THE TYCOON'S PROPOSITION

TERMS AND CONDITION

The contract wasn’t on paper—yet—but the atmosphere in the quiet corner of the restaurant felt like a negotiation room.

Ciara crossed her legs and leaned forward, elbows resting lightly on the table. “If we’re doing this, we need rules.”

Jubril’s eyes flickered with interest. “Rules?”

“Yes. Non-negotiables.”

“By all means,” he said, gesturing for her to go on, as though she were a witness he intended to dismantle in court.

“One: this is strictly business. No crossing into… personal territory.”

“Define personal territory.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You know exactly what I mean.”

A hint of a smirk tugged at his lips. “Noted. What else?”

“Two: no interfering with my actual life. You don’t get to suddenly start managing my time, dictating what I wear, or deciding who I talk to.”

“I have zero interest in controlling your life,” he said, voice smooth. “Only in maintaining appearances.”

“Good. Three: a clear exit strategy. When it ends, it ends cleanly. No lingering.”

“Agreed. Though I suspect your mother will mourn the loss of me deeply.”

Ciara rolled her eyes. “Unlikely.”

The waiter returned with their entrees, but neither touched their food right away. Jubril tapped his fork lightly against the edge of his plate. “I have two rules of my own.”

She arched a brow. “Oh, here we go.”

“One: when we’re in public, you don’t undermine the image. We’re convincing the New York elite, not your best friend over cocktails.”

“Fine,” she said. “What’s the second?”

“Two: when I take your hand, you don’t pull away.”

Her pulse kicked. It was such a small thing, but the thought of his hand enclosing hers in a perfectly staged photograph made heat rise to her cheeks.

“You really think that’s necessary?” she asked, aiming for casual and failing.

“Absolutely,” he said, his gaze holding hers until she had to look away.

They didn’t shake on it. They didn’t need to. The deal was sealed in the silence between them, in the sharp current of understanding neither wanted to admit was there.

---

Three days later, Ciara stood at the foot of the sweeping marble staircase of the Whitmore Hotel, tugging at the hem of a sapphire gown she’d borrowed from her friend’s designer contact.

Jubril was already at the top, speaking to a small knot of society figures. The moment he spotted her, his expression shifted—cool professionalism melting into something warmer, more… possessive.

He descended the steps with measured precision, the crowd parting instinctively. When he reached her, he offered his arm.

“Ready?” he murmured.

“For the act of my life,” she replied.

And as flashbulbs went off and champagne glasses clinked, Ciara realized the problem wasn’t going to be pretending she liked him.

The problem was going to be pretending she didn’t.