Chapter 3
1097 Words
Terms and Conditions
(Leona POV)
For the first time in years, Leona Hart was walking into a meeting she was not entirely sure that she could control.
The elevator doors slid open on the top floor of Vale Tower, and everything inside her rebelled at being back. The air smelled like power, sterile, expensive, untouchable. She was dressed the same as the last time: black slacks, boots, a no-nonsense blazer. But today, she wore her bravery like armor.
Dorian Vale had offered her a contract marriage.
And after two sleepless nights, six deep-dive Google searches, and one absolutely unhinged voice note rant to Jazz, she was back.
Not to accept.
To negotiate.
Marcus, his robotically perfect assistant, gave her a polite nod as she stepped out. He is expecting you, Miss Hart.
"I am sure he is," she replied dryly, brushing past him.
Dorian was standing by the same floor to ceiling windows, hands in his pockets, the skyline behind him like a digital painting. He turned as she approached, his expression unreadable.
"You are back," he said, as if they had scheduled a brunch.
Do not sound so smug. I come to tell you that your offer is offensive, manipulative, and completely unethical.
His mouth twitched almost like a smile, almost a challenge. But you did not say no.
Leona tossed a thick manila folder onto his desk. Those are my terms.
Dorian did not move. You rewrote my contract?
No, she said. I wrote a better one.
Finally, he reached for the folder, flipping it open. His brow lifted as he scanned the pages.
I see you brought a lawyer.
Two, actually. One of them used to sue people like you for a living.
And yet, here you are.
She ignored the jab. Let’s be clear. I am not marrying you to save myself. I am doing this to save the kids I serve. You want a puppet? Pick someone else. I am not yours to control.
Dorian flipped to page two, eyes narrowing slightly. A five-year funding guarantee. Public anonymity clause. Veto power over all press releases. And… no intimacy clause?
"I do not sleep with people I do not trust," she said flatly.
He looked up. I never asked you to.
Good. Then we would not have a problem.
Dorian closed the folder, leaning back against his desk. Most people would have taken the money and stayed quiet.
I am not most people.
That, he said, is exactly why I chose you.
Leona swallowed the weird twist in her stomach. Compliments from him felt like knives wrapped in velvet unexpectedly and vaguely dangerous.
"I am not flattered," she muttered.
I did not mean it as flattery. It’s a warning.
To what? Behave?
"To be careful," he said softly, when you play with wolves.
Leona crossed her arms. If you think I am scared easily, you have miscalculated.
He tilted his head, studying her like a problem he could not quite solve.
"You really will not sleep with me"? He asked, not lewdly, more like he was filing it away as a data point.
I would rather kiss a cactus.
His mouth twitched again. How refreshingly vivid.
She stepped closer. If I sign this, I want your word that you will uphold everything. Any breach and I walk with your signature on a donation check that has already been written.
He hesitated just a second.
That was her first win.
"I will review the edits," he said finally.
"No," she replied. You will agree with them. Or I walk and I do not come back.
For the first time, Dorian Vale looked genuinely intrigued. Not just by the deal but by her.
And that, more than anything, made her nervous.
They signed the final agreement two days later.
The wedding would be civil, quiet, and private just the two of them, a lawyer, and a camera for legal record. No guests. No press. No rings.
Leona did not wear white. She wore navy.
He wore black.
The entire ceremony lasted less than twelve minutes.
When the officiant pronounced them husband and wife, neither of them smiled. They nodded once, exchanged a handshake, and signed the certificate.
"You are now legally bound," the officiant said, trying to sound cheerful.
Leona raised her brows. Thrilling.
Dorian did not blink. We will take copies.
That night, she moved into his penthouse.
The place looked like it had never been lived in, with sharp lines, steel fixtures, and cold surfaces. No art. No warmth. It felt more like a luxury prison than a home.
She was given the guest wing. An entire suite bigger than her apartment.
Dorian, apparently, preferred to work late and dine alone. Which suited her fine. The fewer interactions, the better.
She unpacked quickly, stuffing her things into the cavernous closet without caring where they landed. Her laptop went on the desk, her sketchpad on the nightstand, and the photo of her and Jazz from the early days of the center took center stage on the dresser.
She stood in the middle of the room for a long time after that.
Married.
Technically.
To him.
The first media appearance came a week later.
It was a charity event for youth tech programs, hosted by one of Vale Global’s pet projects. Dorian’s name was everywhere, his face on the screens, but what shocked Leona was how perfectly he played the part.
In public, he was charming in a distant, disarming way. He nodded to donors, shook hands, and introduced her to his wife with a cool, practiced ease.
People stared. Whispered.
Someone called her refreshingly real. Another said she was a bold choice. "One woman asked her, not quietly," Where’s your ring? You are married, right?
Leona smiled sweetly. We prefer to invest in people, not diamonds.
That shut her up.
Dorian overheard and leaned in. Well played.
She side-eyed him. Don’t make me do this again anytime soon.
But he only smirked. You will get used to it.
And the worst part?
She might.
Two weeks into their arrangement, Leona returned home to find a sealed envelope waiting in her suite. No note. No instructions.
She opened it.
Inside was a background file. Property deeds. Names. Accounts.
It was a dossier.
Of the man responsible for the smear campaign that almost shut her center down.
Dorian had tracked him.
And then, in the red pen at the bottom of the last page, a note in Dorian’s handwriting:
Do what you want with it. He’s yours now.
Leona’s hands trembled.
Not with fear.
With power.
- Writer
