THE BILLIONAIRE'S MARRIAGE CONTRACT

CHAPTER 1: The Spill* — The Capital Holden Global(CHG) Foundation Gala was not a place for people like Sarian Bloom. It was a place for people who summered in places. People who had last names on buildings. People who drank champagne that cost more than her father's monthly hospital bill. Sarian was holding a tray of that champagne. Her black waitress uniform was a size too big, the shoes were pinching her toes, and her feet had been aching for four hours straight. But she didn't complain. The catering company paid $40 an hour for this gig, plus tips. And she needed every single dollar. $55,000. That's what the hospital had said that morning. "Ms. Bloom, if we don't get the deposit for your father's surgery in the next fourteen days, we will have to take him off the priority list." She had nodded, said "I understand," and had gone to cry in the hospital bathroom for ten minutes before washing her face and coming to this gala. So she held the tray steady. She smiled when rich women in diamonds ignored her. She said "Yes, ma'am" and "Of course, sir." Until she saw him. He stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park, and even with his back turned, he owned the room. Tall, broad shoulders in a perfect black tuxedo, dark hair, one hand in his pocket like he was bored of being the most powerful man in New York. Chard Atwood. She knew his face from Forbes. From the news. 31-year-old CEO of Capital Holden Global. The cold billionaire who had never smiled in a single photo. His lawyer, Steve, was whispering furiously to him, but Chard wasn't listening. His grey eyes were locked on his step-brother, Scott, across the room, who was laughing too loud with the board members. "Chard, are you listening to me? Your grandfather's will is ironclad. If you are not legally married by midnight on your 32nd birthday, which is in exactly ninety-one days, you lose your voting shares. Scott gets controlling interest. You will be CEO in name only." Chard clenched his jaw. "I don't need a lecture on my own family's insanity, Steve." "I know you don't believe in marriage -" "I believe marriage is a legal contract where two people agree to make each other miserable until death. I have no interest in it." "Then find someone who also thinks it's a contract. Three months, Chard. That's all you need. A contract marriage. Then divorce her after." Chard was about to answer when the universe decided to intervene in the form of a tired, broke 24-year-old girl carrying a tray of champagne. Sarian’s manager had hissed at her: "Table five, near the window. The important man. Go. Don't spill." She turned too fast. Her cheap shoe caught on the edge of the ridiculous red Persian rug. The tray slipped. Time slowed. Twelve crystal glasses of Dom Pérignon 2008 flew through the air. And then — with a splash that was heard in a ten-foot radius — a full, deep red glass of Cabernet that someone had left on the edge of the tray poured directly down the back of Chard Atwood’s $15,000 Tom Ford tuxedo jacket. Silence fell over that corner of the ballroom. Steve's mouth fell open. Scott, across the room, started grinning. Sarian froze, hands over her mouth. "Oh my God." Chard slowly turned around. His eyes were not grey anymore. They were storm clouds. He looked down at the dark red stain spreading across his pristine white shirt, dripping down his back. Then he looked at her. In that second, Sarian expected him to yell. To call security. To ruin her life, the way rich men always did. But she was so tired. So tired of being scared of rich men. So tired of everything. So before he could speak, she spoke first, her voice shaking but loud: "I said Oh My God. Are you deaf? It was an accident! You don't need to look at me like I murdered your entire bloodline!" Chard blinked. No one had ever spoken to him like that. Ever. His employees stuttered. Women flirted. Men feared. This girl in an ill-fitting waitress uniform, with big brown eyes full of tears and fire, was scolding him. "You spilled wine on me," he said, his voice low, cold, and dangerously calm. "And I'm sorry! What do you want me to do, lick it off? I'm sorry! It's been a long day and your stupid rug tripped me and I'm - I'm so sorry." She was now close to tears, and she hated herself for it. Chard stared at her. Really stared. Her face was flushed, her brown hair was falling out of its tight ponytail, her lipstick was smudged. She wasn't wearing diamonds. She wasn't trying to impress anyone. And she was the most honest person he had seen in five years. "What's your name?" he asked. "What?" "Your name." "Sarian. Sarian Bloom. Why, so you can get me fired? Go ahead. I'm already fired anyway, I'm sure. My manager is staring at me like he wants to kill me." Steve stepped in. "Chard, let's not -" Chard held up a hand, never taking his eyes off Maya. "How much do you make tonight?" "What?" "How much?" "$40 an hour. Why?" He reached into his pocket — his shirt was still dripping — and pulled out his wallet. He took out five hundred-dollar bills and pressed them into her champagne-sticky hands. "For the shoes. They are too small. That's why you tripped. Buy new ones." Maya stared at the money, then at him, completely confused. "I... what?" "You're fired, by the way. I just told your manager you were rude to a guest. Which you were." Her face fell. "You - you what?" "But you now work for me. If you want to. My assistant is short-staffed. I saw your application this morning. Mass Communication, New Jersey, 4.0 GPA. You applied for Junior Copywriter. Why are you serving champagne?" How did he know that? Because Capital Holden Global (CHG) owned the catering company. Because his assistant had shown him a stack of resumes that morning and her photo had stood out. Smart eyes. Sarian's tears finally spilled over. She didn't care about the crowd anymore. "Because my dad is dying and I need $55,000 in two weeks and copywriting jobs don't pay hospital bills and serving rich people who look at me like I'm dirt does!" The honesty hit him like a punch. Scott had now walked over, enjoying the show. "Brother, you have a little... situation on your back. And on your front. Need a napkin? Or a new girl? This one seems... spirited." Chard cold gaze snapped to Scott. "Get away from her." Scott smirked and left. Sarian wiped her eyes furiously with the back of her hand. "I don't want your money. And I don't want your pity job." "It's not a pity. It's an observation. You have guts. I need someone with guts." He leaned closer, so only she could hear him, his voice dropping. He smelled like expensive cologne and red wine. "You need $55,000. I need something worth more than $55,000. Meet me tomorrow. 10 AM. Capital Holden Tower, 75th floor. Don't wear those shoes." He took his jacket off — revealing the soaked shirt underneath, placed it over his arm, and walked away, leaving a trail of red wine droplets on the marble floor and Sarian standing there holding $500, shaking, with an entire full ballroom staring at her. Outside in the rain an hour later, after being escorted out, Sarian sat on the curb in her waitress uniform, holding her small purse, calling the hospital. "Sarian? Where are you? Your father's blood pressure -" "I know, I know, I'm coming, Mom - I mean, Nurse, I'm coming -" It was raining hard. Her phone had 2% battery. No umbrella. A black Porsche pulled up in front of her, window rolling down. Chard Atwood, now in a fresh black shirt, looking at her like she was a puzzle he wanted to solve. "Get in, Miss Bloom. You're going to catch a cold. And I don't hire sick people." Sarian looked at the car, at him, at the rain. "I don't even know you." "No. But you know you need money. And I know I need a wife." The rain got louder. Sarian's mouth fell open. "A WHAT?" — "A what?" Sarian repeated, because she was sure the rain was making her hear things. "A wife," Chard said again, like he was asking for a coffee. "Temporary. Contractual. 90 days." Sarian stood up from the curb, her uniform soaked through, her mascara running. She looked insane, she knew. But she was too furious to care. "Have you gone hay-wire? I spill a little wine on you and you think you can just — just BUY a wife? Do you know how cringe you sound?" "Very," Chard said calmly. "I'm aware. Get in the car, you are shivering." "I'm not getting into your kidnapper car!" "It's a Porsche, not a kidnapper car. It's $340,000. Kidnappers prefer vans. Statistically." That, somehow, made her laugh — a short, wet, shocked laugh. "You are unbelievable." "So I've been told. Miss Bloom, I am not proposing marriage because I am in love with you. I met you twenty minutes ago and you ruined my favorite shirt. I am proposing a business transaction because you need $55,000 and I need to not lose a $7 billion company." Sarian froze. "Seven... billion?" "Yes. My grandfather thought it would be funny to put a marriage clause in his will. My step-brother Scott is trying to take my company. If I'm married before I turn 32, I keep it. If not, he gets it. I have 91 days." The rain was hammering his car roof. His driver was pretending to be invisible. "And you... you want ME? Why me? You could have any model in New York!" "Models don't respond back. They also don't need $55,000 badly enough to consider a fake marriage to a stranger who they clearly hate. You hate me, don't you, Miss Bloom?" "I don't know you enough to hate you," Sarian snapped. "But I'm getting there." "Perfect. Hate is better than love for a contract. Love complicates things. Hate keeps it clean." He opened the car door from inside. "Get in. I'll drop you at the hospital. And tomorrow you come to my office, hear the terms. If you say no, you still keep the $500 and you never see me again. No strings." Sarian looked at the hospital direction. It was 30 blocks away. Her phone was dead. No money for a cab after she had refused to keep the $500 out of pride — she had left it on the curb. She was going to be sick. Her father was in the ICU. And this insane, handsome, wine-stained billionaire was offering her a way out. She got in. The car was warm. It smelled like leather and him. She dripped all over his seats. "You're getting my seats wet," he said. "You're getting my life wet," she shot back. For the first time that night, Chard Atwood actually smiled. It was a small, shocked smile, like he had forgotten how. "Seatbelt." The Porsche pulled away from the gala, leaving the flashing cameras and the whispering rich people behind. Inside the car, neither of them spoke for five blocks. Then Sarian whispered, more to herself than to him: "My dad used to tell me fairytales where the princess marries the prince and they live happily ever after. He never told me the one where the waitress marries the billionaire because she needs to pay for his surgery." Chard looked at her wet hair sticking to her face. Her hands clenched in her lap to stop shivering. "Maybe this one will have a better ending," he said quietly. She didn't hear him over the rain. *Capital Holden Global tower— THE NEXT MORNING — 9:59 AM* Sarian had not slept. She had spent the night in the hospital chair next to her father. Her father, Mr. Phillips Bloom, 62, looked so small in the hospital bed. The heart monitor beeped steadily. "Sally," he had whispered when he woke up. "You look tired." "I'm okay, Dad. I got a job offer. A good one. We're going to pay for the surgery." "My smart girl. Always saving everyone." She had kissed his forehead and left at 8 AM to go home, change into her only good dress — a simple peach dress she bought for her graduation two years ago — and come to the Capital Holden Tower. The building was terrifying. Sixty stories of glass that reflected the sky. The lobby alone was bigger than her entire apartment. Everyone wore suits that cost more than her rent for a year. "Name?" the receptionist asked without looking up. "Sarian Bloom. For Chard Atwood. 10 AM." Now the receptionist looked up. Really looked. "Oh. You're the 10AM. 75th floor. Mr. Atwood does not like to be kept waiting. You have 30 seconds." The elevator ride was the longest ride of her life. Her reflection showed dark circles under her eyes, but also fire. Determination. Ding. 75th floor. The doors opened to pure silence. White marble. No people. Just one massive desk and behind it, a wall of glass with New York City at his feet. And Chard Atwood standing with his back to her, looking out at his city, in a perfect black suit. No wine stain. "You're on time," he said without turning. "I try to be, when I'm about to be sold into a fake marriage." That made him turn. His eyes swept over her — her cheap dress, her worn flats, her tired but defiant face. Something flickered in his grey eyes. Approval? "You came," he said. "You said you'd pay my dad's bill. So I'm here. To hear your crazy terms." He walked to his desk and picked up a thick document. Bound in leather. "My lawyer drafted it last night. Ninety-two pages." "Ninety-two pages for a fake marriage? My God." "I like to be thorough." He handed it to her. Their fingers brushed. Electric. Sarian took it and sat down — because her legs were shaking — and opened the first page. *CONTRACT OF MARRIAGE - CHARD ATWOOD & SARIAN BLOOM Clause 1: Duration - 90 days from date of legal marriage. Clause 2: Compensation - Party B (Sarian) will receive $55,000 immediately for medical expenses, plus $700,000 upon successful completion of 90-day term. Clause 3: Living Arrangements - Party B will reside in Party A's penthouse for full duration... She kept reading, eyes getting wider. Clause 7: Public Displays of Affection - Party B agrees to hold hands, etc., at public events... Clause 11: No Romantic Entanglement - Both parties agree not to develop romantic feelings... Clause 14: Separate Bedrooms... Sarian looked up. "Clause 11? You actually wrote 'don't fall in love' in a contract?" "I've found that if you don't write it, people do it anyway," Sarian said dryly. "You're so arrogant you think I'd fall in love with you?" "I think you're human. And I'm... persuasive." He walked around the desk and leaned against it, right in front of her. Too close. She could see the tiny scar on his chin. The way his suit stretched over his chest. "I'm not a good man, Sarian. I'm cold. I work 16 hours a day. I don't have feelings. I don't do love. My parents destroyed each other with love. I will never do that. So if you sign this, you need to understand: I will never love you. Not in 90 days. Not in 90 years. This is a transaction. You get your father's life. I get my company. Clear?" It should have scared her. It did scare her. But underneath the fear, something else beat — curiosity. And something that felt dangerously like attraction. "Clear," she said. "But I have my own clauses." Chard raised an eyebrow. "You want to negotiate?" "Yes. I want to add Clause 22: You will never speak to me like I'm beneath you. I may be broke, but I'm not cheap. Clause 23: You will respect my father. Clause 24: If we divorce after 90 days, you will invest $50,000 in my dream — I want to open a bookstore." She expected him to laugh. To say no. He stared at her for a long, long moment. Then he picked up his Montblanc pen. "Write them in." "What?" "Write them in. By hand. Any contract can be amended by hand before signing." Sarian, with shaking hands, took the pen — it was heavy — and wrote in neat handwriting at the back of the contract: Clause 22, 23, 24 - as stated by Sarian Bloom. Chard took the pen back and signed his name below hers, right over her messy addition. Chard Atwood. Sharp, aggressive signature. "Now you," he said, holding the pen out to her. Maya looked at the document. 90 days. $755,000 total. Her father's life. A bookstore. And a cold billionaire who thought love was a lie. She took the pen. And signed. Sarian Bloom. *TO BE CONTINUED...*