Married to My Ex’s Boss

The Blind Date from Hell

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.