Chapter Two: Contract Terms
515 Words
The next morning, Isabelle sat on the forty-second floor of Wolfe Capital with a coffee she couldn't afford and a headache she didn’t deserve.
The office was unnaturally quiet, like the air was waiting to shatter.
She’d been summoned.
Not invited. Not requested.
Summoned.
Her phone buzzed again. 12 minutes late, the message read. No name. Just time.
She rolled her eyes. “Controlling ass,” she muttered.
A receptionist who looked like a Vogue cover in heels led her to The Office. That’s what everyone called it. Wolfe’s lair. His kingdom. The place assistants went in and rarely came out whole.
He was already there.
Same tailored suit. Same unreadable expression. Same cold grey eyes that made her feel like a bug under glass.
“Sit,” he said without looking up.
“No good morning?” she offered, walking with the kind of defiant grace she’d practiced since high school.
He looked up then. “I don’t waste time on pleasantries.”
“And I don’t work for dictators.”
“Not yet,” he replied smoothly, handing her a thick folder. “But you might.”
She opened it. Read the first line.
This agreement outlines the professional and personal terms of an arrangement between Mr. Alexander Wolfe and Ms. Isabelle Hart.
She froze.
“Is this… a marriage contract?”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “It’s a mutually beneficial agreement.”
“I’m not stupid.”
“Good. Then you’ll understand the urgency.”
She stood. “You want me to pretend to be your fiancée. Why? So the media stops calling you emotionally defective?”
The corner of his mouth ticked up. “No. Because my board is threatening to block a merger unless I project stability.”
“And a woman on your arm screams stability?”
“It screams control,” he said simply. “And control is the only language billion-dollar deals understand.”
She stared at him, stunned. “You don’t even like me.”
“I don’t have to like you,” he said. “I have to trust you won’t screw me over. Figuratively, of course.”
“Of course,” she said dryly.
He stood and came around the desk, suddenly very close. Too close. Her breath caught. He didn’t touch her—but the air between them cracked like static.
“I’ll pay you,” he said.
“How much?”
“Half a million for six months. A bonus if you survive family dinner.”
Isabelle blinked.
Then laughed.
Then stopped when she realized he wasn’t joking.
“You’re insane.”
He nodded once. “I’m rich. It’s a thin line.”
She opened the contract again. Skimmed the clauses. Appearances. Events. Weekend retreats. Family introductions. No s*x required, but… highly encouraged to display public affection.
She looked up.
“Do I get health insurance?”
He blinked.
Then smiled. Just barely.
“You’ll have better than that,” he said. “You’ll have me.”
And suddenly, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to slap him… or kiss him.
- Writer
