The Proposal
776 Words
PPOV: Kiara Williams
The world doesn't end with a scream.
Sometimes, it ends with a silent phone call and a boardroom full of men in thousand-dollar suits who won't meet your eyes.
I sat at the head of a sleek, glass table, surrounded by twelve vultures dressed in Armani. My fingers gripped the edge of the armrest as the company’s legal advisor Mr. Sloan closed his laptop and cleared his throat.
“Miss Williams,” he said, carefully, like I might break, “your father has gone completely off-grid. We’ve confirmed he boarded a private jet four hours ago to an undisclosed location.”
I blinked. “What do you mean ‘off-grid’? He wouldn’t just leave—”
“Actually,” another board member interrupted, “he would. Especially when he's facing twelve years in prison for financial fraud, tax evasion, and God knows what else.”
The room fell into an unbearable silence. The kind that rings in your ears. The kind that confirms your life is no longer yours.
I swallowed, heart pounding.
Raymond Williams, my father was a legend. Ruthless, brilliant, feared. And apparently, now… a fugitive.
“How long do we have?” I asked, my voice calmer than I felt.
“Days. Maybe less,” Sloan replied. “The government has frozen all personal and corporate accounts. Media is circling like sharks. If we don’t announce a stabilizing investor or a controlling stakeholder soon, Williams Global collapses. And with it your name.”
That was when they mentioned him.
“Zayn Malik,” Sloan said. “Young, powerful, and already expressing interest in stepping in.”
I’d heard of Zayn Malik. Who hadn’t? He was the billionaire tech mogul who took over Titan Corp at 28 and tripled its value in under three years. Mysterious. Private. Charismatic. Dangerous.
My heart thudded. “Why would someone like him help us?”
Sloan didn’t look me in the eye. “He requested a private meeting. With you.”
---
I walked into Zayn Malik’s penthouse office like a girl entering a lion’s den in silk heels.
The view behind him was all glass and skyline. He stood with his back turned, tailored in black, hands clasped behind him like some dark king surveying his city. When he turned, I felt it, the air shifted.
Sharp jawline. Grey eyes like winter. A smile that didn’t reach his face.
“Miss Williams,” he said smoothly. “Or… do I call you Kiara?”
I stiffened. “Mr. Malik.”
He gestured toward the single chair across from his desk. “Sit.”
I didn’t. “Let’s get to the point. You want something. So do I. What’s your offer?”
He tilted his head, amused by my bluntness. “Straight to business. I like that.”
He circled the desk, closing the space between us until I could smell his cologne, dark, expensive, intoxicating. He leaned in, voice low.
“I’ll save your company. Pay off debts. Freeze the media scandal. And you’ll walk away with your name clean.”
I narrowed my eyes. “And in return?”
He smiled. Cold. Precise.
“You marry me.”
The words detonated between us like a silent bomb.
My lips parted. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” He moved behind me now, circling like a predator. “A one-year marriage contract. Public. Legal. Binding. You become Mrs. Malik, and I become the face of Williams Global.”
My chest tightened. “Why would you need me?”
“Optics,” he lied, too quickly. “Your family name still carries weight. I bring the capital; you bring the illusion of legacy.”
I didn’t believe him. Something about his voice, about the calculation in his eyes, told me this was personal. But I couldn’t prove it. Not yet.
I turned away. “You’re insane.”
“No.” His voice hardened. “I’m your only option.”
I spun back. “And if I say no?”
“Then your father rots in prison, your family name burns, and you go down as the spoiled daughter who watched it all fall.”
Silence.
His words hit where they were meant to.
I felt the cold marble of the floor seep into my bones. My father had destroyed everything… but could I destroy what was left by refusing this deal?
Zayn walked back to his desk, picked up a silver pen, and dropped it on a contract that was already waiting.
“Think carefully, Kiara,” he said, without looking at me. “Because once you sign, there’s no going back.”
- Writer
