IN BLOOM

CHAPTER THREE

Calculated risks

Daniel's pov

Most people think silence is a void.

I find it clarifying.

After Leah leaves the restaurant, I sit for a while. Watching the ice melt in my untouched drink. Listening to the faint hum of string music. Thinking.

Not about her answer.

But about the look in her eyes—part fury, part curiosity. I’d expected resistance. I hadn’t expected... consideration.

She didn’t throw water in my face. She didn’t laugh and storm out. She listened. Asked questions.

That was promising.

But this-this whole idea-it wasn’t supposed to feel like a risk.

I walk the few blocks back to my car, hands in my coat pockets, wondering when exactly I started entertaining emotion as a variable. That wasn’t part of the deal.

This is about control. Strategy. Image.

Not her.

And yet—

When she stared me down with those sharp, skeptical eyes and asked why her—I didn’t have the answer I thought I would.

I could’ve listed the practical reasons: she’s independent, unattached, emotionally unavailable in the most comforting way.

But none of that explains why I remembered the floral scent of her skin days after meeting her.

None of that explains why I noticed the tremble in her voice when she said her ex left her at the altar—and didn’t push her to explain.

None of it explains why I waited, for three days, longer than I needed to, before sending the email.

And why I almost didn’t send it at all.

I don’t like unpredictability.

That’s how I built my business—by forecasting markets better than anyone else. By staying ahead of shifts. Avoiding chaos.

And right now, my life is a well-oiled portfolio of purpose.

Until my grandfather decided that public perception mattered more than spreadsheets.

“You’re a good man, Daniel,” he told me a month ago. “But people don’t invest in logic. They invest in legacy. In family. In belief.”

As if marrying someone for optics is the foundation of belief.

He has no idea how ironic this all is.

Still, the merger is everything. And my name means something—to banks, to partners, to the Carter legacy.

So yes, I need this.

But I also need someone who won’t let it ruin them.

And Leah—Leah Amari isn’t fragile. She’s angry. Sharp. Wounded, but not broken.

She’s the only one who didn’t look at me like a Carter. She looked at me like a man she didn’t quite trust.

That matters more than I expected.

I get into my car, but I don’t start it.

I sit in the dark, staring at the steering wheel, hearing my own words again in my head:

“Marry me.”

God, I must sound insane.

But the logic holds.

She gets financial stability. A fresh start. A way out of whatever hole she’s been clawing her way through.

I get credibility. A convenient answer to every investor who wants to peek behind the curtain.

No messy feelings. No entanglements.

Just a year.

And then—

Freedom. For both of us.

Assuming she says yes.

The silence in the car starts to feel heavier the longer I sit with it. Not oppressive—but charged. Like something is about to change.

I’ve made a dozen multi-million-dollar decisions with less hesitation.

But this isn’t about dollars. Not really.

It’s about perception.

And control.

Two things I usually excel at.

Except now… I’ve introduced a variable I can’t predict.

Leah Amari.

She’s not the kind of woman who says yes to something like this without tearing it apart first. She won’t agree because it’s logical or convenient. She’ll need a reason that fits inside the bruised space her ex-fiancé left behind.

And I can’t decide if I want to give her one.

Because once I do—once she says yes—this whole thing becomes real.

The act. The headlines. The expectations.

Her.

I’m not afraid of marriage. I’m afraid of distraction. Of mess. Of the kind of feelings that make otherwise brilliant men forget their bottom line.

I’m not my father.

I remind myself of that more than I should.

I don’t love recklessly. I don’t commit foolishly.

Which is why this deal makes sense.

One year. A contract. No delusions.

But then there’s her face in my mind again. Not when she was angry. Not even when she was skeptical.

That moment between both—when she looked at me like she didn’t know whether to run or stay seated. Like part of her had already started saying yes before her mind caught up.

It wasn’t romantic.

It was human.

It was dangerous.

---

I finally turn the key in the ignition and let the engine roar back to life.

A storm is building over the skyline. The clouds rolling low like they know something I don’t.

I tighten my hands on the wheel.

She hasn’t said yes. Not yet.

But if she does...

God help me—

I might not be as detached as I think.