CHAPTER TWO-THE PROPOSAL
1223 Words
AMARA
When the message came, I almost deleted it.
“Mr. Leon Hart requests a private meeting to discuss potential partnership opportunities.”
Partnership. That word looked too clean on the screen, too hopeful. Still, I couldn’t help the flutter in my chest. Maybe, just maybe, this was the break I’d been praying for.
I showed up early. Too early. The restaurant was quiet, dimly lit, expensive enough that the waiters didn’t even glance at my cheap handbag. I sat there fidgeting, twisting my ring around my finger until it left a red mark. My stomach ached from nerves, or maybe hunger. I hadn’t eaten since morning.
He walked in like time stopped for him. People looked up when he entered, the way they do when someone important walks by. He didn’t look at them. He looked at me.
“Miss Cruz.”
His voice was low, smooth, unsettlingly calm.
“Mr. Hart.” I stood quickly, almost knocking over the glass of water. “Thank you for.. for meeting me.”
He gestured for me to sit. “I appreciate punctuality.”
I smiled weakly. “I… I try.”
A waiter appeared. Leon ordered black coffee without looking at the menu. I just asked for water again, though my throat already felt dry.
For a moment, neither of us spoke. He just watched me, and I had to fight the urge to look away.
“You said this was about my boutique?” I asked finally.
“Yes,” he said. “I’ve done some research. You were once considered a promising designer. You had investors, press coverage, even a small feature in a fashion magazine two years ago.”
His tone was clinical. Detached. Like he was reading a report.
I shifted in my seat. “That was before things went downhill. My father’s death... it made everything harder.”
He nodded slowly. “And your mother’s illness. The hospital bills.”
My chest tightened. “You’ve been digging into my life.”
He didn’t deny it. “I don’t make business decisions blindly.”
“Business?” I repeated. “I thought this was about partnership.”
“It is.”
Something in the way he said it made my skin prickle.
He leaned back, fingers resting lightly on the table. “I can clear all your debts, Amara. Every single one. Your mother’s hospital bills, your loans, the rent you owe. You’d have financial freedom again. A second chance.”
I blinked, unsure if I heard him right. “I’m sorry, what?”
“I said I’ll erase your debts. In return, I’ll need something from you.”
I forced out a nervous laugh. “What could I possibly have that you want?”
He smiled faintly. “Your name. Your presence. Your obedience.”
My heart dropped. “I… I don’t understand.”
“I need a wife.”
I stared at him. Waiting for him to say he was joking. He didn’t.
“You’re... serious?”
“Completely.”
“Why me?” I asked, voice shaking.
“Because you have nothing to gain except survival. That makes you dependable.”
His words were so cold I felt them like a slap. “So you want to buy me?”
“Marry,” he corrected calmly. “There’s a difference.”
I laughed again, but this time it came out harsh. “You can’t just offer marriage like you’re buying a car.”
“Why not?” His eyes didn’t flinch. “You need money. I need a wife. It’s simple.”
“No, it’s insane.”
He didn’t argue. He just watched me fall apart.
My hands were trembling. “You think I’d marry a man I barely know just because he waves a check in my face?”
“I think,” he said slowly, “you’re running out of options.”
That shut me up.
He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table. “This marriage would be contractual. One year. You’d live with me, attend events, play the role. In exchange, I’ll take care of everything. You’ll be free.”
“Free?” I whispered. “That’s not freedom, that’s a cage.”
“Sometimes cages are built to protect,” he said quietly.
I looked at him, really looked at him. His expression didn’t move, but there was something there, something behind the calm, like he was hiding an entire storm under the surface.
“Why are you doing this?” I asked.
He paused. Then: “Let’s just say I have my reasons.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’ll get tonight.”
I pushed my chair back slightly, needing space to breathe. “You think you can fix my life by turning me into your puppet?”
He tilted his head. “I think I can give you stability. You can choose pride, or you can choose survival. But you can’t have both.”
I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood.
He slid a small folder across the table. The papers inside looked official, neatly clipped. I didn’t touch them.
“Read it,” he said softly. “You’ll find everything you need to know.”
“I don’t need to read it. I’m not doing this.”
His eyes flickered, just slightly. “You might change your mind.”
“I won’t.”
He nodded, almost like he expected that. “Tell me, Amara… how much does Saint Mary charge per month?”
My heart twisted. “Don’t,” I said quietly.
“Two hundred thousand, isn’t it? How many weeks has it been since you made a payment?”
I stood up so fast the chair scraped the floor. “You don’t get to use my mother against me.”
“I’m offering you a solution.”
“You’re insulting me.”
He stayed seated, unbothered, watching me like a scientist studying a reaction. “You can’t afford pride when your world is already burning.”
The words hit harder than I wanted them to. I felt them sink in… sharp, cruel, true.
I hated him for it.
“I don’t need your pity or your money,” I whispered.
“This isn’t pity,” he said. “It’s business.”
I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms. “You really think everyone has a price, don’t you?”
He didn’t blink. “Everyone does. Yours just happens to be survival.”
I stared at him for what felt like forever. His calmness made me feel small, like I was the only one trembling in a room built for him.
Then I grabbed my bag and turned to leave.
“Think about it,” he said quietly behind me. “You’ll call me before the week ends.”
I didn’t answer. I walked out, my heels clicking too loudly against the floor, my pulse pounding in my ears.
Outside, the air was cold. The city lights blurred through the tears I didn’t realize I was holding back.
I hated that he was right.
I hated that a small part of me already knew I’d think about it.
Because when your world is on fire, sometimes the devil’s hand looks like a way out.
- Writer
