
Then he was gone, closing the door with a quiet click.
Strength. Is that what it was? She hadn't screamed in the bar. She hadn't thrown things. She had just sat there, folded in on herself, her pain so quiet and so vast it seemed to fill the space around her. There was a dignity in that.
I stood up, restless. I walked to the window, my reflection a ghost over the London skyline.
My heart gave a single, hard thump against my ribs, a traitorous beat.
No. I closed my eyes. Did it forget the betrayal? The humiliation? The way trust, once given, could be weaponized?
I could not—would not—let it matter. This was not about her. This was about a signature on a document. A legal, binding contract that protected us both. It would be clinical. Professional. I would provide funds, housing, education. She would provide the appearance of a marriage and, in time, a child. After one year, we would dissolve the union with a generous settlement for her. Clean. Neat. Emotionless.
I returned to my desk. The phone was still silent.
Three hours passed.
Maybe she changed her mind. The thought brought an unexpected twist of… something. Disappointment? Annoyance? I brushed it aside. It didn't matter. There were other vulnerable women in London. Other solutions.
And then, it rang.
The sound was shockingly loud in the quiet office. The screen lit up: Unknown Number.
I let it ring twice. Three times. I took a slow, controlled breath, steadying my voice into its usual, impersonal tone. I answered.
"Alexander Thorne speaking."
There was a beat of silence on the other end. I could hear a faint, shaky inhale.
Then, her voice. "Hello. This is Maya. The woman from the bar."
It was softer than I remembered. Fragile, like glass held together by will alone. For a split second, my chest tightened.
"Yes?" I responded, keeping my voice cool, detached.
Another pause. I could almost see her on the other end of the line, in some small room, gathering her courage.
"I… I thought about your offer," she finally said. The words were barely a whisper, filled with a world of shame and resolve.
"And?" I prompted, sounding as still and professional as I could. It was crucial she understood this was not a rescue. It was a transaction.
A long, silent moment stretched out. I didn't fill it. She needed to say the words.
"I'm ready," she finally said.
Two words. So small. So final. They hung in the air between us, a bridge built from her despair and my cold calculation.
"Good," I responded, my tone giving away nothing. No relief. No pleasure. Just acknowledgment. "Text me your address. A car will come to pick you up tomorrow morning at eight. You will come to my office to review and sign the contract. We will discuss the terms."
"Okay," was all she said. One small word, but I could hear it—the rough texture of pain in her voice. The exhaustion. The surrender. It was the sound of someone who had run out of options, who was stepping off a cliff because the ground behind her was on fire.
"The driver will be prompt. Do not be late," I said, my voice returning to its customary steel.
"I won't," she murmured.
"Goodbye, Maya."
I ended the call before she could reply. I placed the phone back on the desk, screen down. The office was silent once more, but it felt different. The decision was made. The wheels were in motion.
I looked at the closed door, knowing Marcus was right outside. He had heard my side of the conversation. He would understand what had happened.
I pressed the intercom button. "Marcus."
He entered within seconds, his expression carefully blank. "Sir?"
"The arrangement is confirmed. The subject will be here tomorrow at eight-thirty. Have the contracts ready. The standard NDA, the marital agreement, the stipulations regarding the child, the post-dissolution settlement. Add a clause for her education—full tuition, living expenses, and a stipend for the duration of her studies. Expedite it."
"Of course," he said, nodding. He paused. "And how would you like the guest suite in the penthouse prepared?"
"Have the housekeeper stock it with essentials. Neutral tones. Nothing personal." I paused, then added, "She may bring one suitcase. Inform security."
"Understood."
After he left, I was alone again with the silence and the weight of what I had just set in motion. A profound stillness settled in the room. I swiveled my chair toward the window, watching as the first lights began to pierce the evening gloom.
This was the pinnacle of control, the ultimate deal. So why did the air in my lungs feel so thin? She was a solution. A means to an end. Her surrender was my strategic victory.
I repeated it like a mantra, etching the words into the cold marble of my resolve. The ghost of her fragile voice, that tiny "I'm ready," was merely the sound of terms being accepted. Nothing more.
A business deal. That's all it was.
A woman with sad eyes and a broken heart was now a line item in my calendar.
A child, not yet conceived, was now a clause in a contract.
I told myself it was clean. I told myself it was smart.
But as I sat in the gathering dark of my office, the ghost of her fragile voice saying "I'm ready" lingered in the air, a silent echo that, for the first time in years, made my fortress of control feel terribly, utterly cold.