Love For Sale

Chapter 2: The Proposition

Naomi stumbled as the security guard shoved her into the dimly lit room, the door slamming shut with a sharp click behind her. Her eyes darted around, taking in the fancy décor—a polished mahogany desk, huge windows showing the city, and leather chairs that screamed money and power.

Sitting in one of those chairs was Ethan Blackwell. He looked way too calm, especially with his shirt still stained with red wine. It didn't match the pristine space. He had one ankle casually resting on his knee, his eyes fixed on her like he was sizing up prey.

Naomi straightened up, trying to look taller even though her heart was racing in her chest. “What is this? Some kind of interrogation room for poor people?”

Ethan smirked, though his eyes stayed cold. “Sit.”

“I’d rather stand, thanks,” Naomi shot back, crossing her arms. Her voice sounded small, and she hated it. It felt like all her courage was about to c***k under his stare.

Ethan didn’t react, not even a blink. “Suit yourself.”

The silence in the room was heavy, only broken by the faint hum of the city outside. Ethan picked up a glass of water from the desk and took a slow sip, then set it down with a soft clink.

“So,” he started, his voice sharp. “You thought crashing my event was a good idea. Why? Hoping to scam a few rich people with your sob story?”

Naomi’s mouth dropped open. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he said, his tone growing colder. “People like you—desperate, reckless—think the world owes you something. You think you can just waltz into my event and beg for scraps?”

His arrogance made Naomi’s blood boil. She took a step forward, fists clenched at her sides. “I didn’t beg for anything,” she snapped. “And for the record, I didn’t ‘waltz’ in. I had to hustle just to—”

“To what?” Ethan interrupted, his voice rising just a bit. “Sneak past security with a fake invite? That’s not hustling, that’s lying.”

Naomi’s face burned with anger, but she refused to let him see how much he’d stung. “You don’t know anything about me,” she spat.

Ethan raised an eyebrow, leaning forward in his chair. “Then enlighten me.”

For a second, Naomi hesitated. Her instinct told her to stay guarded, but the frustration finally broke through.

“I’m an artist,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “My studio’s about to shut down because people like you only care about art if it has a price tag attached to it.” She paused, swallowing. “I came here because I’m desperate. Not to scam anyone, but to remind people that art isn’t just about making money.”

Her words hung in the air, raw and unfiltered. Ethan didn’t say anything right away, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—maybe interest, maybe amusement.

“You’re right,” he said finally, his voice annoyingly calm. “Art isn’t just about money. But the world we live in? It is. And pretending otherwise won’t save your studio.”

Naomi’s throat tightened, but she forced herself to hold his gaze. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”

Ethan smirked again. “I’ve been told.”

The tension in the room grew as Ethan leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. He studied her silently, as if she were some puzzle he was trying to figure out.

Naomi shifted uncomfortably. “What?” she snapped.

“I’m trying to decide if you’re worth the trouble,” he said bluntly.

Her mouth dropped open. “The trouble? You think I wanted to end up here, talking to you?”

“Considering you crashed my event, spilled wine on me, and are now ranting about the ‘sanctity of art’?” Ethan tilted his head, a smirk playing on his lips. “Yeah, I think you did.”

Naomi laughed, a frustrated sound. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re stubborn,” he shot back.

Before Naomi could respond, Ethan stood up suddenly, his height making the room feel even smaller. He walked around the desk, stopping just a few feet away from her.

“What if I told you,” he began, his voice quieter now, like he was thinking it through, “that there’s a way for both of us to get what we want?”

Naomi frowned, her arms still crossed over her chest. “What are you talking about?”

Ethan’s expression shifted, the smugness gone, replaced by something more calculating. “My family,” he said slowly, as if testing the words, “has been on my case for years to settle down. They think a stable relationship will ‘improve my image.’” He rolled his eyes.

Naomi blinked, completely confused. “And this has to do with me... how?”

Ethan stepped closer, his eyes locking onto hers. “It’s simple. You pretend to be my fiancée. Play the part for a few months, and I’ll fund your art studio. Completely.”

Her brain went blank for a moment. The words hit her like a punch.

“You’re joking,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m not,” Ethan said, his tone dead serious. “Think about it. You need money, I need a fiancée. It’s a win-win.”

Naomi shook her head, stepping back. “That’s insane. I don’t even know you. And you think I’d just... lie to everyone?”

Ethan shrugged. “You lied to get into the gala. Seems like you’re halfway there.”

Her face flushed with anger. “That’s not the same thing!”

“Isn’t it?” Ethan asked, his gaze unwavering.

Naomi opened her mouth to argue, but no words came out. The truth was, she didn’t have a good answer. She needed the money, desperately. And as much as she hated to admit it, his offer was tempting.

Ethan seemed to sense her hesitation. He moved closer, his voice dropping low, almost like he was sharing a secret. “You have 24 hours to decide,” he said. “Take the deal, or lose everything.”

Her stomach twisted. She hated him—his arrogance, his coldness—but she couldn’t ignore what he was offering.

Before she could respond, Ethan turned and walked toward the door. He paused just before opening it, glancing back at her over his shoulder.

“Think it over,” he said simply, then left, leaving Naomi alone in the room. Her heart pounded, and her pride felt like it was hanging by a thread.