Chapter3
884 Words
A PROPOSAL WITH STRINGS
With the city sprawling before him like a labyrinth of unattainable possibilities, Kingsley stood by the window of his tiny apartment.
He hadn’t made up his mind yet, but the offer—and the woman—felt like a trap.
Half a million dollars.
More than he’d ever dreamed of after years of working his fingers to the bone, slinging drinks and hustling side jobs to survive.
But that wasn’t enough to quiet the one question that kept circling in his head: Why her?
Why was Joke Jones—heiress to the King Enterprises empire—proposing to him, a random bartender?
It didn’t make sense.
Nothing about it did.
He’d been around the edges of wealth and power long enough to know there were always strings. Always conditions. Nothing came free in that world. And yet, the thought stuck with him like a splinter—irritating, persistent.
Maybe he was just paranoid. Maybe it was fear of the unknown.
But the clock was ticking.
His phone buzzed again. Not Carmen this time. Her.
Joke Jones: Tell me when you’re ready to complete the contract.
Kingsley leaned against the kitchen counter, thoughts racing.
10:23 p.m.
Less than two hours to make the most absurd decision of his life.
Of course she sent a direct text—no frills, no preamble.
He had to give her credit for that.
Joke didn’t waste time.
Still unsure, he ran his hands through his hair.
It wasn’t just the money. God, that was tempting.
But deep down, he believed marrying her might be a mistake.
The question was—was it worse than the life he was already living?
Living paycheck to paycheck.
Scraping by.
A pile of bills waiting for answers he didn’t have.
His phone buzzed again.
Joke Jones: If we don’t sign before midnight, the deal is nullified. The effects cannot be undone.
His heart thudded faster.
Irreversible.
That word landed like a hammer.
No second chances.
No take-backs.
Would he regret saying no?
Would he later resent the fact that he walked away from a life he didn’t even dare to dream about?
He looked around his apartment.
The faded sofa.
The chipped coffee table.
The reminders of all the ways life had worn him down.
Irreversible.
He pictured her—cold, composed, powerful.
She didn’t do things for fun.
This was business.
This was war.
And yet, she had chosen him.
Kingsley wasn’t sure if he could survive in her world.
He wasn’t sure he’d last a day.
But he did know one thing: if he walked away now, there’d be no coming back.
It wasn’t even about the money anymore.
It was the fear of being left behind.
10:45 p.m. — Uptown
Joke stared at the wall clock, ticking steadily and mercilessly.
Time was running out.
She needed a fix.
She needed a husband.
Outside her penthouse window, the city buzzed with movement. Inside, everything stood still—frozen in an uncontrollable moment.
She didn’t need to look to know her mother’s eyes were on her.
Victoria sat silently across the room, waiting. Watching.
The final piece of her plan hanging in the balance.
Joke had been pacing for an hour, mentally cycling through outcomes, trying to convince herself this wasn’t desperation.
But deep down, it felt like exactly that.
She’d never needed anyone.
She’d built her empire brick by brick, even when her family tried to block every step.
She had done this alone.
Always alone.
And now?
Now she was asking a stranger to marry her.
The irony wasn’t lost on her.
If someone had told her a year ago this would be her plan, she’d have laughed.
But here she was—watching the minutes bleed away—wondering if she could trust a man she barely knew to be her husband in front of the world.
She didn’t have a choice.
Her phone buzzed, breaking her spiral of thought.
Kingsley Freeman: I will do it. Let’s finish this.
Joke exhaled.
She had expected him to resist more.
To fight it.
To walk away.
She’d even prepared for the sting of rejection.
But he said yes.
She set her phone down and met her mother’s gaze across the room.
“It’s done.”
Victoria’s lips curled into a smug, satisfied smile.
“I knew you’d make the right decision.”
10:56 p.m. — The Bar
Kingsley’s fingers tapped a nervous rhythm on the bar.
He hadn’t moved in the last half-hour, trying—and failing—to settle the uneasiness chewing at his gut.
He wasn’t sure what was worse: making the decision or living with it.
Then the door opened.
And there she was.
Joke Jones walked in like she owned the place—her dark hair sleek, her expression unreadable, the sharp lines of her suit saying she could conquer the world if she wanted to.
She moved straight to the bar, stopped in front of him.
“Ready?” she asked, her voice steady, low.
He didn’t answer right away.
He just stared at her, trying to read her. Trying to make sense of this moment that felt both too real and not real enough.
“I guess we’re doing this,” he finally said.
She nodded once.
“We are.”
- Writer
