The proposal

The bartender had offered her water with a skeptical glance, and Brielle had accepted it with fake grace and a forced smile. She could feel the weight of the polished space pressing down on her—velvet booths, chandeliers overhead, people in tailored suits sipping expensive liquor like it was water. This bar wasn’t built for people like her.

She didn’t care.

She needed air. Noise. A place that didn’t smell like hospital corridors or her boss’s cologne.

Brielle wrapped her coat tighter and walked to the balcony. The city shimmered below her like a dream she couldn’t afford.

“What are you running from?”

The voice came from behind her. Low. Controlled. Curious.

She turned, instantly defensive.

“Excuse me?”

He stepped into the light. Tall. Suit tailored like it was sewn onto him. Dark hair, darker eyes. His face looked like it had been carved by focus and fury—sharp jaw, unreadable expression, expensive watch ticking steadily at his wrist.

She narrowed her eyes.

“Do you always approach women with lines that sound like bad detective movies?”

His lips twitched. Barely.

“I wasn’t trying to be charming. I was being accurate.”

“Well, you missed.” She turned back toward the skyline. “Try again with someone else.”

“I wasn’t asking a question,” he said. “I was offering an observation.”

She let out a breath. “What are you, a psychologist?”

“No,” he said simply. “I’m a man who recognizes what it looks like to want to disappear.”

Something in his voice—flat, calm, certain—made her glance at him again.

There was a hollow in his eyes. A coldness that didn’t feel cruel. Just… old.

“Are you following me or just naturally creepy?” she asked.

He stepped forward and offered his hand.

“Alexander Hayes.”

Brielle stared at him for two seconds too long.

“Wait… the Alexander Hayes? CEO of Hayes Global? The guy I—”

She stopped herself.

He tilted his head. “The guy you what?”

“Nothing.”

“Did we meet before?”

“Not unless you remember being insulted by a very underpaid editorial assistant two days ago.”

Something flickered in his expression. “Ah.”

Her cheeks flushed. “Look, if you’re here for revenge, get in line. My week’s already booked.”

He studied her for a moment longer. “I’m not here for revenge.”

“No?”

“I’m here to offer you a job.”

That made her laugh. Loud and sharp. “Are you serious? After what I said to you?”

“I like honesty,” he said. “And I don’t need a writer.”

“What do you need?”

He looked at her then—really looked at her. The kind of look that made people either lean in or run away.

“I need a wife.”

Brielle stared.

“I’m sorry—what?”

“A wife,” he repeated, as casually as if he’d asked for a cup of coffee. “On contract. One year. No romance. No expectations. Just appearances. I’ll pay you handsomely.”

She blinked. “Okay, either you’re clinically unwell or this is some elaborate prank show.”

“It’s not a joke.”

“You want me to marry you? Just like that?”

“No. I want you to think about it. Then say yes.”

She stared at him, unsure whether to laugh, scream, or walk away.

“Why me?”

Alexander looked out over the city as if weighing the truth.

“Because you don’t want anything from me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I don’t,” he said. “But I trust instincts. And right now, mine tells me you’re exactly the person I need.”

She folded her arms. “And what do you need, exactly?”

He turned to her again, and this time there was something raw in his voice.