CHAPTER EIGHT - ARIELLE
675 Words
The moment Kelly stepped out, the air shifted.
The bar was still empty, lights dimmed low, the scent of cleaning products clinging to the counters. It should have felt normal.
The room felt smaller—too quiet, too heavy—like the walls had drawn in around us. Being this close to him was… overwhelming. Not fear exactly. Something denser. Pressing. Like breathing through smoke.
The feeling pressed in on me, tight and heavy, settling in my chest. Suffocating wasn’t the word.
He didn’t speak.
He just stood there, eyes fixed on me, calm and assessing, as though he were taking me apart piece by piece and committing it all to memory.
For a heartbeat, I let it affect me.
Then something settled in my chest.
I wasn’t intimidated.
I straightened, refusing to shrink under his gaze. Whatever power he thought he had, I wasn’t about to give it to him.
I crossed my arms, meeting his gaze head-on.
“Are you going to stand there and stare at me all day,” I said coolly, “or are you going to tell me why you’re here?”
Something flickered in his eyes. Interest, maybe.
His mouth curved—not quite a smile.
“Alright,” he said calmly. “I’ll go straight to the point.”
My stomach tightened.
“I want to get married to you.”
The words landed wrong. Too sharp. Too absurd.
I stared at him, my mind refusing to catch up. “What?”
“You heard me,” he said evenly. “I want to get married to you.”
He said it like he was ordering coffee. Like it was reasonable. Like it didn’t just flip my world sideways.
I let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “I’m sorry—sir,” I said, emphasizing the word, “but I think you’re in the wrong place.”
I turned away, reaching for the counter, needing something solid beneath my hands. “If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do. This place opens tonight.”
“Your mother needs surgery.”
I froze.
The cloth slipped from my fingers.
Slowly, I turned back to him.
“What did you just say?”
“She’s been on the waiting list for months,” he continued, unbothered.
“The bills keep piling up. Insurance won’t cover everything. And time isn’t on her side.”
My chest tightened, panic flaring hot and fast.
I snapped. “Who are you? And how do you know that?”
Silence stretched between us.
That was when fear edged in.
“You followed me,” I said, my voice lower now. “Didn’t you? This—this is insane. You’re a stalker.”
“If I were,” he said calmly, “you wouldn’t be standing here having this conversation.”
He reached into his jacket and placed a slim folder on the counter between us.
“A contract marriage,” he said. “No emotions. No expectations. One year.”
I didn’t touch it.
“In return,” he continued, “your mother gets the best care. Immediately.”
My hands trembled at my sides.
“This is sick,” I whispered.
“It’s practical.”
I looked at him, really looked at him—and suddenly I knew.
This man didn’t ask for things.
He decided.
I stared at the folder, my hands clenched at my sides.
“This wasn't a concern.
This was leverage.
I swallowed. “You think you can buy me.”
“That’s fine,” he replied. “You have a week.”
“A week for what?”
“To decide,” he said, already turning away. “Whether you want to keep struggling… or let me solve the problem.”
He paused at the door.
“And Arielle?”
My breath caught.
“I don’t make offers twice.”
Then he was gone.
I wasn’t sure which scared me more.
The deal.
Or the fact that part of me already knew I wouldn’t forget him again.
- Writer
