Chapter 3 – “Why Should I?”

The worst part about making an outrageous proposal? Waiting for the other person to respond.

There I was, standing in Damien Cross’s penthouse office, the city skyline glinting behind him like some smug audience waiting for the drama to unfold.

“Marry me,” I’d said, like a lunatic asking for a lifetime supply of headaches. And Damien? He looked at me with the kind of expression people reserve for poorly cooked steak—mild disgust mixed with faint amusement.

He leaned back in his chair, eyes sweeping over me in a way that wasn’t lustful—more analytical, like he was trying to figure out which mental institution had lost a patient.

Finally, he spoke. “Why should I?”

Ah, the dreaded question. And here I was, fresh out of reasonable answers. But who needs reason when you have desperation wrapped in sarcasm?

“Because,” I began, lifting my chin with more confidence than I actually had, “it’ll benefit both of us.”

He smirked. Of course he smirked. This man probably came out of the womb smirking. “Enlighten me.”

Alright, Lina. Time to sell this like it’s the last clearance item on Black Friday.

“You need a wife.”

His eyebrow arched. “Do I?”

“Yes,” I said, my voice firm, even though my insides were performing an interpretive dance of panic. “If the rumors about Cross Enterprises’ inheritance clause are true—and trust me, they are—you need to be married to keep control of your empire.”

His smile widened, slow and dangerous, like a cat toying with a mouse that just declared war. “And what makes you think I’d choose you?”

Ouch. Direct hit. Ten points to House Brutality.

I shrugged. “Because I’m the perfect candidate.”

“Oh?” He folded his hands, elbows resting on the armrest like a king holding court. “Explain.”

I took a step closer, forcing my heartbeat to shut up. “I don’t want your money, I don’t want your love, and I sure as hell don’t want to sleep in your bed—unless it’s for show.”

His eyes glimmered with dark amusement. “That last part is negotiable.”

I ignored the heat that shot up my spine and pulled out my phone, unlocking it with a dramatic flourish. If this were a movie, ominous music would start playing right about now.

“Besides,” I said casually, swiping through my gallery, “you’re going to say yes anyway.”

“And why is that?”

I turned the screen toward him. One tap, and the image filled his view: a glossy, high-resolution shot of Vera—my oh-so-beloved stepsister—at a charity gala, perched on the arm of Damien’s biggest rival, Marcus Vane.

Her hand on his chest. Her lips dangerously close to his ear. And Marcus? Smiling like the devil finally got a partner in crime.

“Where did you—” Damien’s voice cut off as his jaw tightened. His mask of boredom cracked for the first time, just slightly.

“Public event,” I said sweetly. “The rest is basic detective work and a friend who owes me a favor at the press.”

He stared at the photo like it was a live grenade. And maybe it was. Because if this little piece of scandal hit the headlines, Marcus Vane would have enough leverage to wreck Cross Enterprises.

“Vera’s been busy,” I added, because apparently my self-preservation instincts had taken the day off. “She’s been whispering in Marcus’s ear about your upcoming merger. I’m sure you know what that means.”

His gaze snapped to me, sharp enough to peel skin. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Miss Hayes.”

“And you’re running out of time,” I countered. “So here’s the deal: Marry me. Announce it today. Vera will lose her mind, Marcus will lose his pawn, and you keep your throne.”

The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken threats and the faint sound of my sanity packing its bags and leaving town.

Finally, Damien stood. Slowly. Deliberately. If intimidation were an Olympic sport, this man would’ve taken gold.

He walked around the desk and stopped just inches from me. Up close, he smelled expensive—something sharp and clean, like power bottled and sold at luxury prices.

His voice dropped, low and lethal. “You think you can blackmail me into marriage?”

I met his gaze head-on, ignoring the way my knees considered mutiny. “Not blackmail. Negotiation.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Not anger. Not amusement. Something darker. He stepped even closer, until his breath ghosted against my ear.

“Careful, Lina,” he murmured, my name rolling off his tongue like a sin. “Deals with me don’t end in fairy tales. They end in blood.”

Well. That was reassuring.

Before I could respond with something equally dramatic, he pulled back and smirked—the kind of smirk that could start wars and bankrupt empires.

“Fine,” he said finally. “You want a deal? You’ve got one. But understand this…” He leaned down just enough for his shadow to swallow mine. “From this moment on, you belong to me.”

Somewhere in the distance, a metaphorical alarm bell went off screaming bad idea, bad idea, abort mission! But it was too late.

Because when the devil offers you a deal, you don’t walk away. You sign.

And maybe—just maybe—you set the world on fire while you’re at it.

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