"You can't be serious." A nervous chuckle escaped Elena Ward's lips as she stared blankly at the man in front of her desk. She was sure she had misunderstood him, but the open folder in front of her revealed words that only corresponded to what she was hearing: *Private Engagement Contract- Duration: One Month.*
Adrian Hale leaned back in the worn visitor's chair, his careless arrogance seeping through his expensively tailored suit.
"I'm absolutely serious, Ms. Ward," he replied, his voice infuriatingly calm. "It's a simple business arrangement. You need money. I need credibility. We help one another."
"Help one another?" Elena's laugh was sharp, contemptuous. "You want me to pretend to be your fiancée as if I'm some actress you can hire to give an acting performance. Do you even realize how condescending that sounds?"
"I prefer to think of it as a symbiotic thing."
"I don't care what you think or would rather call it." She shoved the folder across the desk. "I'm not for sale, Mr. Hale. And neither is my integrity."
Adrian's expression did not change. No flash of shock, no burst of anger. Just the same damn calm, as if he'd expected her refusal and already figured his way around it.
"Your honor won't feed your creditors," he murmured. "Or put this gallery back on its feet after the month is out."
His tone felt like a hard slap across her face. Elena's fists clenched under the desk, her nails biting deep into her palms.
"Get out," she said, her own voice trembling with barely contained fury. "Get out of my gallery."
Adrian stood in poised ease, collecting his folder. "When reality strikes, you know where to find me," he said. "You seem too intelligent to let pride wreck all your mother had worked for."
He turned toward the door, hesitated, and glanced around the room. "The offer stands for forty-eight hours, Ms. Ward. After that, I will find someone else."
The door closed with a quiet click that sounded abysmally final.
Elena sat stiff in her chair, her heart thudding in her ears, fighting to keep up with what had just happened. Adrian Hale, the billionaire CEO whose company had devoured half of London's real estate, had just proposed that she be his fake fiancée.
His audacity was infuriating.
She gazed at her hands, still shaking with fury, forcing herself to breathe.
*************** A Day Earlier ***************
Raindrops adorned the cobblestoned London street outside The Ward Gallery, creating mirror reflections of the soft golden lights streaming through its upper windows. The dull tones of conversation filled the exquisite hall within. Patrons of art, reporters, and society figures mingled amidst paintings and statues as a soft string quartet played in the corner.
Elena Ward should have been proud. Tonight was the evening her late mother had planned as the last show before she passed away, and it was finally happening. But as she smiled at guests and sipped her champagne from a flute, her mind was on numbers, not artworks. Gallery bills were mounting higher than the marble steps she'd polished herself. This night was not about memory. It was about survival.
She smiled once more with the smooth ease of an actress as an old lady looked at an exhibit. "Thank you," she said, her voice professionally guarded against fatigue. She was carefully dressed for the occasion, wearing a black sheath dress and plain pearl earrings, but the creases around her eyes betrayed the effort she was putting into just staying on top.
Her phone buzzed in her clutch. She drew it out unobtrusively.
*Mum, Lily needs new school shoes. The sole detached today.* Her baby sister, Sarah, was sending a text from home, where she was supposed to be babysitting the other two while their dad slept.
Elena replied straight away: *I'll fix that this weekend. Make sure Dad has his medication.*
Her phone buzzed again: *Marcus says his football gear is arriving tomorrow. £35.*
Her breast tightened. Thirty-five pounds. She had maybe twenty in her own account until the gallery sold something else.
*I'll find a way,* she typed, and shoved the phone out of view, before she could let anyone see her smile splitting.
This was her life now. A twenty-seven-year-old, running a failing gallery, mother to her three siblings, while still managing her father's deteriorating health. Her mother's cancer treatment had drained everything: savings, the gallery's reserves, and the equity on their home. However, at the time, they gave little thought to their financial future, focusing solely on restoring their mother's health.
And now, eight months after her death, Elena found herself hip-deep in debts, all the while managing responsibilities and commitments she couldn't walk away from.
Lucas, her long-term boyfriend, kept insisting that they let the gallery go. Selling would sort their financial struggles by 70%, giving her the time to get a good-paying job.
But this gallery was all she had left of her mother. Her mother's legacy. Letting it go would be like losing her again.
"Ms. Ward?" A voice pulled her from her thoughts.
Elena turned to find a gallery assistant nervously standing behind her. "There's a gentleman who wants to view the private collection. He's not on the invitation list, but he's extremely insistent."
"Tell him the private view is by invitation only."
"I did, but he said…"The assistant hesitated. "He said he recalls this gallery from his youth. He appears to be familiar with the collection."
Something in Elena uncoiled a bit. "Where is he?"
"The east wing. Somewhere near the watercolors."
Elena elbowed through the crowd, champagne glass still held in her hand, until she spotted him.
Shoulders broad and tall, immaculately dressed in charcoal gray. Standing before one of her mother's paintings, a serene watercolor of a boy by a lake. He wasn't studying it like a buyer studies. He was gazing at it as though looking through a memory.
Elena stepped forward. "Sorry," she said hesitantly. "This is an exclusive viewing gallery. Would you like me to take you to another display?"
The man's head shifted slightly to the side. When he turned, his calculating, cold gray eyes focused on her face. "You're Elena Ward?"
That he knew her name struck her like a blow. "Yes," she said warily. "And you are?"
"Adrian Hale."
The name hit her like a splash of ice water. Adrian Hale. CEO of Hale Global Holdings. The cutthroat billionaire whose company's expansion had put the other half of the city's antique art galleries out of business. She'd read about him being referred to in the business section, usually with descriptors like "aggressive," "uncompromising," or, more recently, "scandalous."
There'd been something in the papers recently. A night on the tiles in Ibiza, photos of him with a bunch of girls, talk of drug use. His board had been apologetic, supposedly.
Her belly tightened.
"Mr. Hale," she said, trying to keep her voice level.
"I don't recall you being on tonight's guest list."
"I don't recall needing to RSVP," he drawled. "The gallery is open to the public, isn't it?"
"Tonight's gala is invitation-only."
His lips curled, but it was not a smile. It was defiance. "Then make it your invitation, then."
Elena's heart lurched. He was the type of man who was used to doors opening before he extended a hand to knock. But this gallery was not another corporate skyscraper. It was hers. What was left of it, anyway?
"I'm afraid not," she said. "You'll need to speak with our front desk about future viewings."
He moved closer, and she could sense the change in the air. Standing up close, he was even more intimidating, with harsh planes to his face, coarse features, and eyes that seemed to strip away her veneer. "You remind me of her," he whispered, gazing at the painting.
"My mother?"
He nodded. "She would allow me to sit here as a child. I thought this was an enchanted space." His eyes focused on the watercolor. "I didn't realize it was still open."
Something eased in Elena's chest, but only temporarily. "We try our best to keep it that way," she explained. "Though magic doesn't cover bills in London."
That brought the merest flicker of a smile to his lips, the first sign of warmth. "Maybe not. But cash does."
The smooth, easy voice warned her. "Are you making some kind of implication, Mr. Hale?"
"I am making none," he cut in, unsmiling. "Simply noting that I do have a fondness for pieces with history. Especially this one."
Her defenses soared up again. Wealthy men like him did not come into floundering galleries out of compassion. He came in for ownership. "That painting is not for sale."
"Everything's for sale, Ms. Ward."
"Not this," she said, fists clenched but still maintaining a professional smile.