Chapter 2 - The Proposition
1200 Words
Lucien Blackwood chose the kind of place where no one ever raised their voice.
The restaurant sat behind a discreet brass plaque and a door that opened only after someone inside decided you belonged there. Everything about it whispered exclusivity, from the low amber lighting to the way the staff moved without sound, as if they’d been trained not to exist. The sort of place where menus didn’t have prices and the wine list came bound in leather.
I stood just inside the entrance, suddenly and painfully aware of how out of place I looked.
I’d come straight from my afternoon shift at the bookshop, hair scraped back into a low knot, coat slightly frayed at the cuffs. I’d changed my shoes, at least, but it felt laughably insufficient. Everyone else looked like they belonged to a different species, sleek, polished, unhurried.
A hostess smiled at me, her gaze flicking briefly over my clothes before settling back into professional neutrality.
“Name?”
“Rowan Hale.”
Her smile sharpened. Recognition, or at least instruction.
“Mr Blackwood is expecting you.”
Of course he was.
I followed her through the dining room, past couples murmuring over wine and plates arranged like artwork. The smell of butter and truffle clung to the air. My stomach tightened, not with hunger, but with nerves.
Lucien Blackwood sat alone at a corner table, posture relaxed, suit immaculate. He looked exactly as he had in every photograph I’d ever seen, and somehow more unreal in person. Dark hair, neatly styled. Features sharp enough to belong on a billboard. A man accustomed to being watched, and entirely unbothered by it.
He stood when he saw me approach.
“Rowan,” he said, smiling as if we were old friends. “Thank you for coming.”
His voice was smooth, measured, faintly accented in a way that suggested private schools and summers abroad.
“Thank you for the invitation,” I replied, because manners were armour and I needed all the protection I could get.
He gestured for me to sit. “Please.”
The chair was plush, absurdly comfortable. I folded my hands in my lap to stop them shaking.
A waiter appeared instantly. Lucien ordered for both of us without looking at the menu. I didn’t protest. I didn’t trust my voice to sound steady.
Once we were alone again, Lucien studied me openly. Not leering. Not curious. Appraising.
“I’ll be direct,” he said. “I don’t believe in wasting time.”
“I’ve gathered that.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, almost a smile.
“You’re intelligent,” he said. “And practical. That’s why you’re here.”
I raised an eyebrow. “I thought it was because you rang me.”
He laughed softly. “Fair enough.”
He leaned back, fingers steepled. “You’re struggling with financial difficulty.”
The words landed between us, calm and precise.
Heat crept up my neck. “I didn’t tell you that.”
“No,” he agreed. “You didn’t have to.”
I bristled. “Did you investigate me?”
“I did my due diligence,” he corrected. “It’s standard.”
“For business deals,” I said.
“Yes.”
The implication was clear.
I inhaled slowly. “Then you already know I’m not interested in… whatever this is.”
Lucien tilted his head. “You haven’t heard the proposal yet.”
“That usually doesn’t end well for people like me.”
He smiled again, unfazed. “People like you survive by saying yes to uncomfortable things.”
I hated that he was right.
“Tell me,” I said.
He reached into his jacket and withdrew a slim folder, placing it neatly on the table between us.
“My grandfather established a trust fund,” he began. “The terms are simple. To inherit, I must be married by my thirty-second birthday.”
My pulse quickened, but I said nothing.
“I am thirty-one,” he continued. “And uninterested in love.”
I blinked. “You’ve been engaged twice.”
“Yes. Both were mistakes.”
“Public ones.”
“Regrettably.”
He slid the folder closer to me.
“I require a wife. In name only. For a minimum of eighteen months.”
I stared at him. “You’re proposing marriage.”
“I’m proposing a contract.”
I let out a short, incredulous laugh. “You don’t even know me.”
“I know enough,” he said. “You’re discreet. You don’t move in my circles. You have no interest in exposure for its own sake. And you need money.”
There it was. Naked and unashamed.
“And what do I get?” I asked quietly.
Lucien didn’t hesitate.
“Financial security. Your debts cleared. A monthly allowance more than sufficient for your needs. Housing. Protection.”
“Protection from what?”
“From the consequences of poverty.”
The waiter returned with our food. The interruption felt surreal. Plates were set down gently, steam curling upward, but my appetite had vanished entirely.
Lucien waited until we were alone again.
“You will not be required to perform marital duties,” he said calmly. “There will be no intimacy unless mutually agreed upon. Appearances only.”
“And after eighteen months?”
“We divorce. Amicably. You walk away with a settlement.”
My mind raced. This couldn’t be real. People didn’t just… offer this.
“Why me?” I asked.
He met my gaze squarely. “Because you won’t fall in love with me.”
The certainty in his voice sent a chill down my spine.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” he said. “You’re too busy surviving.”
I pushed the folder back towards him. “I need time to think.”
“Of course,” he said. “But not much.”
I stood abruptly. “I didn’t come here to sell myself.”
Lucien remained seated, unruffled.
“No,” he said gently. “You came because you’re running out of options.”
The words hurt because they were true.
“I won’t pressure you,” he continued. “But consider this: eviction proceedings begin in less than two weeks. Your mother’s credit is exhausted. Your income, while admirable, is insufficient.”
My throat tightened. “You did your research.”
“Of course I did.”
I stared at him, this beautiful, terrible man who spoke as if it were a faulty equation.
“And if I say no?”
He shrugged. “Then nothing changes. For me.”
I left before he could say anything else.”
Outside, the cold air hit me like a slap. I walked without direction, heels striking the pavement too hard, my thoughts spiralling.
Marriage. A contract. A transaction.
I thought of my mother asleep on the sofa, of the eviction notice folded in my bag, of the way five hundred pounds a night still wasn’t enough.
Lucien Blackwood hadn’t offered me love.
He’d offered me time.
And I wasn’t sure how much of myself I was willing to trade for it.
- Writer
