IN BLOOM

CHAPTER FIVE

Terms and conditions

Daniel's pov

The contract is twelve pages long. Clean. Direct. Legally binding. It’s written the way I run my life—structured, airtight, emotionless.

I place it in the center of the white-linen table at Theo’s, a discreet restaurant tucked into a quieter stretch of Market Street where nobody bothers to ask for selfies or gossip.

The maître d’ knows me by name but doesn’t chatter. That’s the kind of place Theo’s is. Quiet. Private. Exactly the setting I need.

Because tonight isn’t a date.

It’s a negotiation.

And I can’t afford to lose control of it.

I order a bourbon. Neat. The server disappears. My eyes stay fixed on the door, and though I keep checking my watch, I already know—she won’t be late.

Leah Bennett doesn’t strike me as the kind of woman who shows up casually. She shows up with purpose, even if she isn’t sure what that purpose is yet.

Sure enough, she arrives five minutes early.

She hesitates at the door only briefly before she spots me. Then she walks over in boots that look just worn enough to make her feel real, her hands clutching the strap of a brown leather bag like it might give her stability.

She sits across from me slowly, warily, like she’s unsure whether to treat me as a stranger or something worse.

“I’m assuming that’s not a dinner menu,” she says, eyes flicking to the navy leather folder on the table.

“Not unless you like your meals notarized,” I reply.

No smile. Just a faint narrowing of her eyes, like she’s still deciding if I deserve the benefit of humor.

She orders wine. I don’t remember what kind. I’m too focused on the way her fingers lightly tap the side of her glass while we wait for the drinks to arrive.

Nervous energy. Or maybe restraint. I can’t tell which.

When the wine arrives, she takes one sip, then flips open the folder.

Her eyes scan the document in clean, practiced motions. I’ve seen lawyers do it. I’ve done it myself.

Page one. Page two. Terms, timeline, press strategy.

No comments.

No questions.

By page six, I speak. “I had my legal team draft it. It’s a placeholder. You’re free to suggest amendments.”

Still no smile. “You don’t waste time, do you?”

“Not if I can help it.”

A beat of silence. She closes the folder and leans back in her chair, hands clasped in her lap. Her posture shifts—less wary, more guarded.

Then she hits me with it: “Why me, Daniel?"

She asks it like she deserves an answer that’s bigger than convenience. And maybe she does.

But I stick to the script.

“Because you’re not interested in romance,” I say. “Because you’re clear-eyed. Grounded. Because I need someone who won’t lose sight of the agreement when things get complicated.”

Her eyes narrow. “You think I’m incapable of falling in love with you?”

I blink. It wasn’t a challenge, but it lands like one.

“I think you’re capable of keeping your heart where it belongs,” I say quietly.

She tilts her head, studying me like I’m a painting she can’t quite decipher. “And you’re not worried about yours?”

“No.”

That’s a lie, but I’ve trained myself to lie convincingly.

She doesn’t believe me—but she doesn’t call me out on it either.

“Alright,” she says finally. “Let’s hear it. The Daniel Carter plan for love-free matrimony.”

I hand her a second printed copy of the contract. “One year of legal marriage. Public appearances as needed—galas, charity events, some weekends. A few staged interviews, maybe one magazine spread. Just enough to make it believable.”

“And what do I get?”

“Freedom. Financial security. Space to rebuild what you lost.”

She stiffens. “You don’t know what I lost.”

“You left a job for someone who left you at the altar,” I say carefully. “I know that much.”

She’s quiet for a long beat. When she finally speaks, her voice is calm. “And I suppose you’re offering me a dignified recovery.”

“No. I’m offering you a choice.”

Her lips press into a line. “You sound rehearsed.”

“I am.”

At least I’m honest about that.

Dinner arrives, but neither of us touches our food.

We pick at it like it’s props in a scene we both know is fake.

“So,” she says, cutting into the silence. “What happens after a year?”

“The contract ends. You walk away with a divorce settlement and no further obligation. No mess. No heartbreak.”

“You’re very sure of that.”

“I’m very good at planning exits.”

She raises an eyebrow. “I’ll bet.”

I take a sip of bourbon. “Look, I know how this sounds. But it’s not a trap. I’m not looking for someone to save. Or someone to save me. I need a solution. This is it.”

“And what exactly are you solving?”

I pause.

That’s the first personal question she’s asked all night.

I could deflect. I’ve done it a thousand times in boardrooms and interviews.

But I don’t.

“I’m being positioned for the next level of the family business,” I say. “Global expansion. Media visibility. Stakeholder scrutiny. And I need to appear grounded. Trustworthy. Stable.”

“You need a wife.”

“I need an image of a marriage.”

“And you think I’m the kind of woman who fits that image.”

“I think you’re strong enough not to let the image consume you.”

That catches her off guard.

I see it in the flicker of her lashes, the slight shift in her breathing.

She straightens. “So you’re saying I won’t fall in love with you. And you won’t fall in love with me. We both fake it in front of the cameras and walk away richer. Is that the pitch?”

“Yes.”

She leans forward, voice low. “What if it doesn’t stay fake?”

“It will.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because I don’t believe in the kind of love that sneaks in the back door.”

She goes still. “Someone must’ve taught you that.”

“My father.”

Silence stretches again.

She looks down at the contract, fingers tracing the edge of the paper.

“I have conditions,” she says, voice quiet but firm.

“I expected you would.”

“One: full transparency. You don’t keep secrets. You don’t lie to my face and pretend it’s part of the act.”

“Agreed.”

“Two: I keep my own place.”

“Done.”

“Three: If I decide to end it before the year is up, I do. No legal consequences.”

“I’ll include an exit clause with a six-week notice.”

She nods. “Good.”

Then, after a moment: “And four—no sleeping arrangements. No pretending in private. This isn’t a marriage. It’s a collaboration.”

My jaw tightens.

But I nod. “Fine.”

She studies me for a moment, eyes sharp. “You sound disappointed.”

“I’m not.”

Another lie.

But if she knows, she doesn’t say.

Instead, she stands, reaching for her coat. Her wine glass is still half full, her food untouched.

“I’ll think about it,” she says.

“And if you decide to say yes?”

“I’ll show up at your office with my own edits.”

“And if you don’t?”

“You’ll figure it out. You seem good at that.”

Then she turns, hair swinging across her shoulders, and walks away.

I sit there long after she’s gone, staring at her untouched wine glass.

A contract is just paper.

But this?

This feels like the start of something I can’t quantify.

And I don’t know if that terrifies me—

Or makes me want to chase it anyway.