The Last Day

The smell of fresh coffee was the only thing keeping me upright.

Not the cheap pre-ground kind, but the real deal—dark roast beans from a small roastery three towns over, brewed in the dented French press I’d sworn I’d replace five years ago.

The café was quiet for a Monday morning. Too quiet.

I leaned my elbows on the counter, staring out through the big front windows at Main Street. The August sunlight spilled across the cobblestones, glinting off the polished hood of a passing vintage car. Usually that view gave me comfort—the postcard-perfect charm of our New England coastal town—but today it only reminded me that I was running out of time.

The eviction notice, folded in my apron pocket, felt like a lead weight. I’d read it three times already this morning, the words blurring into one another: Final Notice of Foreclosure. The due date circled in red: Friday.

Four days left.

A bell jingled above the door, snapping me out of my thoughts.

“Morning, Em.” Daniel, my best friend and our café’s chef, came in balancing a crate of eggs against his hip. His dark hair was sticking up at odd angles, the way it always did when he skipped brushing it in favor of more coffee.

“You look like you didn’t sleep again,” he said, setting the crate on the counter.

“I didn’t,” I admitted. “You try sleeping when you’ve got a clock ticking in your ear.”

Daniel frowned. “We’ll figure something out.”

“We’ve been trying to figure something out for months,” I reminded him, pouring him a mug of coffee. “Unless you’ve got a rich uncle hiding in your pantry, the only thing left to do is—”

“Don’t say it.” His tone was sharp.

I bit my lip. I didn’t need to finish. We both knew the only option was closing up shop.

He sipped his coffee in silence, eyes drifting to the framed photos on the wall—the ones of my parents, George and Marie Carter, from before Mom passed. Dad had built this café with his own hands, years before I was born. I’d grown up here, learned to count change at this very counter, spent summer evenings wiping tables while the smell of baking bread drifted from the kitchen.

The thought of losing it felt like losing Mom all over again.

The bell over the door jingled again. This time, it wasn’t a familiar face from town.

A tall man stepped inside, dressed in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit that didn’t belong anywhere near our weathered floorboards. His hair was dark, cut short, and he wore sunglasses despite being indoors. Every instinct screamed outsider.

“Can I help you?” I asked, smoothing my apron.

He took off the sunglasses, revealing sharp gray eyes. “Emma Carter?”

I stiffened. “Who’s asking?”

“My name is William Cole. I’m an attorney.”

My stomach twisted. “If you’re here about the foreclosure—”

He held up a hand. “This isn’t about that. I’m here on behalf of a client. He’d like to speak with you privately about… a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

Daniel straightened beside me. “She’s not interested.”

William’s eyes flicked to him, then back to me. “Perhaps you should hear the proposal before deciding. My client is prepared to resolve your financial troubles—permanently.”

I almost laughed. “What, in exchange for my soul?”

“No,” William said calmly. “In exchange for marriage.”

The room went silent. Even the espresso machine seemed to stop humming.

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“My client is seeking a discreet arrangement. You would be compensated—generously—in return for a legal marriage. He will cover your debts, including the café’s mortgage, and provide additional financial security. The terms will be outlined in a contract.”

I stared at him. “You’re serious?”

“Completely.”

Daniel stepped in front of me. “She’s not some pawn in whatever game you’re playing.”

William’s expression didn’t change. “This is not a game. My client has reasons for making this offer, and he selected Miss Carter specifically.”

The words lodged in my chest. “Why me?”

“That’s a question for him,” William replied. “If you’re willing to meet, I can arrange it for this afternoon. At the Knight Building, Manhattan.”

The name hit me like a splash of cold water. The Knight family was practically royalty in New York’s business world. Billionaire magnates, old money, and more gossip headlines than I could count. If William was telling the truth, then his client—

“Your client is Adrian Knight?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

William’s lips curved into the faintest smile. “He is.”

I exchanged a glance with Daniel. His brow was furrowed so deeply it could’ve been carved in stone.

“This is insane,” I said. “Why would a man like Adrian Knight need to marry someone like me?”

“That,” William repeated, “is for him to explain.”

---

Two hours later, I was in the passenger seat of William’s sleek black town car, the café temporarily closed with a Back in Two Hours sign taped to the door. Daniel had argued until the moment I left, warning me about scams, stalkers, and God knew what else. But curiosity—and desperation—won out.

The drive into Manhattan felt surreal. The city swallowed us whole, skyscrapers rising like glass giants, horns blaring in the thick traffic. My hands clenched my worn leather purse until my knuckles went white.

William’s voice broke the silence. “There’s no obligation. If you don’t like what you hear, you’re free to walk away.”

“Right,” I muttered. “Because that’s how billionaires work.”

He didn’t respond.

When we finally pulled up in front of the Knight Building, my breath caught. It was all steel and mirrored glass, thirty floors high, the kind of place that screamed power before you even stepped inside. Security guards in crisp uniforms flanked the entrance.

Inside, the air was cool, scented faintly with lemon polish. The marble floors were so shiny I could see my reflection—messy bun, faded jeans, and all.

We rode the elevator to the top floor. William led me through double glass doors into an office so large it could’ve swallowed my entire café. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the city. A massive mahogany desk stood at the far end, and behind it—

He was taller than I’d expected. Broad shoulders, lean frame, black hair swept back with the kind of effortless precision that probably took a stylist an hour. His eyes—piercing blue—locked on mine the moment I entered.

“Miss Carter,” he said, his voice low, smooth. “I’m Adrian Knight.”

For a moment, I couldn’t speak. This was the man whose face graced business magazines, whose fortune could probably buy the entire town where I grew up. And he was looking at me like I was the only person in the room.

“I understand William’s explained the basics,” he continued, coming around the desk. “I’ll get to the point. I need a wife. You need money. We can help each other.”

I crossed my arms. “And why me? Surely you could find someone—”

“Anyone?” His lips quirked. “I could. But I don’t want anyone. I need someone with no ties to my world. No ulterior motives. Someone who won’t leak to the press. You fit the bill.”

I bristled. “So I’m safe because I’m ordinary?”

“Because you’re trustworthy,” he corrected. “I’ve done my research, Miss Carter. You’ve kept your café running against impossible odds. You’re fiercely loyal to your family. You value privacy. Those qualities are rare in my world.”

“And in return for… marrying you, you’ll pay off my debts?”

“Pay them off,” he said, “and secure your financial future. You’ll have access to resources most people can’t imagine. All I ask is that you play the role convincingly in public.”

“And in private?”

“In private,” he said, holding my gaze, “you’re free to live as you wish. This is a business arrangement. Nothing more—unless you want it to be.”

Heat crept into my cheeks.

I should have said no. I should have walked out, told Daniel he was right, told Dad we’d figure out another way. But instead, I heard myself ask:

“What’s the catch?”

Adrian’s smile was slow, deliberate. “The contract lasts one year. After that, we part ways—unless either of us wants otherwise.”

“And if I say yes?”

He extended his hand. “Then, Miss Carter, your life changes—starting now.”

I stared at his hand, my heart pounding. This was insane. Dangerous. Irreversible.

And for some reason I couldn’t explain, I was tempted.

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