2• Strings Attached
1142 Words
"I don’t belong here."
The words echoed in my mind as I leaned against the balcony railing, my fingers gripping it tightly, seeking some sort of stability. Below me, the party vibrated with laughter and the melodic clinking of champagne glasses. I couldn’t shake the feeling I was an outsider here—dressed in a borrowed gown that felt more like a costume than an outfit, and wearing discount heels that definitely didn’t belong among the lavish surroundings.
Yet, here I was.
“Be careful,” a voice broke through the lively atmosphere. “That look on your face will give you away.”
I turned slightly to find Asher Blackwood standing a few feet away, his hands casually tucked in his pockets. The city lights illuminated him, casting a halo of golden light around the untouchable billionaire that everyone spoke about.
“I wasn’t aware this balcony had a VIP section,” I shot back, crossing my arms defensively.
“It doesn’t,” he replied, taking a step closer, exuding a casual confidence. “But since I'm covering the costs of this soirée, it might as well be mine.”
“Of course,” I said, my tone sharper than I meant. I didn’t regret it.
He seemed unfazed, a smirk playing on his lips. “You’re quite fascinating, Emilia Clarke.”
“I’m sure you tell that to all the women you happen upon on balconies,” I retorted, pretending not to care.
“Only the ones who look like they might jump at any moment,” he responded, his tone shifting to something serious.
My body tensed. His words cut too close to home.
“I’m absolutely fine,” I insisted, dismissing him with a wave. “Just needed a bit of fresh air.”
“Fresh air,” he echoed, his gaze penetrating. “Or a way to escape?”
I kept my silence, my eyes locked on the sprawling skyline. It felt infinite and cruel, amplifying my sense of insignificance.
“Why are you really here?” he asked gently.
“I could ask you the same thing.”
He chuckled softly, the sound warming the air. “Touché.”
A heavy silence enveloped us, filled with unvoiced thoughts.
“You don’t belong here,” he said suddenly, echoing my own internal struggle.
“Oh, really?” I rolled my eyes. “Thanks for the observation.”
“I mean it,” he said, stepping closer, his presence nearly overwhelming. “You don’t fit in with these people.”
“Why’s that?” I challenged, meeting his gaze. “Because I lack funds? Because I don’t sport a fancy lineage?”
“Because you’re genuine,” he replied, and the simplicity of his statement caught me off guard.
“You’re different,” he continued. “You don’t pretend to laugh at dull conversations. You’re honest, not a schemer.”
“And that makes me what? A charity case?” I shot back.
“No,” he said, his jaw set tensely. “It makes you the most intriguing person here.”
For a moment, his words left me breathless, and despite myself, my heart raced.
“What do you want, Asher?” I managed to inquire, my tone shifting to something softer.
“Something you can help me with,” he said, his voice shifting in pitch.
I scoffed, shaking my head. “You must have the wrong girl.”
“I don’t,” he shot back with conviction. “I need you to marry me.”
His words struck me like lightning.
“Excuse me?” I could hardly process what I’d just heard.
“You heard me correctly,” he said without a hint of a smile.
I stared at him, waiting for some indication he was joking. But his expression remained serious.
“You’ve lost your mind,” I said at last.
“Maybe,” he admitted. “But I’m serious.”
I stepped back, creating distance. “You don’t even know who I am.”
“I know enough,” he countered.
“Oh really? Impress me.”
“You’re an artist trying to save your struggling gallery,” he explained, his tone calm. “Your family is buried in debt, and you’d do anything to keep it afloat. You’re fiercely proud and can’t stand the thought of asking for help.”
A wave of nausea rolled over me. “Did you look me up?”
“Of course,” he answered nonchalantly.
A chill ran down my spine at his casual intimacy.
“You’re unbelievable,” I muttered, shaking my head. “You throw money at every problem until it goes away?”
“Not every problem,” he said smoothly. “Just the ones that truly matter.”
I stared at him, grappling with his offer.
“Why me?” I pressed. “There must be countless women you could choose from.”
“Because you’re different,” he repeated.
“That’s no explanation,” I snapped, frustration boiling inside me.
“Because you’re the one who won’t fall in love with me,” he said, his voice straightforward.
I froze, his words cutting straight through my defenses.
“This isn’t about romance,” he continued. “It’s a business arrangement. Purely transactional.”
“And what’s in it for me?” I asked, my voice shaky.
“Money,” he answered instantly. “Enough to cover your family’s debts and keep your gallery alive, plus contacts to elevate your artwork.”
My heart raced at the implications of his offer.
“And what happens when you don’t need me anymore?” I asked, doubt lacing my tone.
“We go our separate ways,” he replied matter-of-factly. “No strings attached.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “You think it’s really that simple?”
“It can be.”
I stared at him, torn between anger and the seductive pull of desperation.
“I can’t believe I’m contemplating this,” I murmured.
“You are,” he stated, a sense of victory in his voice.
“Don’t get too cocky,” I warned.
“Already too late for that,” he shot back.
I rolled my eyes, yet the allure of what he proposed was intoxicating.
“Alright,” I finally relented. “I’ll do it.”
A slow grin spread across his face.
“But let’s set some ground rules,” I added, jabbing a finger at him. “This is strictly business. No feelings. No complications.”
“Agreed,” he answered, although a flicker of something in his eyes left me uncertain.
“Good.”
As I stepped away, the reality of what I had just agreed to sank in.
I had just committed to marry Asher Blackwood.
What had I just gotten myself into?
- Writer
