"You're trending in three countries, Damon. Three!"
Clara's heels punctuated her outrage as she slammed her iPad on the table, which was perfectly polished.
Damon did not seem to care. His face was, as always, calm, collected, and cold.
"The Flower Girl?" He didn't bother to look up from the financial report.
"The Flower Girl, the crying girl, the mystery girl. Everyone is curious to know who she is, wondering why you decided to ruin her life."
Clara poked a headline. "Billionaire Heartbreaker Makes Delivery Girl Cry at Charity Gala."
"Good for impressions," Damon muttered.
"Bad for business," another person spoke up. It was one of the older members of the board, Mr. Halvorson. "You're up for renewal as CEO, Damon. And your image is becoming… a liability."
Damon seemed to have finally had enough, because the next words to leave his mouth were "My numbers aren't a liability, neither is my portfolio."
That is not the issue at hand. It's not about numbers anymore. Investors care about perception. People are demanding a softer face to replace the one they currently associate with in Shaw Enterprises, not the brooding bachelor who makes flower girls cry on national television.
Damon leaned back with his hands steepled beneath his chin.
Clara walked in. "Which is why we have a plan."
"Do I even want to hear it?" he replied in an apathetic tone.
"By the end of this, she'll be your temporary fiancée," Clara said confidently.
There was silence for a while! Then Damon broke the silence.
"Come again?"
"Damon, you're already being trolled by the internet. Just change the scandal into a Cinderella story. Your public image would be repaired; you keep your seat, and everyone wins."
"Everybody except the girl," he muttered.
Ariella, meanwhile, was back in her sister's hospital room trying to elaborate on the instant noodles and make them into a dinner while watching Amira sleep as if the world was not collapsing around her.
Her phone vibrated.
Unknown number: "Hello, Ms. Monroe. I work with Damon Shaw. He would like to set up a meeting with you."
Ariella stared at her phone as if it had insulted her.
"Absolutely not," she whispered to herself and deleted the message.
Ariella was still reeling from the message when three hours later a woman in a black suit appeared in the hospital lobby, an envelope in her hand.
"Are you Ms. Monroe?" she asked with calm. "I'm his assistant, and we trust this might be of interest to you."
Reaching out, she offered the envelope.
"Aren't these envelopes associated with bribes? What is this, hush money?"
Her voice dripped sarcasm.
"No. It's an invitation."
Ariella stared at her for a long second.
"Tell Mr. Shaw I'm not for sale."
"I understand," the woman noted. "But this isn't a proposition. It's a business opportunity. And if you care about your sister's surgery…you may want to hear him out."
The day after that, Ariella stepped into a rooftop office that reeked of polished glass and power.
The office was lined with the latest technology, which made Ariella frightened.
She was drenched in the scent of the harbor, but to her, the office was equally unbearable.
She had never felt so out of place. Her jeans were faded, her outfit a patchwork of borrowed pieces, including a fraying sweater.
He was waiting.
Damon Shaw.
His dark hair was slicked back, and not a single strand was out of place. Wearing a perfectly put-together suit, he commanded the room and exuded an aura of dominance.
"Miss Monroe," he said without smiling.
"Mr. Shaw," she replied tightly. "What is this?"
He motioned for her to sit.
She didn't.
"Look, I don't know what kind of damage control you're running, but I want nothing to do with this. The photos were an accident. I had no idea I was going to be there…"
"Sit," he said. This time, she complied.
He pushed a dossier to her and the glass table.
"Read it."
Confusion crossed her face, but Ariella remained hesitant.
"What is this?"
"A contract."
"For what?"
"Marriage. To me. For 90 days."
Freezing her laughter dropped strongly,
"Is this a prank?"
"No. I need a wife. You require money. It's clean. It's temporary. Not only that, but it's mutually beneficial."
Tentatively, she opened the folder.
Rule 1: Marriage will be legally binding for 90 days.
Rule 2: Upon completion, Ariella Monroe will be paid $500,000.
Rule 3: Amira Monroe's surgery will be paid for in full immediately.
"You can't be serious."
He held her gaze, unflinching.
"Deadly."
"You don't know me," she claimed, her voice soft, her arms crossed as if to shield her from harm. "And I don't know you. What rational person would agree to marry a stranger?"
Though her voice remained calm, her gaze was flagged. Restless. Agitated.
He didn't grumble.
"Because your sister's dying," he said, "And I have the money to stop it."
The room fell silent.
Ariella stayed still, her heart racing to a symphony that drowned out her rational thoughts. She breathed out. He was so casual with it, as though it was the most simple thing to say, as if it weren't the most heartless sentence she could ever imagine.
Ariella was trying hard to feel calm, assured, and exuding confidence. She did her best to study the stranger in the tailored suit.
"Miss Monroe," he said, still unchanged. "This isn't about love," he said, as he began passing a folder. "This is a business deal. I need a wife just for ninety days. Enough to execute a certain deal that requires a spouse. No romance, no emotions, and no room for mistakes."
Ariella's silent gaze was rooted to the folder, desperate to lend her sister a shred of trust.
To her, it was not ideal deal, but in reality, it held her sister's life and legally bound to a contract she'd never consented to in the first place.
Without realizing it, she was no longer in the room; her energized gaze was locked to the documented contract.
This wasn't a proposal. It was an ultimatum.
Her fingers were frozen over the file. She took a deep breath.
"And once the ninety days are up?" she whispered, as if speaking any louder would break her fragile resolve.
"What are my options at that point?"
Damon cleared his throat and took a deep breathe. "If you do a good job by following all the rules, I pay you, and we part ways.
It's that simple, Damon said without smiling.