HIS HEIR - HER REVENGE

CHAPTER 2: The Deal

THIRD PERSON

Damian Rafe didn't believe in kindness. Not really. In his world, every favor came with a price, and every soul had a number. That morning, he was halfway through reading a report on the latest merger when his assistant buzzed in, voice hesitant.

"A young woman is asking to see you. Says her name is Ivy Marcellus."

He almost dismissed it. He had meetings, calls, plans — real things to do. But something about the tone of his assistant's voice made him pause. Curious. "Send her in."

When she stepped into his office, he immediately noticed how out of place she looked. No designer clothes, no practiced charm, no mask of confidence like the people who usually came begging. Just a young woman clutching her bag as if it held her last breath—pale skin, dark eyes full of fear and something else — stubbornness.

She stopped just past the doorway, not daring to move closer. "Thank you for seeing me," she said, her voice small, shaking but polite.

He didn't tell her she hadn't been given a choice. He leaned back in his chair, watching her with the same cool detachment he used for contracts and enemies. "Sit."

She hesitated, then obeyed.

For a few seconds, neither spoke. The only sound was the faint hum of the city below and the ticking of his expensive clock. Damian tapped his pen against the desk, eyes never leaving her face.

"So, Miss Marcellus," he said at last. "You're here because you need something."

She nodded, clutching the edge of the chair. "My mother is dying. The hospital said you help people sometimes. That you have connections."

He smirked faintly. "Connections, yes. Help? That's not really my business."

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. "I'll pay you back. I swear, I— I don't have time. She's getting worse every day."

There it was. The beginning. He'd seen it a hundred times, from men twice her age and women who thought tears could buy mercy. But there was something different in her tone — no manipulation, no act. Just raw desperation. Honest.

He almost admired it.

"How much?" he asked.

She blinked. "What?"

"The treatment. How much?"

"Two hundred and eighty thousand dollars."

He raised an eyebrow. "That's a lot of money for a woman who looks like she can't afford lunch."

Her jaw tightened, but she didn't look away. "I'm not asking for charity, Mr. Rafe. I need help."

Her courage amused him. It wasn't smart, but it was real. He stood up and walked around the desk, slow, measured steps. She stiffened as he came closer. He stopped beside her, close enough to see the tremor in her hands.

"What do you think I want in return?" he asked quietly.

She frowned, confused. "I don't know. A loan? I can work for you. I'll do anything."

"Anything." He repeated the word as if he was enjoying the sound of it. "You should be careful saying that, Miss Marcellus. People like me tend to take things literally."

Her lips parted slightly, like she wanted to take the word back but couldn't.

He turned away, walking toward the window. The city stretched far beneath him — a field of power and deceit, all his. And now this girl, this desperate creature, had walked right into his world.

"I could give you the money," he said finally. "Your mother would live. You'd owe me nothing, at least, not in cash."

Her head snapped up. "Then what would I owe you?"

He looked over his shoulder, eyes dark and unreadable. "A marriage."

The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut.

She blinked at him, not understanding. "A marriage? You're joking."

"I don't joke."

"Why? You don't even know me."

"I don't need to." He turned back to face her fully now. "I need a wife. Temporary. Someone quiet. Someone who won't ask questions."

She stared at him, disbelief flooding her face. "You're serious."

"Completely."

He saw her chest rise and fall too fast. "You're… you're offering to save my mother if I marry you?"

"Yes."

She shook her head, standing suddenly. "That's insane. You can't just— That's not—"

"Think of it as a business transaction," he said, interrupting her. "You get what you want. I get what I need."

"What could you possibly need from me?"

He smiled, slow and cold. "You'd be surprised."

Her breath hitched. She took a step back, then another. For a moment, he thought she'd leave. That would have been fine. Most people did when they realized what kind of man he really was.

But she didn't.

Instead, she turned to look at him again, tears starting to form. "Why me?" she whispered. "Out of everyone in this city, why me?"

He didn't answer right away. Because the truth was, he didn't know. Maybe it was her sincerity. Maybe the way her eyes didn't hide anything. Or perhaps he was just bored.

"You came to me," he said finally. "That's enough."

She stood there, silent. He could almost hear the war inside her — pride against desperation, logic against love. He'd seen it before. Pride always loses.

"How long?" she asked softly.

He tilted his head. "How long what?"

"The marriage. How long would it last?"

"Until I say otherwise."

Her mouth tightened. "That's not fair."

"Life isn't," he said.

Another silence stretched between them. He could see the defeat settle in her posture, slow and painful. She looked down at her hands, then back up.

"If I say yes… you'll save her? You'll pay for everything?"

"Yes."

Her voice trembled. "And if I refuse?"

He shrugged. "Then you can go back to the hospital and watch her die."

It wasn't kind, even by his standards. But he didn't flinch. Mercy wasn't part of who he was anymore.

Her eyes filled with tears, but she didn't cry. She just nodded once, sharp and broken. "Fine. I'll do it."

He didn't smile. He reached into his desk and pulled out a thin folder — a contract already prepared. He'd expected her to answer the moment she walked in. People like Ivy are always broke eventually.

He slid the papers across the desk. "Sign it."

Her hands shook as she picked up the pen. She hesitated over the first line, reading the words even though she probably didn't see them through her tears.

"This is crazy," she whispered.

"Then don't sign."

But she did. Slowly. Carefully. The sound of the pen scratching the paper felt louder than anything else in the room at that time.

When it was done, she set the pen down and looked at him, eyes full of something between fear and disgust.

He took the contract, signed his own name beside hers, then closed the folder. "It's done."

She scrambled to her feet, like the air had just been sucked out of the room. "When do we—"

"Soon," he cut in. "My lawyer will handle the details. For now, go home. Say goodbye to the life you had."