The Billionaire’s Contract Bride

THE BLACKLIST

The fluorescent lights of the reception area of the Hartley and Associates gave out a low buzz that pained Amara in her teeth. It was possibly her anxiety that was making it feel that way. It was hard to tell.

Twenty minutes she had sat in a hard modern chair, her ancient leather portfolio on her knees, and the receptionist, a blonde girl who had just gotten out of college, was ignoring her existence. There was an odor of costly coffee and fresh carpet in the waiting room, a sign of which even the air felt cautious.

This was the third interview that she had had within a period of two weeks. The other two had ended badly.

A lady in her forties emerged from the hallway, and her name was Ms. Benson. Her smile was neutral. “I’m Patricia Hartley. Thank you for coming in.”

Amara blushed and shook her hand. Patricia had a strong but brief hold. There was something in her eyes that made Amara have a falling stomach. She had seen that expression previously, pity and discomfort, as though some bad news was about to be told to a patient who was ill.

They passed a maze of glass-walled offices in which the youth were typing and talking in headsets. Everything was very modern chrome and white. There were campaigns for the great brands on the walls--the work Amara could do.

The office that Patricia was in had windows that looked out on Sixth Avenue, plain furniture, and floor-to-ceiling windows. She had ordered Amara to sit in one of two chairs facing her desk, then sat in her own chair, as if she was sitting like a training video on power poses.

So, said Patricia, drawing a printed copy of the resume of Amara. Your qualifications are good. Columbia, top of your class. At Morrison and Dale, you worked wonders--I do recall the Chrysler campaign. That was yours, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.” Amara managed to maintain a professional and uniform voice. We raised brand recognition among the 25-40 demographic by thirty-seven percent in six months.

“Remarkable.” The smile on Patricia was not up to her eyes. She tapped on the resume with her nail. This is the reason why what followed is so tragic.

There it was. The trap that Amara had been aware of was there but she had stumbled into it due to her desperation and stupidity and the lack of alternatives.

The accusations of Marcus Chen were entirely untrue, Amara thought, forging a little. I would have prepared a battle with them in the courts, but...

Finding a country that would have fought you would have been a protracted legal struggle which you could not afford, and which would have added to the existing bad publicity. Patricia finished. “I understand. And here, by the way, I think you. Marcus Chen is reputed to be vindictive.

Amara felt hope in her heart. “Then—”

But being convinced of you and employing you are one things. The face of Patricia was altered into something of a true regret. I had Googled your name before you came. The initial three pages concern the scandal involving ethics. PR Week, AdAge, and even The Times business section have articles on it. One of them referred to you as a warning on the hazards of combining activism and client work.

I was doing my job, Amara said, and she could tell that she was desperate, and she did not like it. The company that Chen was in was discriminatory in housing. I had documents. I could not participate in it as their PR rep.

“I know.” Patricia held up a hand. And with morality you were right. But Amara—may I call you Amara?”

Sure.

Amara, I am working in a medium-sized company that has corporate clients who are highly sensitive about their image. In case I hire you and your clients Google you, they will see those articles. They will fear that you will blow the whistle or that they will be linked with you as you damage their brand. Patricia apologized and put her hands out. It is irrelevant that the allegations were not true. The stigma is still there.”

“So that’s it?” She meant not to speak so loudly, but Amara did. I have killed my career by not helping a racist slumlord to get away with his tracks?

“Your career isn’t over. It’s just… complicated.” Patricia leaned forward and retrieved a business card and pushed it across the table. I have a friend with a shop agency in Portland. Smaller customers, primarily nonprofits and local businesses. She may take the risk when you move.

Portland. Three thousand miles out of Brooklyn. From Mama Bunmi. Out of the one home that Zara knew well.

I cannot move, I said to myself, without touching the card. “I have family obligations.”

“Then I’m sorry. I truly am.” Patricia rose, and the meeting ended. You are a gifted person and you were not given a fair deal. However, talent does not always come in handy in this industry. Occasionally time and chance are equally important, and yours at the given moment is dreadful.

The perp walk was like a walk back. Amara held her head up and her indifferent face, though she could tell her eyes were on her. She might know what they were thinking: That is the woman who had ruined her career on principle. What an idiot.”

The ride in a subway back to Brooklyn became unintelligible in neon tubes and weary looks. Amara looked in the black window at her dark reflection and saw a woman she hardly knew. At what point did her circles under her eyes become permanent? When had the line between her eyebrows, the one which Zara thought made her look worried?

At 11:43 AM, she emerged at Atlantic Avenue and that left her with a little bit more than two hours in her schedule before meeting Marcus Williams. Time to get home, change out of something more like an interview suit, and have a nervous breakdown.

However, first she had to have something to eat. The coffee that she had been pushing into her stomach at 6 AM was now acidic in her empty stomach.

The local grocery store, Maria Grocers, was a Dominican family that had been doing business there for fifty years. Maria was at the counter and she smiled at Amara as she entered.

"Mija! I haven't seen you in a few days. How's that baby?"

"She's good, Maria. Growing like a weed."

Amara took a banana and a small sized container of yogurt in the fridge. Filling, cheap, everything she could afford.

At the counter Maria rang her up in a hurry. $3.47.

Amara picked four individual drinks, but she did not want to think that every dollar was a dollar less on her account. Maria gave her change and thought a moment.

"Amara, honey, you look tired. Are you taking yourself good care of?

"Trying to." Amara forced a smile. "Just a lot going on."

Get in touch with me in case you require something, all right? We watch after one another in this locality.

The gentleness was nearly her ruin. She shook her head and did not feel her own voice, and rushed out before the tears set in.

She ate the banana on her homeward way, stocked the yogurt in her bag to use later. The November wind was keen and passed through her thin coat. A new coat was needed, and this one was the old college one, which had the lining worn through, and the zipper was stiff, but new coats were expensive, and she had no money.

She was not wealthy enough to do it.

The gray afternoon light revealed her apartment building in worse light. There was brick wall that had to be repaired, the front steps were broken and somebody had spray painted the mailboxes. The manager didn't clean them.

Home sweet home.

Amara returned to the apartment, using three flights of the staircase-- the elevator was out of order six months-- and unlocked it. The eviction notice lay down on the counter still face down. She even did not turn it upside down by passing it by purpose.

She peeped at her wardrobe in her bedroom, which was only as large as a bed and a dresser. The words still lingered in her head, the stink is still there, and Patricia Hartley was hurting because she rejected.

Unless she was going out on a date, she needed to look professional because she was going to have a meeting that possibly could be the last occasion.

The black sheath dress. It was purchased three years ago by her as a client present, at the time she was in a position to buy non-clearance items. Even then, thank God, it fitted, though more loosely. Being skinny assisted, the diet no one requested.

She had on her sole good pair of heels, black, classic, a luxury in her old days. They pinched her toes, but made her legs longer, and she looked like she was in some fancy restaurant in Manhattan.

Amara took a shower in a hurry--hot water was not dependable--and then took a few minutes over hair and cosmetics. She had put her natural hair in a low bun. She applied foundation on the dark circles. Mascara made her eyes bigger. One of the nude lips appeared work-related without being excessive.

As she completed it she examined herself in the mirror. Not bad. She was similar to Amara Benson of 2019, when everything was all right. Competent. Put together. Employable.

The mask was good.

Her phone buzzed: 1:15 PM. She had to go away to arrive at Marea by two.

Amara had her bag, a nice leather tote, which was not nice anymore, and she stood at the door and looked back at her apartment. The arching couch of Goodwill. The TV from a stoop sale. The framed picture of her and Zara at Coney Island both blown and laughing.

Should this meeting fail, she would probably not have such an apartment in the future. As sad as it was, it was hers.

She closed the door after her and turned down the staircase, clicking down on the battered linoleum. Out there she caught a cab, a luxury beyond her means to indulge, yet a measure she could not afford to be late with, as a consequence of delays in the subway.

The driver was a weary-looking man in his fifties who gave her little glances as he entered the traffic. Amara looked through the broken window at Brooklyn turning Manhattan and with every block she was more nervous.

What was it that Marcus Williams wanted?

This question lingered on her since the email. Reed Global Hotels was a multi-billion corporation. She was a former unemployed PR specialist with a unsavory reputation. No apparent motive existed as to why their VP of Operations would have desired to have a meeting except...

Unless Ethan knew about Zara.

Her stomach turned over at the thought. But no—it was impossible. She had been careful. The birth certificate of Zara had no father. She was not called Reed and her own surname. Mama Bunmi was the sole individual who understood the truth and her grandma would pass away before anybody could know.

Nevertheless, she felt the fear eating at her as the hack made the Midtown traffic jams.

At 1:52 PM they arrived at Central Park South. Amara gave the fare, $23, nearly a tenth of what she had, and alighted on the sidewalk. She was overly self-aware about the dress she wore.

Women in Chanel suits and men in Italian designer clothes passed, and all of them were looking like they belonged in this world of the rich and the powerful.

The entrance to the Marea was plain but classy, and there was no gaudy advertising. The door was opened by a uniformed doorman who nodded as she got in.

The inside was cozy wood and gentle light the type of high-end feel that implied old money and new authority. A hostess came up immediately with a smiling face in a professional manner.

"Good afternoon. Do you have a reservation?"

"I'm meeting Marcus Williams. Two o'clock."

The smile of the hostess became more respectful. "Of course, Ms. Benson. Mr. Williams demanded a table to himself. Right this way."

They moved through the N.E. dining room where business was transacted over 200 bottles of wine. Amara was only glancing at the menu prices in a board close to the bar. Appetizers started at $38.

This was Ethan’s world. It always had been his world. She was nothing more than a guest in their affair. She knew she didn’t belong. Both her education level of scholarship and Brooklyn roots made her stand out in the midst of the wealthy people surrounding him.

The hostess got her a corner table that was not situated in the main room. One of these men was a man in his late thirties already. He rose when she walked in.

Marcus Williams was the same person as the one in his LinkedIn picture. He was a pleasant-looking youth, with amiable eyes, and a pleasant smile. He was also dressed in a black suit which must have cost him three months of her rent, yet he did not appear proud.

Shaking her hand he said, Ms. Benson. “Thank you for coming.”

“Mr. Williams.” Her grip was not ungrateful, but very warm.

“Please call me Marcus.” He indicated the chair and waited till she was down. Hope you did not have difficulty locating the place.

“No trouble.” Amara laid aside her bag on the ground, sat down and clasped her hands. She was so much tempted to ask questions and defend herself before any trap can occur.

She was in despair, and desperation required time.

A waiter came in with menus more of poetry than food. Marcus had ordered some sparkling water and a glass of Pinot Grigio. Amara drank simple water, without, of course, alcohol on an empty stomach.

Marcus sat up and stare at her as the waiter walked away.

I suppose you are asking me why I brought you here, he said.

“I had the same thought.”

He smiled slightly. “Straightforward. I appreciate that. It is a strange case and I believe that the honesty is the best thing to do.

“I’m listening.”

Marcus paused, as though preparing to do so. “I’m going to ask you something. I require you to listen to me to the end, and then you may respond. Can you do that?”

She heard some alertness in her mind but shook her head.

Good, he said, looking her in the full face. “Ms. Benson--Amara--would you think of a matrimonial contract with Ethan Reed?

She did not know whether she heard well. Her head attempted to put the words together.

Marriage. Contract. Ethan Reed.

“I’m sorry,” she said slowly. Did you make the proposal to me of marrying your boss?

It is not a real marriage, said Marcus hastily. Just business, it is a six-month contract. You would spend time together, go out together, and present yourself as a married couple before some people. Two million dollars at the expiry of the contract would get you in turn.

Two million dollars.

And the figure was suspended among them, unbelievable and unthinkable.

Amara’s mouth felt dry. “This is a joke.”

“I promise it’s not.”

It would be unlawful, or mad, or-- What kind of a game this is I do not know, but--

Amara, this, do, do, Marcus said to her very calmly but urgently. I understand how it would sound, I am serious. Hear me out, I want you to hear me out before you go.

Her bag was in her hand, her gut wanted to get out or her. But two million dollars. That is life changing number.

“Why?” she demanded. “Why me? Why should Ethan Reed, who I have not spoken to in five years, want to marry me?

Marcus turned his face away to something difficult to read. Due to the fact that the Tanaka Corporation, the Japanese hotel company we are merging with, has traditions. They would like to know that Ethan is a stable person, committed and able to maintain a family. A quick girlfriend won’t work. But a wife with history might.”

“So I’m just a prop? A cover for a business deal?”

“You’re a solution to a problem. And you want to say no before you consider what two million dollars would do you. For your—”

He held himself back, but Amara had a feeling.

Her blood ran cold. “For my what?”

Marcus’s face cracked. “I should let Ethan explain—”

“For my daughter?” Amara was too harsh in voice by now. She whispered fiercely. “You know about Zara.”

“I suspected,” Marcus said. “The timing, your situation. I confirmed it privately.”

“Does Ethan know?”

That was the question of the greatest importance.

“No,” Marcus said firmly. “He doesn’t. And that was the stuff not out of me.

Amara retreated into her chair. She felt her legs give way. Zara was familiar with Ethan people. She wasn't sure when he was going to know, when lawyers would get involved, when custody fights would occur, when her biggest nightmare will happen.

Breath, Andre, I mean by you, Marcus said. “You’re hyperventilating.”

Was she? The room began to spin, the fine surroundings becoming blurred.

Amara was trying to hold herself together by pushing more air in her lungs.

Two million dollars, Marcus replied in a nonchalant manner. To have you a future, college, solid, a home. Whatever you need. All you have to do…”

“He destroyed me.”

“I know.”

And he threw me out of the door like I was nothing.

I am aware of that as well, Marcus sat forward. I will not lie that Ethan was not wrong years ago. But he’s different now. He wants to be better.”

She was trembling, putting her hands flattened on the table. “My answer is no.”

"Think about it--"

"I don't need to think about it. I'm not doing this."

There is 247 dollars in your bank account, Amara.

She froze. "How do you--"

Desperate people make errors that are predictable. You are three months overdue in terms of rent. In the past fortnight, you made applications to forty three jobs. Hartley and Associates rejected you this morning--Patricia Hartley, by the way, is a friend of mine. She rang to apologize that she had not seen you. Marcus did not have a mean voice, but the words stunned like hammers. "You're drowning. I am presenting you with an opportunity. Consider Zara before you reject it.

Amara felt like being sick as she mentioned the name of her daughter. Or scream. Or both.

"You researched me."

"Of course I did. It is a merger worth billions of dollars. Did you suppose we should do this without shopping?

"You invaded my privacy. My daughter's privacy."

I made use of publicly available information, Marcus corrected. "Nothing illegal. And then before you come to see yourself as a self-righteous man, A question for you to ask yourself: is your pride more than the future of your daughter?

He was right. God help her, he was right. But the idea of reuniting with Ethan, of playing his wife, of living some deformed kind of what she had desperately desired...

"I can't," she whispered.

Marcus reached into his briefcase and took out a manila envelope and pushed it to the other side of the table. "Contract terms. Read them. Hire a lawyer, as far as you can,--and as far as you can not, I can find you one who will do the job without charge. Reflect on it at least forty-eight hours. That's all I ask."

Amara looked at the envelope as though it were a snake.

There is one more thing that you want to know, Marcus said, very low. Ethan does not know that I am giving it to you in particular. He requested that I identify someone appropriate, one who possessed the right background, one that would draw off the act. And when I referred you he near fired me.

That got her attention. "Why?"

Since you are the one who escaped. The one he's never gotten over." Marcus got up, tightened his tie. He believes that this is the worst thing I have ever thought of. But I know you are the one who can get it going. He has never loved anyone other than you, you know, the only one he has ever loved.

He placed money in the table--money sufficient to have paid both of them and a nice tip--and picked up his briefcase.

"Forty-eight hours, Amara. Then I need an answer."

He walked out, and left her standing alone in the table with an envelope which could either bring her salvation or her ruin.

Amara remained seated a long time staring at the manila folder. The restaurant continued with its classy business, deals were being struck, alliances being established, the wheels of fortune and power turning around her.

Her phone buzzed. One of Mama Bunmi's text messages: Zara is calling to know when you are coming. She made you a picture.

Amara shook his hands and opened the envelope.

On the third page she had her answer.

She knew, and hated herself because of it.