Chapter 3
1382 Words
Babel's glass skyscraper loomed like a hidden kingdom. Where power donned three-piece suits and silence came at a price. Iris had never entered it before. She'd only seen it on the news—when there were mergers, scandals, and stock market predictions. But now she was going to venture into the lion's den with nothing but her father's future clutched like glass in her breast.
She slipped on the single blazer that hadn't entirely fallen out of fashion, sleeves slightly too short. Her heels were borrowed and a size too small, pinching with every careful step. Her lipstick was wearing off at the corners, but her back was straight, and her chin didn't tremble. Not yet.
Dina waited in the marble lobby, arms crossed as she leaned against a streamlined pillar.
“You sure you’ve got this?” she asked, the faintest trace of worry breaking through her usual sarcasm.
Iris nodded, too quickly.
Her knuckles were white around the strap of her purse. “I have to.”
Dina gave a slow nod, not trusting the situation, but trusting her.
---
The elevator whispered all the way to the top floor, too quiet, too clean. Each ding felt like a countdown to something irreversible.
The doors opened into a room so clean it made Iris hesitate for a moment. The floor gleamed like ice. The air was perfumed subtly with the aroma of expensive leather and colder aspirations.
Entering Marx Danver's office was a little like entering a boardroom cathedral—floor-to-ceiling windows spilled sunlight across black marble, making long shadows stretch out towards her feet.
Marx didn't look up. He sat at his desk, a silhouette against the skyline, paging through documents with disinterested boredom. One hand held a thin fountain pen. The other turned pages as if nothing in them mattered.
"I was expecting you yesterday," he said, voice chiseled stone.
"I was busy seeing my father getting dragged across the news," she said before her brain could edit the words.
His head rose slowly. His eyes, sharp and unfathomable, fell on her like a scalpel on flesh.
"And now?"
She exhaled. "Now I'm here to accept your proposal."
He didn't blink. Didn't smile. Just gazed at her like she was a pawn on a chessboard—interesting, maybe, but ultimately expendable.
"Are you doing this for love?" he asked, his voice woven with irony.
"Out of necessity," she said.
"Good. I'm not in the mood for romantic illusion."
He rose and circled the desk with deliberate, measured steps, each one ringing through the quiet like a gavel.
"This marriage will be real—in name. But in fact, we'll keep our distance. No media circus. No fairy tale. You'll show up when I need you to. You'll smile when I say so. In return, I'll clear your father's name and prop up what's left of Hargrove Textiles."
Iris swallowed. "That's it?
"I expected you would make it harder."
"Then you are smarter than I credited you," she muttered between clenched teeth.
A slight smile crossed his lips. "My attorneys will bring the contract when it's ready. The wedding will take place within the next ninety-six hours. You will move in immediately thereafter."
"Move in?" she echoed, shocked.
"We have to make it seem real," he said bluntly. "And believe me— appearances are everything right now. Your father's enemies are watching."
The last sentence was a stab of ice to her ribs.
"So you believe he was set up?"
Marx nodded, slow and serious. "The corporate world is a battlefield, Iris. Your father was just the first casualty. But I can stop the bleeding. If you let me."
She didn’t. Not fully. But at this point, trust was a luxury she could no longer afford.
“Then let’s get this over with,” she said quietly.
She turned toward the door, but paused a moment, pressing a palm to her chest. Her breath came tight, shallow.
You’re doing this for your father.
Just remember that.
She stepped out, let the door close behind her—then turned back and walked in again.
Marx was at the window this time, his back to her, looking out at the skyline like a man surveying his kingdom.
Maybe he was.
"Mr. Danver," she said softly, her voice more subdued than she'd meant it to be. "I… I just wanted to thank you. For what you're doing. I know we didn't get off on the right foot and you must think I'm some kind of desperate girl, but—"
"I don't think," he said, still staring out the glass.
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
He turned to face her, slow and steady, like her presence barely registered.
"Don't mistake this for kindness, Iris. This isn't a favor. It's a transaction."
Her throat tightened.
Somewhere deep down, she'd hoped—foolishly—that maybe there was a spark of humanity under his frozen exterior. Something more than this calculating convenience.
"Still… it means a great deal," she whispered, voice trembling despite herself.
Marx passed her by without a look, removed his watch from the desk, and strapped it on with military precision.
"You needn't pretend to be thankful," he said to her. "We both know that if you had any other choice, you would not be here."
She turned to face the door again, the sting of truth spreading in her breast.
"I was being polite," she said.
"That's the problem with politeness," he called after her, his voice now reduced. "It usually comes from people who are about to lose everything."
The words followed her like a shadow as she left.
---
In the mirrored elevator, Iris scowled at her reflection. Her lipstick was gone entirely now, but that was not why her cheeks were burning.
"God, what did you expect?" she snarled, to her reflection in the glass more than to herself. "That he'd smile and say you're welcome? That he'd hold your hand through this nightmare?"
She laughed derisively, blinking hard and wiping away a tear before it had time to fall.
The doors slid open and she marched out, face set like stone.
But just as she got to Dina, her phone buzzed.
She glanced down.
Dad: hi sweet… come get me.
Her heart stopped.
Started again. Faster.
"Dina!" she yelled, waving her arm.
Dina peered up from where she lounged on the hood, gum cracking mid-blow. "What's up?"
"My dad—he's out! They dropped the charges—well, they're reconsidering, but he's free! We have to go get him!"
---
They drove to the law office in silence, the engine roaring in counterpoint to their racing hearts. Iris's mind spun with emotion. Dina was shooting her suspicious glances.
At the end of the firm's hallway, Iris spotted her father—rumpled shirt, mussed hair, but standing.
"Dad!" she cried, running to him, arms clamped around his neck.
"Hey, sweetie," he muttered, half-mortified, half-overcome.
"They're reviewing the charges," he explained to her. "Marx must have pulled some strings, I don't know how but… I'm free."
Dina crossed her arms, watching. "That man's got some pull, serious."
"He does," Mr. Hargrove replied. "You girls don't know what he got us out of. I thought it was all over."
They walked out together into the afternoon sun, its golden light casting long, tangled shadows behind them.
“You think it was one of your rivals who set this up?” Dina asked, sliding into the backseat beside Iris.
“It has to be,” Mr. Hargrove said grimly. “There are people who’d destroy a man just to buy his company for half the price. That’s how this world works.”
Dina let out a low whistle. “Well… thanks to Marx, we’ve got a ruthless billionaire on our side now.”
Iris didn’t answer.
Her eyes were on the road ahead of her, but her thoughts drifted to Marx—to that icy voice, that steel stare.
Dismissive. Calculated. Unapologetic.
And yet… something about the way he said "That's the thing about civility" lingered with her. Something within her shifted that day.
She didn't like it.
She didn't want it.
But it was there now, quietly taking root in her chest, waiting for its chance to prove him wrong.
- Writer
