Chapter 6 – You’re Joking, Right?

If someone had told Ariana Blake a week ago she'd be sitting in a corner office of a trillion-dollar corporation discussing marriage with a man she barely knew, she would've laughed them out of the room. Or cried. Probably both.

But here she was. Across the gleaming obsidian desk, Leonardo Maddox Cross leaned back in his chair, silent and unreadable, watching her like she was one of his acquisitions being studied before a bid.

Ariana stared at the folder in her hands. Her name was printed beside his. In bold. Legal.

"You're joking, right?" she finally said, looking up.

"I'm not in the habit of joking about billion-dollar mergers," Leo replied coolly.

"You don't know me."

"I know enough."

Ariana rose from her seat. "You've run a background check, talked to your assistant, maybe stalked my Instagram—"

"You don't have one."

"Exactly! That's the point. I'm invisible. And you want to marry me?"

Leo's jaw flexed. He stood too, six feet three of tailored steel and unflinching calm. "I need someone invisible. I need someone who won't invite scrutiny. I need someone who can follow rules, maintain appearances, and not complicate this."

"So you picked me like I'm an item on a grocery list?"

His tone didn't change. "I picked you because you're smart, discreet, and unattached."

"You forgot 'desperate,'" she added bitterly.

He didn't deny it.

Ariana walked toward the massive windows behind his desk. The city stretched before her, glittering and unreachable. She crossed her arms.

"Why the hell do you even need to be married for a merger? Isn't that… medieval?"

Leo joined her, his voice lower now. "The family behind the merger is old money. European. They value image. Tradition. The patriarch is Catholic and strict. The idea of merging with a single billionaire, no family, no roots—it unsettles them."

"So you're buying a wife to look wholesome."

"I'm buying time," he corrected. "Twelve months. After that, you walk away with money, career options, and no strings."

Ariana turned to him. "And you? What do you walk away with?"

Leo's eyes didn't flinch. "Everything I've spent ten years building."

Silence stretched between them.

It was hard to believe this man had ever let someone close. His suit was immaculate, navy with charcoal pinstripes, cut so sharp it could wound. His features were chiseled—angular jaw, high cheekbones, a mouth that looked like it had long since forgotten how to smile. But his eyes... cold steel gray with a shadow behind them. Something old. Something wounded.

"How old are you?" she asked, suddenly.

"Thirty-six."

"And you've never been married?"

"Once engaged. It ended badly."

Ariana blinked. "Let me guess—she didn't sign the NDA?"

He gave her a look that almost bordered on amusement. "She signed it. She just broke it. And sued."

"Oh," she muttered. "Nice."

"She was a lesson," Leo said. "You learn fast in this world, or you lose faster."

He took a breath and turned back to the desk, flipping the contract open. "The offer stands, Ms. Blake. A non-romantic, professional arrangement. You get complete financial freedom. A career launchpad. A safe, private place to live. And I get a spotless public image long enough to close the deal."

Ariana stared down at the ink and paper.

Her fingers tingled.

"Two million," he added, as if discussing lunch options.

She blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Two million dollars. That's the total payout across the contract's duration. One hundred thousand a month. Bonus installments if you fulfill all public appearances and media obligations."

Her mouth parted. "Two million."

He nodded once.

"And all I have to do is play house with you for a year?"

"No. Just look like you do. Attend a few galas. Let the press take photos. Smile when necessary. You'll have your own bedroom, full privacy, and a direct line to legal if you ever feel your safety's compromised."

He slid a black velvet box across the desk.

She hesitated before opening it. Inside was a ring—platinum, minimalist, stunning. Not gaudy or oversized. Just timeless. Understated.

Exactly like the man offering it.

"I didn't think trillionaires bought rings before the proposal," she said, voice thin.

"I don't propose," he said. "I offer contracts."

Ariana stared at him.

She thought of her landlord. Of the final notice slipped under her door. Of the rejected design submissions. The way her stomach had curled when she opened her fridge and found only mustard and expired almond milk.

Then she thought of this man. Controlled. Calculated. Arrogant.

But honest about what he was offering.

"You really don't want anything emotional from this?" she asked.

"Nothing," he said. "I'm not looking for love. Just strategy."

"No touching. No sex. No pretending in private?"

"You'll be treated with respect," he said, evenly. "And distance."

Ariana gave a short, breathless laugh. "You've really done this before, haven't you?"

"No. But I've built enough empires to know how to structure the contract."

She bit her lip, turning to the window again.

A fake marriage.

To a trillionaire.

She could say no. Walk out. Go back to freelance gigs and eviction threats and pretending not to cry in the shower.

Or she could say yes.

And rewrite her life.

When she turned back, her voice was steady.

"I want to amend the contract."

Leo raised an eyebrow.

"One year max. No extension clauses. No shared bathroom. I get a budget to redesign my workspace if I move in. And I pick my own wardrobe."

He considered. "Done."

"I want a clause that lets me opt out of any media event with forty-eight hours' notice."

"Done."

"And you don't get to question me about my past. Ever."

His face flickered—just briefly. "Fine."

Ariana walked slowly to the desk. Her fingers hovered over the pen.

One signature.

One year.

She met his eyes.

"You're cold," she said.

"I've been called worse."

"But you're honest," she added.

Leo didn't answer. He just watched her.

Ariana lifted the pen and signed.

---

By the time she stepped out of Cross International, the city felt louder. Brighter. Like it knew she'd just made a decision that couldn't be undone.

She didn't go home.

Instead, she walked. For blocks. Letting her heels blister and her mind catch up. The wind stung her face, and the streetlights flickered gold across parked cars.

Two million.

One year.

And a man who didn't believe in love.

But something inside her—something small and trembling and not quite dead—whispered that maybe, just maybe, things wouldn't stay business forever.

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