Chapter2
1287 Words
Shadows and Clauses
(Dorian POV)
The boardroom windows stretched from floor to ceiling, offering a clean, uninterrupted view of Midtown Manhattan. The sky was a stormy gray, and Dorian Vale preferred it that way. Sunny days make people very comfortable. Gray skies? They made people efficient.
He watched the storm roll in as the board chatter filled the room behind him. Words like legacy, investor confidence, and public image glide across the long glass table like smoke. No one dared raise their voice above a calculated murmur not in front of him.
Dorian turned from the window only when his name was spoken.
Mr. Vale, said Penelope Merritt, the firm’s legal counsel. She tapped a thick document twice. We have finished reviewing your father’s amended will. There is ….. A clause that affects your status as majority shareholder.
He raised a brow. I am already aware of the stipulation.
That silenced the room.
Penelope blinked. You… are?
Dorian clasped his hands together, calm and unreadable. My father made sure of it before he died. A final game.
He did not flinch as a few of the board members exchanged looks. Some smirked, others stiffened.
A clause that required him to marry.
He could still hear his father’s voice in his head from that final hospital visit. Control is a lonely thing, Dorian. You have built empires. But you have never built a life. My company, our name, deserves more than a cold legacy.
Unless I marry before my 34th birthday, Dorian said evenly, I will lose voting rights to my shares. That would give majority control to the board effectively.
Someone coughed. Another whispered.
Are you turning thirty-four…? Asked Langston, one of the older board members with a penchant for fake smiles and empty charity events.
Dorian looked at his Rolex. In six months and nineteen days.
Langston leaned back with exaggerated ease. That is plenty of time. Love can be quite… spontaneous.
Dorian did not react. Love was irrelevant. This was not about emotion. It was about control. And he had no intention of losing it to a group of vultures who would happily gut the company in exchange for media praise and inflated stock.
He would marry.
Just not for love.
Later, in his office high above the city, Dorian reviewed the shortlist Marcus had compiled.
Three potential candidates, his assistant said, placing a file on the desk. All signed NDAs. All discreet. Models, of course. Beautiful. Backgrounds checked. Eager to please.
Dorian did not look up from his laptop. Strike them all.
Marcus blinked. Sir?
They are too close to my world. Too hungry. Too easily influenced.
Then… who are we looking for?
Someone outside this circle, Dorian said. Someone with nothing to gain and everything to lose.
Marcus frowned slightly. That sounds like someone who might say no.
"Exactly," Dorian replied.
He wanted someone clean. Untouched by corporate greed. Someone who would not try to blackmail him in six months, or leak a diary titled Married to a Billionaire: The Truth About Dorian Vale.
He needed someone like…
He paused, opened a browser tab, and pulled up a headline from earlier that week.
Community Arts Center Faces Closure Amidst Fraud Allegations Founder Leona Hart Speaks Out.
Her photo accompanied the article. Brown skin is grown under poor lighting. Wild curls pulled into a low bun. Defiant jaw. Fire in her eyes.
She did not beg for sympathy.
She fought back.
Dorian narrowed his eyes, reading every detail of her grant history, the center’s timeline, and the location. He cross-referenced property developers involved in the smear campaign. As expected, one of them was tied to Langston.
Interesting.
He pulled up security footage from a charity event she had attended last year, just as part of background checking for potential donors. There she was storming out after confronting a donor about redirecting funds. Unapologetic. Blazing.
She would hate him.
Perfect.
You want to marry her? Marcus asked flatly, reading the name Dorian scrawled on the legal pad.
She needs money. I need a wife.
She is not a model or a socialite. She runs a community center. You do not even know her.
Which is why she is perfect. No agenda. No connections to this world.
Except now, she is connected to you.
Dorian smiled faintly. Not yet.
Marcus looked unconvinced. What exactly are you offering?
A contract marriage. One year. Clean break. Full discretion. Financial compensation. He closed his laptop and looked up. Draft the terms. Make it generous. But firm.
Marcus hesitated again. And if she says no?
She won't
You sound confident.
"She is losing everything," Dorian said coolly. People make desperate choices when pushed far enough.
At exactly 9:59 a.m. the next morning, the elevator pinged.
Dorian stood by the wide windows of his office, hands in his pockets, gaze set on the skyline. He did not turn when the door opened.
Mr. Vale? Marcus’s voice came over the intercom.
Yes?
She is here.
He inhaled once, slow and measured.
Showtime.
He turned as the door opened.
Leona Hart stepped in, dressed simply in black jeans, a blazer, curls pulled back, no makeup except a s***h of dark lipstick that made her look sharper than any of the women who had walked these halls before.
She stopped two feet inside the room.
Dorian nodded once. Miss Hart.
She did not smile. You have five minutes.
He admired her nerve. You will need ten.
She crossed her arms. Then talk fast.
He took a step toward her, assessing every line of tension in her body. She was defensive. Angry. But underneath that, he saw something else.
Fear.
She was holding herself together with willpower and stubborn pride.
"You are here because your center is dying," he said simply.
Her jaw tightened.
And I am offering you a solution.
She took a step forward. If this is about a donation, make it clear. If it is a pitch, I have heard better. If it is an apology to your board for sabotaging my work,
It is not, he interrupted.
She narrowed her eyes.
It is a proposal.
A pause.
"Excuse me?" she said slowly.
Dorian reached into his desk drawer, pulled out a folder, and placed it on the table between them.
Leona did not move.
"This is a marriage contract," he said.
She blinked once. A what?
Legal Binding, One year. You pretend to be my wife. In exchange, I will fund your art center for the next five years with no strings attached after the contract ends.
Silence.
"You are joking," she said finally.
He saw her eyes, cool and steady. Do I look like I am joking?
Leona took a step back, hands balling into fists.
You dragged me up here for this?
Yes.
And you think I am so desperate I would marry you for a check?
"I think you are pragmatic," he said. And fiercely protective of your cause. You do what you have to.
You are out of your mind.
Possibly, he admitted. But I am also offering you the one thing you do not have right now: time.
Leona’s breath caught in her throat. Not because she was tempted never that. But because the bastard was right. And he knew it.
She turned sharply, heading for the door.
"You will come back," Dorian said, her voice soft but cutting.
She froze. Don’t bet on it.
He watched her go, the echo of her boots loud against the marble.
Only when the door shut did Marcus appear from the corner office.
Well?
"She will return," Dorian said again.
Are you sure?
Dorian turned back to the skyline.
She is the only one who will call my bluff.
- Writer
