Married to My Ex’s Boss

The first man to ever break my heart was my fiancé. The second was sitting across from me now—wearing a suit worth more than my rent and staring at me like I was a courtroom nuisance. He wasn’t here for love. Neither was I. So why did it suddenly feel like war? “ I told them not to set me up,” I muttered under my breath as I adjusted the neckline of my red dress for the fifth time. “One blind date and I swear I’ll start faking my own death.” My mother had called it “an opportunity to start fresh.” I called it hell in heels. But nothing—and I mean nothing—prepared me for the man who walked in. He didn’t glance around. He didn’t smile. He just moved, sharp and commanding, like a man who was used to walking into rooms and owning them. And when his cold, steel-grey eyes landed on me, I nearly choked on my wine. Adrian Blackwood. High-powered corporate lawyer. Known for destroying rivals in court. Rumored to have ice in his veins and a bank account that could buy the country. Oh—and my ex-fiancé’s boss. “What the hell are you doing here?” I blurted, louder than I should have. He raised a brow. “Apparently suffering through this as much as you are.” “You’re my date?” He sat across from me without asking. “Forced date. I owe my godmother a favor.” So did I. My mother. God bless arranged disasters. A tense silence followed, broken only by the clinking of cutlery from nearby tables and the jazz music no one cared about. He studied me like a file he was preparing to shred. “Let me guess. You’re the girl he cheated on.” My jaw clenched. “You’re not exactly Mr. Sunshine either.” He smirked. Just a flicker—but it was the kind of smirk that could melt glaciers or ruin lives. Then he leaned forward. “How about we make a deal?” I blinked. “Excuse me?” “You hate being here. I hate being here. But the press is watching—” he tilted his head toward the back where someone not-so-subtly snapped a photo— “and I have a reputation to manage.” “And I have a mother who’ll kill me if I walk out on this.” He nodded, as if confirming a thought. “Let’s pretend this is going well. We date. Publicly. Keep appearances. No feelings. No expectations. Just... a mutually beneficial lie.” I stared. “Are you actually serious?” His gaze darkened. “I don’t joke, Miss Evans.” “Amara,” I corrected, before I could stop myself. “Amara,” he repeated slowly, like tasting a foreign word. “So, what do you say, Amara?” I should’ve walked away. But I was tired of crying. Tired of being pitied. Tired of my ex’s smug smile every time he showed up with my stepsister on his arm. So I lifted my glass, clinked it against his, and smiled. “Deal.” I didn’t know it yet, but I’d just signed the most dangerous contract of my life. And the man sitting across from me? He didn’t want love. He wanted ownership.