Chapter 3
1926 Words
Lara-Jean POV
“Did you see his face when she walked in? Like a starving man at a buffet."
I froze outside the break room, my hand inches from the door.
“Please. She's obviously sleeping with him. How else does a homeless reject land a corner office at Kavinsky International?"
Maya's voice cut through like a blade. “You mean the woman who's logged more hours than anyone in design this quarter? The one whose campaigns just won us three new clients? Yeah, clearly she's only here because she's spreading her legs."
I pushed the door open. The gossipers—Janine from marketing, two interns I didn't know went scarlet.
“Don't stop on my account," I said, pouring my coffee with steady hands. “I love hearing how my work gets credited to my anatomy."
They scattered. Maya caught my eye, unrepentant.
“Want me to key their cars?"
“I want you to stop defending me. It makes it worse."
“Nothing makes it worse than those bitches." Maya grabbed her bag. “Walk me out?"
I should have stayed. I had deadlines. But Maya was the only real friend I'd made in three months, and she was leaving for a dentist appointment, and honestly? I needed air.
We rode the elevator down in comfortable silence. Forty-five floors of glass and steel, my reflection ghosting beside me. I barely recognized the woman in the mirror. Same amber eyes. Same dark hair, though better cut now. Same face. But something underneath had shifted.
Three months at Kavinsky International had done that.
A studio apartment of my own. A bank account with actual money in it. A job I loved, doing work that mattered. For the first time since my parents died, I was building something.
And Peter Kavinsky was everywhere.
***
"Good morning, Ms. Song."
I jumped. Maya snickered.
Peter stood in the lobby, flanked by his usual entourage of terrified assistants. Nine AM, and he looked like he'd stepped off a magazine cover—charcoal suit, crisp white shirt, those silver-blue eyes finding me instantly in the crowd.
“Good morning," I managed.
He nodded once. Then, to my complete horror, he crossed the lobby toward me. His assistants scrambled to keep up.
“You're working late again tonight."
It wasn't a question.
“I have the Watanabe presentation to finalize."
“I know." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a single white rose. Handed it to me. “The conference room on forty-seven has better light for detailed work. Use it. I'll have security let you in."
Then he was gone, striding toward the garage, his assistants trailing behind like ducklings.
I stared at the rose.
Maya stared at me.
“That's the third one this month," she said slowly.
“Fourth."
“He gives you four roses a month and you didn't tell me?"
“It's nothing. He's being nice."
“Peter Kavinsky is never nice. He's efficient. There's a difference." Maya grabbed my arm. “That man wants to climb you like a tree."
“He's my boss."
“He's a billionaire who leaves you flowers like some Victorian suitor." She shook her head. “You're either blind or in denial."
I tucked the rose into my bag. “I'm practical. He's protecting his investment. I'm a good designer."
Maya's laugh followed me back to the elevator.
Three hours later, I wasn't laughing.
I was staring at my phone, my blood running cold.
The text was from an unknown number:
‘I know where you live now. We should talk. —Mark’
Then another: ‘Or I could talk to the press first. Your choice.’
I deleted both. Blocked the number. Tried to focus on the Watanabe presentation.
My phone rang. Unknown caller. I let it go to voicemail.
“Lara-Jean, sweetheart. It's your aunt. I know we haven't spoken since you got that fancy new job, and I'm so proud of you! But I've run into a little trouble, and I thought, well, family helps family, right? I just need fifty thousand. Just a loan. And if you can't help... well, those tabloid people pay pretty well for stories about troubled childhoods, don't they?"
I deleted that too.
My hands were shaking.
***
The gala was black-tie. I'd borrowed a dress from Maya—emerald green, simple, probably the most expensive thing I'd ever worn. The venue was a converted warehouse downtown, all exposed brick and chandeliers, filled with the city's elite.
I'd survived two hours. Two hours of smiles and small talk and pretending my world wasn't imploding.
Then the socialite cornered me by the bar.
“Lara-Jean Song, isn't it?" Her voice carried. It was designed to carry. “I've heard so much about you. Such a meteoric rise at Kavinsky. One might almost call it suspicious."
The people around us went quiet.
“I'm sorry, I don't believe we've met."
“Eleanor Worth. My family's been in this city for five generations." She smiled like a shark. “We tend to notice when... outsiders appear out of nowhere. Especially ones with such colorful pasts."
I felt the stares like physical weight. Across the room, I saw Peter's uncle, Victor Kavinsky, watching with barely concealed satisfaction. He'd been trying to destabilize Peter for months. And here I was, delivered like a gift.
“She's my designer."
Peter's voice cut through the crowd like ice water. He appeared beside me, his hand settling on the small of my back—possessive, protective, unmistakable.
Eleanor Worth's eyes widened. “Mr. Kavinsky. I didn't realize..."
“No. You didn't." His smile didn't reach his eyes. “Ms. Song's work speaks for itself. As does her character. I'd be careful about implying otherwise."
He steered me away before Eleanor could respond. Through the crowd, past the staring faces, toward the elevator bank.
“I can't...the gala..."
“It's over for you." He hit the call button. “You're white as paper. When did you last eat?"
I couldn't remember. This morning? Yesterday?
The elevator arrived. He guided me inside, hit the button for the roof.
“Peter, I'm fine. You need to be down there."
“What I need," he said quietly, “is to not watch you get torn apart by people who don't know you."
The doors opened onto the rooftop garden.
It was beautiful up here. Hidden. Secret. Greenery and flowers forty stories above the city, the party a distant hum below. I walked to the railing and gripped it, trying to breathe.
His footsteps behind me. Then silence.
“Your past is circling like vultures," he said finally. “My family is using it to try and destabilize me. They see you as a weakness."
My heart clenched. Of course. Of course, I was a liability.
“I'm sorry." I turned to face him, the city lights glittering behind me like a million tiny stars. “I'll resign. It's for the best."
“No."
The word was sharp. Absolute.
He stepped closer. Too close. His presence overwhelmed the small space between us.
“It's not for the best. I have a different solution."
“Peter..."
“Marry me."
I choked on air. “What?"
“A marriage of convenience. A contract. For one year." His voice was calm, measured—the voice of a CEO presenting a business proposal.
“You get my name, my protection. Mark can't touch you. Your aunt can't touch you. They want a scandal? We'll give them a union so powerful it silences them all. In return, you help me maintain the image of a stable CEO, untouchable by my uncle's schemes."
I stared at him. The man who left roses on my desk. Who "happened" to work late when I did. Who'd just defended me in front of the city's elite.
He was offering me a fortress.
“I can't marry for anything but love," I whispered. The words came out raw, wounded. “I can't."
His gaze softened, just for a second. Just long enough for me to see the man in the alley, the one who'd looked at me with something other than cold calculation.
“Love is a liability I can't afford." Quiet. Honest. “But I can offer you safety, respect, and a chance to build the life you were denied. It's a contract, Lara-Jean. Nothing more."
Nothing more.
The words should have hurt. Instead, they felt like a lifeline. I thought about Mark's betrayal. My aunt's greed. Years of being used by people who claimed to love me.
Maybe love was a liability. Maybe safety was enough.
“What would it look like?" I asked. “This marriage."
He laid out the terms with clinical precision. Prenup protecting both our assets. Separate bedrooms. Public appearances as a united couple. Private lives completely independent. After one year, a quiet divorce and a settlement that meant I'd never worry about money again.
Cold. Logical. Perfect.
And it would keep him close. Too close.
“Why me?" I asked finally. “There are a hundred women who would marry you in a heartbeat."
“Because you saved a stranger in an alley. Because you didn't want anything from me. Because you're the only person in this city who's seen me at my worst and didn't flinch."
He met my eyes.
“I trust you, Lara-Jean. I don't trust anyone."
I thought about my car. My empty bank account. My aunt's threats. Mark's lies. I thought about the safety he was offering, not just financial, but emotional. A year of peace. A year to rebuild.
A year with him.
“Okay." The word came out breathless. “One year."
Something flickered in his eyes. Relief? Triumph? Hope? Then his mask slid back into place.
“We'll announce it tomorrow. Be ready."
He turned to leave. Paused at the door.
“Lara-Jean."
I looked up.
“For what it's worth." His voice was quiet. Barely above a whisper. “I'll spend that year proving that you can trust me. Not because of the contract. Because of who you are."
He left before I could respond.
I stood alone on the rooftop, the city sprawling beneath me, and wondered what exactly I'd just agreed to.
My phone buzzed. Maya.
'How'd you escape the vultures? Everything okay?'
I stared at the screen. Thought about typing back. Thought about explaining.
Instead, I typed: 'I'm engaged.'
Three dots appeared instantly. Then: 'TO WHOM'
'Peter.'
The dots disappeared. Reappeared. Disappeared again.
Then my phone rang.
I answered. Maya's voice shrieked across the line.
“YOU'RE MARRYING THE BILLIONAIRE WHO LEAVES YOU ROSES AND YOU DIDN'T LEAD WITH THAT?"
“I just agreed five minutes ago!"
“Five minutes and you didn't call me immediately? I'm your maid of honor. I'm planning this wedding. We're doing it in a castle."
“It's not... Maya, it's not a real wedding. It's a contract."
Silence.
Then, quieter: “Does he know that?"
“What do you mean?"
“I mean, I've seen the way he looks at you. That man doesn't do contracts." A pause. “Be careful, Lara-Jean. With him. With yourself. Marriages of convenience have a way of becoming inconvenient."
I thought about his eyes when he said because of who you are. I thought about the roses. The late nights. The way he always seemed to know where I was.
“I'll be careful," I said.
But as I hung up and looked back at the city lights, I wasn't sure I believed it.
- Writer
