CHAPTER FIVE — THE ARRANGEMENT
1074 Words
(Cassandra’s POV)
The black car pulled up in front of my apartment less than an hour after his call.
No explanation. No warning. No time to think.
Just a single text from a private number:
> “Step outside.”
I did. Because what else could I do?
A man in a crisp suit opened the door for me, silent, unreadable. The kind of man whose calm makes you nervous, whose presence answers every question without a word. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.
The city lights streaked past the tinted windows as we drove. Rain-slicked streets blurred into lines of gold and white. Every heartbeat sounded deafening, louder than the rhythm of the wipers. My phone buzzed relentlessly — Pamela, my mom, messages from numbers I didn’t recognize. But I couldn’t look. Couldn’t face anyone. I kept staring straight ahead, trying to convince myself I wasn’t panicking.
The silence in the car was suffocating. Heavy. Endless. And beneath it all, one thought throbbed in my chest:
What have I done?
His mansion rose at the edge of Manhattan like a fortress made of glass and steel. Cameras monitored every corner. The gate opened with a slow, mechanical groan, as if the world itself acknowledged who ruled here.
When the car stopped, the man gestured for me to step out.
Jordan was already waiting at the top of the steps. One hand tucked into his pocket, eyes cold, sharp, like they could cut through marble. No greeting. No words. Just that look — the same one he’d given me in his office, the one that stripped me bare.
I forced a breath. “You didn’t have to send your men like I’m some criminal.”
“After what you pulled?” His voice was calm, controlled, each syllable deliberate — which somehow made it worse. “You should be thankful I didn’t send the police.”
My throat went dry. “I didn’t leak that article.”
His jaw tightened. “Then who did?”
I swallowed hard. “Pamela told someone. I didn’t know she’d—”
“Stop.” He stepped closer, the scent of his cologne — dark, expensive, intoxicating — hitting me like a memory I couldn’t place. “You expect me to believe that?”
“I don’t care what you believe,” I said before I could stop myself. “But I’m telling the truth.”
He studied me for a long moment. Expression unreadable. Then, quietly:
“You’ve caused me a problem, Cassandra.”
I laughed — bitter, hollow, the sound echoing off the stone steps. “You think this is easy for me? I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask for you.”
His eyes darkened, sharper, colder. “No. But you got me anyway, didn’t you?”
The words landed like a slap I couldn’t avoid.
“Why am I here?” I whispered.
He exhaled slowly, running a hand over his temples. “Because the story is everywhere. My board wants a statement. Investors are threatening to pull. The press camped outside my office. My PR team has one solution — marriage.”
My stomach dropped. “Marriage?”
He looked me dead in the eye. “A contract marriage. Six years. You’ll live here, under my name, until the scandal dies down.”
I froze. My chest tightened. “You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, I’m very serious,” he said, each word measured. “You wanted me to take responsibility? Fine. You’ll get the Alvarez name, a home, financial security. In return, you’ll stay quiet. No interviews. No drama. No emotional attachments.”
My hands shook. “You’re turning my life into a business deal.”
“That’s all it ever was,” he said simply, voice calm as stone.
For a second, I couldn’t breathe.
He turned away, walking toward the massive glass window that framed the city like a jewel. “You’ll have a private floor. A monthly allowance. Everything you need for the child.”
I stared at his back — the man I thought I’d known for one night, now a stranger carved from marble and steel.
“Why six years?” I asked quietly, voice trembling.
He didn’t turn. “Long enough for the child to have my name. Short enough for both of us to forget this ever happened.”
My vision blurred. “You think I can just sign my life away?”
He faced me then, expression unreadable, cold as winter. “You already did the moment you showed up at my office.”
Silence. Heavy. Final.
I wanted to scream. To hit him. To demand why he had to be so cruel. But all I could do was stand there, trembling, the weight of every choice pressing down on me like stone.
Finally, I whispered, “And if I say no?”
His lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Then you’ll raise the child alone — while the press tears you apart. And I’ll make sure every door in this city closes to you.”
It was a threat wrapped in silk. And the worst part? I knew he meant it.
He walked past me, picking up a folder from the table. “My lawyer will bring the papers in the morning. You’ll sign them.”
“I don’t even get to think about it?”
He stopped by the door. “You’ve had nine months to think, Cassandra.”
My throat burned. “It’s been six weeks.”
He didn’t look back. “Then use the next twelve hours wisely.”
The door closed behind him, leaving only the echo of his footsteps in the hall.
I stood alone in that giant house — surrounded by marble floors, glass, and endless silence — realizing this was how my new life would begin.
Not with love.
Not with choice.
But with a contract.
Hours later, I lay awake in the guest room, staring at the ceiling. The city was quiet, the rain stopped, leaving only the faint hum of streetlights below.
I touched my stomach, the small life inside me pulsing softly against my palm, and whispered, “I’ll protect you. No matter what.”
Somewhere down the hall, I heard his footsteps — steady, restless, pacing.
And for the first time, I wondered if behind that coldness, Jordan Alvarez felt trapped too.
Trapped. Like me.
- Writer
