Amelia sat stiffly in the leather seat, every muscle clenched as Alexander Blackwood studied her. His office was too large, too bright, and far too daunting. She'd never been surrounded by so much glass and steel sophistication, but all of it paled into the background compared to the man in front of her.
"I don't see," she said at last, when the silence grew to be too much. "Why am I here? What would you possibly want from me?"
Alexander's lips curved in a slow smile—no warm, no kindly smile, but sharp, like the edge of a sword. "I want you to marry me."
Amelia's jaw dropped. She blinked, sure she had not heard aright. "Excuse me?"
"Marry me." He leaned back in his chair as if he had just asked her to pass the salt. "A contract marriage. Nothing more."
Amelia stared at him, absolutely floored. Her brain tried to process the words, but they didn't add up. Billionaires did not propose to waitresses they barely knew. Not unless…
"This is a joke," she said, laughing unsteadily. "You brought me all the way here for some kind of twisted prank?"
Alexander's expression didn't alter. His eyes remained locked on hers, calm and cool. "I don't joke about business."
Her stomach tightened. "Business? What does getting married have to do with business?"
"Anything," he replied silkily. "Marriage, in my life, is a means to an end. A shield. Sometimes a sword. At present, I am in need of one."
Amelia rose to her feet, her chair shrieking against the polished floor in protest. "This is insanity. You don't even know me. And I certainly don't know you."
"You know enough," Alexander whispered. "You know I don't play games. You know I get what I want. And what I want, right now, is this."
Her heart thundered in her ears. "Why me?"
For the first time, a shadow crossed his face, something shut and inaccessible. "Because you're the one and only who fits my criteria. You're not from my world. You have no strings, alliances, or family agendas attached. You're… clean."
Amelia bristled. "Clean? I'm not some blank page you can buy and write on."
His eyes narrowed, not unkindly, though—more like a man unaccustomed to being questioned. "I didn't say buy. I said marry. And you'll be compensated, handsomely. Enough to pay off your debts. Enough to secure your future."
His words hit her like a punch. He knew. He knew somehow that she was desperate, her fiscal juggling act, the past-due rent notices piling up on her kitchen counter. Her face seared with shame, anger, and a dangerous flicker of temptation.
"I don't need your charity," she spat.
"This isn't charity," Alexander said, his voice crisp. "It's a trade. You give me what I need. I give you what you need."
"I don't need you," Amelia shot back.
His smirk was back, this time colder. "Perhaps not. But you do need what I can offer. Possibilities. Protection. Freedom to pursue the dreams you're writing in that tiny notebook of yours."
Her breath hitched. How the devil did he know about her notebook?
Alexander rose from his chair, moving toward her with the silent stealth of a predator who knew that the prey had nowhere to hide. He stopped a breath away, his presence stifling, his scent a mix of leather and something darker.
"You think I don't notice people, Amelia?" His voice dropped, almost intimate. "I notice everything. Especially those who attempt to make themselves unseen."
Amelia's heart pounded so hard she was sure he could hear it. She hated how his words unsettled her, how they stripped away the armor she maintained around everyone else.
"Why me?" she breathed again, this time more quietly.
For a brief instant, something vulnerable flickered in his gaze—was gone almost before it was there. "Because you remind me of someone I lost."
The confession stunned her into silence. She couldn't guess if it was truth, manipulation, or both.
But what she did know: she needed to get out of this office before his tempest dragged her under for good.
Amelia marched towards the door, determined to put as much space between herself and Alexander Blackwood as she could. But before she could even touch the handle, his voice cut through the silence, cool and commanding.
If you go now, you will regret it."
Her hand paused in midair. The arrogance in his tone—as if he already knew her decisions before she did—had ignited a spark of indignation in her. She turned back slowly, her eyes narrowing.
"Are you threatening me?"
Alexander's countenance remained maddeningly calm. "I am presenting you with a choice. One which will not come again.
Amelia folded her arms, struggling to steady her trembling hands. "A choice? You call this a choice? You drag me into your glass castle, tell me to marry you like it's a hostile takeover, and then dangle money in front of me like I should be grateful."
His lips curled into a half-smile. "Gratitude doesn't come into it. Logic does. You're sinking, Amelia. I'm offering you oxygen."
Her chest tightened. "You don't know a damn thing about me."
"Oh, but I do." He stepped closer, every movement deliberate, his eyes slicing as if he were cutting her open. "Your father left debts behind. Your mother works herself ill trying to keep the lights on. You barely get by, shift after shift, dreaming of a life you can't have. I've watched how you look at the world—starving, desperate not to settle for leftovers. You want more."
Amelia's stomach dropped. Panic flooded her. "How—how do you know all this?"
Alexander nodded. "It's my business to know. Information is power, Amelia, and I never act without it."
"You had me investigated." Her voice cracked, half disbelief, half outrage.
He didn't flinch. "Of course."
Her fists were clenched. "Do you even hear yourself? This is insanity. You think you can control everything—people, lives, even me—but I won't be one of your pawns."
A shadow of something—annoyance? amusement?—passed over his face. "You're not a pawn. You'd be my equal."
Amelia laughed bitterly. "Equal? You mean the bauble on your arm. The obedient wife who smiles for the cameras while you work the strings like a puppet master."
His jaw tightened. For the first time, his mask of composure cracked. "Don't mistake me for every spoiled heir you've ever met, Amelia. I don't need a puppet. I need someone who doesn't come with the poison of this world trailing behind them—alliances, family names, power games. I need… someone uncontaminated by it."
Her heart skipped a beat. The vulnerability in his voice, however fleeting, moved her.
"And what do you get out of it?" she whispered.
His eyes darkened. "Protection. From enemies who see vulnerability in my unmarried status. From a family who would rather marry me off to a dynasty than let me choose for myself. With a wife—especially one who does not come from their ranks—I win. They lose."
So that was it. A power struggle disguised as a proposal. She almost felt pity for him—almost.
"Then marry someone else," Amelia said sharply. "Someone willing to play along. Because I'm not."
She turned again, but his next words froze her to the spot.
"You can't afford to say no."
Her nails dug into her palms. "Watch me."
"Your landlord is filing for eviction."
The blood drained from her face. She spun back, fury blazing in her eyes. "You've been spying on me?"
I've been negotiating," he amended smoothly. "And I don't bluff."
Her mind recoiled. The late notices, the threats, the desperate calculations she scribbled on her notebook edges—all the tricks she'd employed to stave off the precipice she was standing on—now laid bare in his voice.
"Do you listen to yourself?" she spat, voice shaking. "You're making my troubles bargaining chips. That's not a deal. That's blackmail.
Alexander's eyes softened—not sympathy, something quieter, heavier. "Call it what you will. But I'm not offering you chains, Amelia. I'm offering you a way out."
Silence hung thick between them for a moment. She hated him for the way his words tempted her, hated herself more for seriously considering them.
Finally, she composed her voice. "And what if I say yes? Do we take city hall by storm tomorrow? Do I sign my life away on one of your contracts?"
His lips curved upward. "No. We build a story. A relationship the world will believe. Appearances are everything, and I don't do anything halfway. You'd come to live with me, under my protection, until the time is right. Then we make it official."
Her breath caught. Live with him? Forced proximity was the last thing she wanted.
"You're insane," she whispered.
"Or brilliant," he said.
Amelia shook her head, stepping back towards the door. "I don't care how much money you pay me. I don't care about your enemies, your empire, or your ridiculous family saga. I'm not for sale."
And with that, she yanked the door open and walked out, not daring to look back.
Alexander's voice followed her, low and self-assured. "You'll be back. They always are."
The cold night air slapped Amelia in the face as she stumbled out of Blackwood Tower. Her heels clicked on the pavement, her anger echoing in every step. The skyscrapers twinkled overhead, indifferent to her ire, while neon lights washed the streets with masochistic glow.
She wanted to scream. To cry. To shake off his voice—the arrogant certainty, the way he had peeled back her life like a book he'd already read cover to cover.
"You'll come back."
No. She wouldn't. Not for him. Not for anyone.
By the time she reached her apartment, exhaustion eclipsed anger. The scaling paint in the stairway, the faint hall light that fluttered like a candle flame, the drooping door with the corroded lock—it was all a shocking reminder of the gulf that separated her life from his world of gold and buffed marble.
Inside, the silence was suffocating. She dropped her bag onto the couch and slid down beside it, covering her face with her hands.
He knew. About her father. About the debts. About the eviction.
How much longer before the landlord comes knocking? Before it all caves in?
Tears pricked at her eyes, but she closed them off. She wasn't going to crumble—not because of Alexander Blackwood.
Her phone buzzed on the table. She gazed at the cracked screen. A message from her landlord.
Final notice. Rent within forty-eight hours or legal proceedings will continue.
Amelia's chest tightened. Forty-eight hours. She cynical-ly laughed. What miracle was going to happen in two days?
Her door shook with a loud bang. Amelia jumped to her feet, heart racing.
"Who's there?" she yelled, voice shaking.
No answer. Then another bang. Louder.
Her stomach dropped. The shadows under the door shifted—more than one person.
Not again.
She knew that sound. The thick thud of boots, the restless fists against the wood. Loan sharks. Her father's debt collectors. They'd been here before, always with threats, always demanding money she didn't have.
Amelia's hands shook as she went for her phone, but the door burst open, tearing from its weak frame, before she could make the call.
Three men barged in. Broad shoulders, cruel faces, eyes glinting with menace.
"Well, well," the leader sneered, his smile as cutting as a knife. "Look what we have here. Little Amelia, all alone."
Her heart thudded in her ears. "I—I said. I don't have it—"
"You'd better get it," he growled, stepping closer. "Because patience doesn't come cheap."
Amelia backed away, her legs trembling. Her mind screamed for escape, but the walls closed in around her.
The man grabbed her wrist, his grip bruising. "Maybe we'll take something else instead."
"Let me go!" she cried, struggling against him.
But before fear could swallow her whole, another voice cut through the room—deep, sharp, lethal.
"Unhand her."
Every head whipped toward the doorway.
Alexander Blackwood stood in the doorway, a figure in a suit unblemished by the grime of the building that surrounded him. But it wasn't his wealth, or his size, that froze the intruders—it was the menace simmering in his eyes.
The room was darker, smaller, as he stepped in, each step a quiet threat.
"Do you know who I am?" he whispered.
The men hesitated. One swallowed. The leader held Amelia tighter, though his swagger diminished. "Doesn't matter who you are. This ain't any of your business."
Alexander's lips curled into a cold smile. "Everything regarding her is my business."
And then—so fast Amelia barely registered—he moved. One precise twist, and the man's wrist snapped back, forcing him to release her. A sharp kick sent another crashing against the wall. The third backed away instantly, muttering curses before bolting through the shattered doorway.
The leader groaned on the floor, clutching his wrist, glaring up at Alexander with venom. "You'll pay for this—"
"You don't threaten in my city," Alexander interrupted, his tone razor-sharp. "Not her. I see your face again, I'll wipe it off."
The man forced himself to his feet and stumbled away, pulling his wounded hand with him, leaving them in silence.
Amelia lay motionless, her breathing rough, her body shaking.
Alexander faced her. His expression softened little at all as his eyes settled on hers. "You hurt?"
She shook her head, though her legs threatened to give way beneath her.
"You don't belong here," he said low, glancing past the broken door, the sleazy apartment. "This can't protect you. But I can."
His words, so gentle, so confident, wounded more than she wanted to acknowledge.
Amelia produced a shaky laugh. "So this is your plan? Hero mode and make your move when I've got my back to the wall?"
His gaze held hers fast. "No. My aim is to make sure you are never trapped again."
Her heart seethed. She despised him. She needed him. She could not decide which fact frightened her more.
For the first time, silence between them was not a conflict, but something raw… dangerous in an entirely new way.
And Amelia knew—no matter how much she attempted to deny it—her life had just become intertwined with his in a way she could no longer escape.