The Proposal
980 Words
The elevator ride to the penthouse of Vane Tower felt like being transported into a sci-fi movie—too much chrome, too much silence, and way too much ego. I had swapped my wedding guest attire for what I called my "Corporate Assassin" look: a sharp blazer, oversized sunglasses, and a wig so blonde it was practically glowing. If I was going to infiltrate the heart of the beast, I couldn't look like the woman who had publicly compared his algorithm to a digital plague six months ago.
I adjusted my glasses as the doors slid open with a whisper.
Ivy’s POV
"Name?" the receptionist asked, her voice as polished as her desk.
"Joy. Joy... Smith," I said, leaning over the counter. "I have an 08:00 priority match appointment with the CEO."
She scanned her screen, then looked at my wig. "Mr. Vane is waiting for a 'Ms. Joy Clark.' Is that you?"
"That’s me. Clark-Smith. It’s a double-barrel situation. Very messy divorce." I gave her a fake, pained smile.
She pointed toward a set of heavy glass doors. "He’s expecting you."
I pushed through, my heart doing a frantic tap-dance against my ribs. The office was vast, overlooking the city like a god’s balcony. At the far end, behind a desk that looked like it was carved from a single block of obsidian, sat the man himself.
Julian Vane was even more irritatingly handsome in person. He didn't look up as I approached, his fingers flying across a holographic display. He looked like he was made of sharp angles and expensive silk.
"You’re late, Ms. Clark," he said, his voice a smooth, low baritone that sent a reluctant shiver down my spine. "By precisely four minutes and twelve seconds."
I froze. I was still ten feet away. "I’m sorry, who? I’m Joy Smith."
Julian finally looked up. His eyes were a piercing, analytical blue that seemed to strip away my disguise in layers. He didn't blink. He just stared until I felt like a bug under a microscope.
"The wig is synthetic, Ivy," he said calmly, leaning back. "And the 'Smith' alias is statistically the most common choice for people attempting low-level fraud. It’s uninspired."
I ripped the blonde wig off, tossing it onto one of his pristine leather chairs. "Fine. You caught me. But your app is the real fraud here, Vane. A 100% match? Between us? I’ve spent my entire career proving you’re a hack, and your own software just handed me the smoking gun."
I marched up to his desk, slamming my phone down. "I’m going to write a story that will turn SoulScript into a ghost town. 'The CEO’s Perfect Match is His Greatest Enemy.' It’s going to be the most-read obituary in tech history."
Julian didn't flinch. In fact, he looked almost... relieved?
"Go ahead," he said, folding his hands. "Write it. But before you hit publish, you should know that my investors are currently downstairs. If you destroy my credibility today, you destroy a company that employs four hundred people and holds the data of ten million users. You’ll be famous for a week, and then you’ll be the woman who crashed the market."
I scoffed. "Is that supposed to make me feel bad? I’m a journalist. I report the truth."
"The truth is that we both need something," Julian stood up, walking around the desk. He was taller than I expected—a lot taller. He stopped inches from me, the scent of sandalwood and cold logic clouding my senses. "You want a career-saving story. I want to keep my company from being liquidated by a board of directors who think I’m a 'Robot in a Suit.'"
"You are a robot in a suit," I whispered.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. It wasn't warm. "Perhaps. But this robot has a proposal. Twenty-one days, Ivy. That’s all I need. We date. Publicly. We prove to my board that the 100% match is real. In exchange, I give you full, unfettered access to SoulScript’s inner workings. You can see the code, the servers, everything. At the end of the three weeks, you can write whatever you want."
I narrowed my eyes. "You’d let me see the 'Black Box'? The secret sauce?"
"Everything," he promised. "If I’m a fraud, you’ll have the proof to bury me. If I’m right... you’ll have the greatest love story of the century."
"This is fake dating," I said, my brain already calculating the headlines. "A contract relationship. It’s the oldest trick in the book."
"It’s an optimization of our current crisis," Julian corrected. He reached into his desk and pulled out a tablet, sliding it toward me. "The contract is already drafted. No real feelings, no real intimacy. Just appearances. Do we have a deal, Heartbreak Queen?"
I looked at the tablet, then at his arrogant, perfect face. This was exactly the kind of high-stakes drama my editor demanded. It was a suicide mission, but if I pulled it off, I wouldn't just have a column—I’d have a legacy.
I picked up the digital pen. "Twenty-one days, Vane. But don't expect me to be a 'Perfect Match.' I’m going to be your worst nightmare."
"I’m counting on it," Julian said, his eyes darkening with something that looked suspiciously like a challenge. "I’ve always wanted to see how the other half lives. Now, put your wig back on. We have a press lunch in twenty minutes."
"I am not wearing the wig," I snapped.
"Fine," he sighed, already turning back to his screen. "But order a salad. The algorithm says you’re prone to spilling dressing on white silk, and I’d like to keep the dry-cleaning bills to a minimum."
I stared at him, speechless. The man hadn't even started dating me yet, and he was already trying to optimize my lunch.
Oh, it was on.
- Writer
