THE VOW WE NEVER MADE

CHAPTER 2: THE PROPOSAL

POV : Adrian

I've made a lot of questionable decisions in my thirty-two years.

This might be the worst one yet.

I watch Isla leave the restaurant, her dark green dress disappearing into the night, and wonder what the hell I've just done. Proposed a fake marriage. To my dead sister's best friend. The one woman I've spent years trying not to think about.

The one woman who's always been off-limits.

"Mr. Blackwell, will there be anything else?"

The server hovers nearby, probably wondering why I'm still sitting here alone, staring at an empty chair.

"No. Just the check."

She disappears, and I drain the last of my wine, welcoming the burn. The bottle—a 2015 Château Margaux—cost more than most people's monthly rent. Sophie used to give me s**t about that, about my expensive tastes and designer suits and the penthouse overlooking Central Park.

"You're such a cliché, Adrian. The cold, rich CEO with no heart."

"I have a heart. I just don't advertise it."

"Maybe you should try. You might actually be happy."

That was three days before she died.

Three days before our argument about her trust fund, about her "irresponsible" boyfriend, about how she needed to "grow up and take things seriously." Three days before she got in her car angry, drove too fast in the rain, and wrapped her Mercedes around a telephone pole on the FDR Drive.

The last thing I said to her was "Don't come crying to me when your life falls apart."

She never got the chance.

I sign the check with more force than necessary, the pen nearly tearing through the paper. The server returns, thanks me with that professional smile, and I'm alone again with my guilt and my ghosts.

My phone buzzes. Marcus.

Marcus: Heard you had dinner with Isla Sterling. Want to explain?

Of course he knows. Marcus knows everything—comes with being both my best friend and my COO. I consider ignoring him, but he'll just show up at my apartment if I do.

Me: Business.

Marcus: Bullshit. Try again.

Me: Tomorrow. Office.

Marcus: You're going to do something stupid, aren't you?

I pocket my phone without responding, because he's right.

I am doing something stupid.

I'm doing it anyway.

The penthouse is dark when I get home, all glass and steel and carefully curated emptiness. Thirty-eighth floor, corner unit, views of the city that people would kill for. I bought it five years ago, right after the merger that doubled Blackwell Hotels' value and cemented my reputation as the youngest CEO in the luxury hospitality industry.

Sophie called it my "ice castle."

She wasn't wrong.

I pour myself a scotch—Macallan 25, because if I'm going to drink alone at midnight, I might as well do it properly—and stand at the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out at the city. Somewhere out there, Isla is probably panicking about what she's agreed to.

I should be panicking too.

Instead, I feel something I haven't felt in six months: purpose.

This plan—this insane, reckless plan—solves multiple problems. Isla gets her inheritance. I get positive press and a chance to prove I'm not the heartless bastard the media makes me out to be. The board stops questioning my emotional stability. My mother stops trying to set me up with "appropriate" society women.

And I get to protect Sophie's best friend, the way I should have protected Sophie.

The way I failed to protect Sophie.

My phone buzzes again. Not Marcus this time—my mother.

Mother: I'm hearing rumors about you and Isla Sterling. Call me immediately.

I silence the phone. Whatever Victoria Blackwell wants, it can wait until morning.

I finish my scotch and pour another, then move to my home office—a smaller room off the living area, all dark wood and leather, the one space in this place that feels remotely lived-in. My laptop sits on the desk, still open to the background check I ran on Isla three days ago.

Not that I needed it. I've known her for seven years, since Sophie dragged her home for Thanksgiving break their senior year of college. Bright, funny, talented Isla with her quick wit and creative energy and those warm brown eyes that made my chest tight every time she laughed at one of Sophie's stories.

I've spent seven years pretending I didn't notice her.

Seven years maintaining perfect, professional distance.

And now I'm going to marry her.

The background check was thorough—I hired the best investigator in the city. No red flags, no hidden scandals. Isla Sterling is exactly who she appears to be: a freelance graphic designer, financially struggling but talented, living alone in a modest Brooklyn apartment, no serious relationships in the past two years.

That last detail shouldn't please me as much as it does.

I pull up a new document and start typing.

MARRIAGE AGREEMENT

Between: Adrian Blackwell and Isla Sterling

Terms:

I work until three in the morning, outlining every detail, every contingency. Separate bedrooms. Shared living space in my penthouse—her apartment is too small for the fiction we're creating. Public appearances as a couple. Coordinated social media presence. Financial arrangements—I'll cover all expenses, no questions asked.

Duration: minimum one year from wedding date.

Termination clause: after Isla's inheritance is secured and sufficient time has passed for credibility, quiet divorce, non-disclosure agreements, clean separation.

Physical intimacy clause: limited to what's necessary for public appearances.

By the time I'm done, it reads more like a business merger than a marriage proposal.

Which is exactly what this is.

I should feel satisfied. Organized. In control.

Instead, I keep thinking about Isla's face when she took my hand across the table—the way her eyes widened, the slight tremor in her fingers, the way she bit her lower lip like she always does when she's nervous.

The way my pulse jumped when our skin touched.

This is a mistake.

I'm doing it anyway.

Marcus shows up at my office at seven a.m., which means he probably didn't sleep either.

"You look like hell," he says, dropping into the chair across from my desk.

"Good morning to you too."

He studies me with that penetrating gaze that makes him excellent at reading people and terrible at poker. Marcus Hale has been my best friend since Harvard, my COO for five years, and the only person besides Sophie who could call me out on my bullshit.

"Isla Sterling," he says finally. "Sophie's friend."

"Yes."

"You're going to marry her."

I don't bother asking how he knows. "Yes."

"Why?"

I slide the printed contract across the desk. Marcus reads through it, expression carefully neutral, then sets it down.

"This is insane."

"It's practical."

"It's a disaster waiting to happen."

"I disagree."

He leans back, rubbing his jaw. "Adrian. I've known you for fourteen years. I've seen you make some cold, calculated moves. But this? This is different."

"How?"

"Because it's Isla."

Something in his tone makes my shoulders tense. "Meaning?"

"Meaning you've been avoiding her for seven years. Meaning Sophie used to tease you about it. Meaning this isn't as detached and businesslike as you're pretending it is."

"You're wrong."

"Am I?" He picks up the contract again, flipping through pages. "Separate bedrooms. No physical intimacy beyond appearances. Jesus, Adrian, this reads like you're terrified of being alone with her."

"That's ridiculous."

"Is it?"

We stare at each other across the desk, the morning light filtering through the windows, illuminating the doubt I'm trying very hard to suppress.

Finally, Marcus sighs. "Look, I get what you're trying to do. The guilt over Sophie, the need to fix things, protect people. But Isla isn't a business problem you can solve with a contract."

"I know that."

"Do you? Because this whole arrangement—it's designed to keep her at arm's length while pretending to be close. That's not going to work."

"It has to work."

"Why?"

Because I can't fail someone else I care about. Because I owe this to Sophie. Because Isla deserves better than losing everything her grandmother left her because of an archaic will clause.

Because when I saw her sitting in that law office yesterday, trying so hard not to cry, something in my chest cracked open.

I don't say any of this.

"It's the right move," I say instead. "For both of us."

Marcus shakes his head but doesn't argue further. "When are you planning to announce this?"

"Soon. I'm meeting with Isla this afternoon to finalize details."

"And your family?"

"Mother already knows something's happening. I'll tell them after Isla agrees to the terms."

"She's going to agree?"

"She doesn't have a choice."

Marcus stands, heading for the door, then pauses. "Adrian. Be careful with this. With her. Isla's not like the women you usually date. She's real. She's Sophie's friend. If you hurt her—"

"I won't."

"You might not mean to. But this kind of thing—fake relationships, contracts, pretending—it gets complicated. Feelings don't follow rules."

After he leaves, I sit at my desk, staring at the contract, wondering if he's right.

If I'm making a terrible mistake.

If I'm already in too deep.

My phone buzzes with a text from Isla.

Isla: We need to talk about this. Coffee at 2? There's a place in Brooklyn.

I smile despite myself. Of course she picked Brooklyn. Neutral territory. Away from my world of Manhattan high-rises and expensive restaurants.

Me: Send me the address.

Three dots appear, then disappear, then appear again. I can practically see her typing and deleting, trying to figure out what to say.

Isla: Adrian. Are we really doing this?

I stare at that message for a long moment, my thumb hovering over the keyboard.

Am I really doing this?

Marrying a woman I barely know, who drives me crazy, who I've spent years avoiding because she makes me feel things I've trained myself not to feel?

Me: Yes. We're really doing this.

Isla: Okay. 2pm. Don't be late.

Me: I'm never late.

Isla: There's a first time for everything.

I find myself smiling at my phone like an i***t, which is exactly the kind of reaction that proves Marcus right.

This is going to be complicated.

The coffee shop is small, tucked between a bookstore and a vintage clothing boutique in Park Slope. Exposed brick, mismatched furniture, the kind of place that serves pour-overs and has names for their regulars. Nothing like the corporate chains that occupy the ground floors of my hotels.

Isla is already there when I arrive—two minutes early, because contrary to her expectations, I'm always punctual. She's claimed a corner table, laptop open, cardigan wrapped around her shoulders, looking completely at home in this space in a way I never could.

She glances up when I approach, and something flickers across her face. Surprise? Nervousness? She closes her laptop quickly.

"You came," she says.

"You doubted I would?"

"Little bit."

I sit across from her, and the table is smaller than I expected, our knees almost touching. She shifts away slightly, creating distance.

"I ordered you a coffee," she says, nodding to the cup in front of me. "Black, no sugar. That's still how you take it, right?"

"Yes. Thank you."

The fact that she remembers does something strange to my chest.

We sit in awkward silence for a moment, the café buzzing with conversation around us. A couple in the corner laughing over shared pastries. A woman with a baby in a carrier, working on her phone. Normal people, living normal lives, not contemplating fake marriages and inheritance clauses.

"I brought the contract," I say finally, pulling papers from my briefcase. "I'd like you to review it before we proceed."

Isla takes the document, her fingers brushing mine briefly. She pulls back like she's been burned.

"This is very thorough," she says, flipping through pages.

"I'm thorough."

"Apparently." She's quiet for a moment, reading, then looks up. "Separate bedrooms."

"Yes."

"No physical intimacy beyond public appearances."

"Correct."

"Define 'public appearances.'"

I hadn't expected her to negotiate. "Hand-holding. Occasional embraces. Whatever's necessary to appear like an authentic couple."

"Kissing?"

The word hangs between us, loaded with implications.

"If necessary," I say carefully.

"Define necessary."

"Events where cameras are present. Family gatherings. Any situation where physical affection would be expected between an engaged or married couple."

She chews her bottom lip, considering. "What about when we're alone?"

"What about it?"

"The penthouse. Your place. Do we maintain the fiction there, or can we drop it?"

"We drop it. When we're alone, we're business partners. Nothing more."

"Right. Business partners." She returns to the contract, and I can't read her expression. "You're covering all living expenses."

"Yes."

"I can pay my own way, Adrian."

"I'm aware. But for this to be convincing, you need to live like my fiancée. That means appropriate wardrobe, accompanying me to events, being available for appearances. You can't do that while working freelance full-time."

"So I just... what? Quit my job? Become dependent on you?"

"Temporarily. After the divorce, you'll have your inheritance. Financial independence."

She sets down the contract, meeting my eyes. "This feels very transactional."

"It is transactional."

"Right." She looks away, jaw tight. "Of course it is."

There's something in her voice—hurt? disappointment?—that makes me want to explain, to soften this somehow. But that's not what this is. This can't be what this is.

"Isla. I need to know you understand what you're agreeing to. This is a business arrangement. A mutually beneficial contract. Nothing more."

"I understand."

"Do you?"

Her eyes flash. "Yes, Adrian. I understand. You need positive PR and a way to assuage your guilt over Sophie. I need to keep my inheritance. We help each other, we play our parts, and then we walk away. Very neat. Very cold. Very you."

The words sting more than they should.

"If you have objections to the terms—"

"I don't." She picks up a pen, clicks it sharply. "Where do I sign?"

"Isla—"

"Where. Do. I. Sign."

I show her. She signs quickly, aggressively, her signature a sharp scrawl across the bottom of each page. When she's done, she slides the contract back to me.

"There. It's official. We're engaged."

The finality of it settles over us like a weight.

"We should discuss the timeline," I say. "Announcement, wedding date—"

"Whatever you think is best. You're the one orchestrating this."

"I'd prefer we make these decisions together."

"Why? You've already decided everything else."

She's angry. I don't blame her.

"Isla. This doesn't have to be adversarial."

"Doesn't it?" She stands abruptly, gathering her things. "You've made it very clear what this is, Adrian. A transaction. Fine. But don't expect me to pretend I'm happy about it when it's just the two of us."

"I'm not asking you to—"

"Yes, you are. That's exactly what you're asking. Pretend in public, pretend in private, pretend this doesn't feel absolutely insane." She zips her bag with shaking hands. "I'll move into your place this weekend. Send me the details."

"We should discuss—"

"I think we've discussed enough for one day."

She's halfway to the door when I catch up to her, catching her arm gently. She freezes at the contact, and so do I, both of us suddenly very aware of how close we're standing.

"I'm sorry," I say quietly. "This isn't... I know this isn't easy."

Her eyes search mine, looking for something I'm not sure I can give her.

"Why are you really doing this, Adrian?"

"I told you—"

"No. The real reason. Not the PR spin, not the guilt over Sophie. Why?"

Because I failed your best friend and I won't fail you. Because I've spent seven years keeping you at a distance and I'm tired of it. Because when I saw you yesterday, devastated and desperate, something in me broke.

I don't say any of this.

"Because it's the right thing to do."

She laughs bitterly. "The right thing. Of course."

She pulls away from my grip, and the loss of contact feels wrong somehow.

"I'll see you this weekend, Adrian. Try not to overthink this. After all, it's just business."

Then she's gone, disappearing into the Brooklyn afternoon, leaving me standing in a coffee shop, wondering what the hell I've started.

And why the thought of her in my home, in my space, in my life—even temporarily, even fake—makes my heart pound in a way I haven't felt in years.

Marcus was right.

This is going to be a disaster.