The Offer
1363 Words
Cassian didn’t waste time.
The moment he stepped out of that café, he said one word to the man waiting beside his car:
“Find her.”
It wasn’t a request. It wasn’t urgent, either. Just cold instruction—like ordering wine at dinner or cutting a deal with a client. The man, dressed in black with the discreet stiffness of someone used to getting things done quietly, gave a single nod and got to work. Within 24 hours, Cassian had everything.
Her name was Eden Carter. Twenty-four. Waitress. No parents. One older sister in another city, barely scraping by herself. Rent three months behind. No boyfriend. Not many friends. Her landlord had already issued a final warning.
Cassian skimmed the file, eyes sharp, expression blank. The girl had backbone, no doubt. But backbone didn’t pay rent. And desperation was a game he always won.
---
She didn’t expect him when he came.
It was nearly midnight. Eden was seated on the floor of her cramped apartment, surrounded by cardboard boxes—not because she was moving, but because she had to pretend she was. Her landlord had given her until the morning to leave. No extensions. No pity. No second chances.
She had twenty dollars in her wallet, an almost-dead phone, and nowhere to go.
So, when the knock came—sharp and deliberate—she braced for the landlord. She grabbed a hoodie, pulled it over her tank top, and yanked open the door.
It wasn’t her landlord.
It was him.
The man from the café.
That arrogant, emotionless, expensive-looking man who thought he owned the air around him.
Eden blinked.
He didn’t speak.
He didn’t ask if he could come in.
He stepped in.
Like he already owned the place.
His black coat moved with him like liquid night. Everything about him—his face, his scent, his presence—was intimidatingly precise.
Eden crossed her arms. “Wow. Look who showed up at the palace gates. Let me guess, you want me to sign an autograph for bruising your ego?”
Cassian didn’t smile.
Didn’t flinch.
He surveyed the room like he was appraising a property he didn’t want but might buy anyway.
“I have a proposal,” he said.
“You know, most guys ask for a number first.”
“I’m not most guys,” he replied flatly. “And this isn’t a date.”
She rolled her eyes. “Obviously. You look like you charge people for breathing near you.”
Still, her fingers twitched. Why was he here? And why now?
“I need a wife,” Cassian said.
Just like that. No buildup. No sugar-coating.
Eden’s jaw dropped slightly. “Excuse me?”
“I need a wife,” he repeated, bored already. “Temporary. Fake. A contract marriage.”
She stared at him, waiting for the punchline. “Is this some kind of weird kink thing? Because I don’t do sugar daddy cosplay.”
“I don’t joke,” he said simply.
“I noticed. Your entire personality is a tax form.”
He stepped closer. “Listen carefully. This is business. One year. No intimacy. No love. You follow basic rules, act the part in public, and in return, I’ll cover your debts. You’ll live in comfort. Money, protection, freedom—from everything but me.”
She blinked. “You want to own me?”
His eyes narrowed slightly, like she’d insulted his intelligence. “No. I want to use you. There’s a difference.”
Eden laughed. “Wow. You really are a cold bastard.”
He didn’t deny it. “Your landlord’s sending you out in the morning. You have nowhere to go. No backup plan. No job security. You’ll either be on the streets or someone else’s floor by sunrise. I’m giving you a way out.”
She hated that he was right.
God, she hated it.
“What’s in it for you?” she asked warily.
“I’m not marrying the woman my parents chose for me,” he said. “She’s gold-digging, entitled, and loud. I’d rather stab my own hand with a steak knife than let them control me.”
Eden stared. “And you thought I was the better option?”
“I don’t need love,” he said. “I need silence. Obedience. Someone who doesn’t ask questions and doesn’t touch what isn’t theirs.”
Eden arched a brow. “And you think I’m going to say yes to this creepy business proposal just because I’m broke?”
Cassian’s expression didn’t change. “I think you’ll say yes when you’re cold, hungry, and alone. Which—judging by your situation—will be very soon.”
Her chest tightened. She hated the way he said it. Like he’d already calculated the exact moment she’d break.
“You’re not even offering kindness,” she snapped. “No charm. No sweet-talking. Just pure, uncut manipulation.”
“I’m not selling a dream,” he said. “I’m offering survival.”
The silence between them stretched thin. Heavy. Then he reached into his coat, pulled out a card, and placed it on the table beside her.
“My assistant will be at this address tomorrow morning. If you show up, the contract will be waiting. If you don’t, the offer disappears.”
He turned to leave.
“Wait,” she called, voice laced with bitter amusement. “No little speech about how you’ll ‘change my life forever’ or ‘rescue me from this mess’? No villain monologue?”
He looked back once, face carved in stone. “I don’t rescue people.”
Then he was gone.
The door closed behind him, and Eden stood frozen, card in hand, surrounded by packed boxes and failure.
She looked down at the address. Her fingers tightened.
No love. No touching. Just obey.
It was the most dehumanizing thing she’d ever been offered.
But it was also the only option she had.
Eden's Pov:
The moment the door shut behind him, silence swallowed the room.
I didn’t move.
My fingers clenched the card he left behind, its edges biting into my skin like quiet mockery. My breath hitched—not because I was afraid of him, but because I was afraid of myself.
Afraid of what I was actually considering.
“What kind of psycho waltzes into someone’s house and offers a contract marriage like it’s a damn Uber ride?” I muttered into the empty room. My voice echoed off peeling walls and broken dreams.
I sank to the floor.
My knees hit harder than I expected, like my strength had quietly walked out with him.
You’ll either be on the streets or someone else’s floor by sunrise.
God, I hated how right he was. I hated that he knew. That he saw through me like I was glass. No mystery. No dignity. Just a girl trying not to drown while pretending she knew how to swim.
I looked around the apartment. Half-packed boxes. The flickering bulb above my head. The growing cold creeping in under the window frame like a slow, silent threat.
I wanted to scream. Or cry. Or just feel something besides this gnawing pit in my stomach.
Instead, I stared at the card.
White. Clean. Impossibly expensive. His name printed in crisp, cold letters like a brand.
Cassian Wolfe.
Even his name sounded like it never apologized for anything.
No love. No touching. Just obey.
It was humiliating.
Degrading.
Exactly what I swore I’d never let myself become—owned.
And yet…
The hunger in my gut wasn’t poetic. It was real. The cold wasn’t symbolic. It bit into my bones. And when the world doesn’t offer mercy, pride becomes a luxury I couldn’t afford anymore.
Survival doesn’t come with happy choices. Just necessary ones.
I clenched the card in my fist.
“If you want a fake wife, Cassian Wolfe,” I whispered, bitter and burning, “then you better be ready for the real me.”
Because if I was going to do this, I wouldn’t just survive—I’d make him regret every second he ever thought I’d be easy to control
- Writer
