SHADOWS IN HIS ARMS

The Proposal

HARTLEY'S POV

The lobby of Blackwood International wasn’t just an office—it was a cathedral. A temple of steel, glass, and intimidation. The kind of place where even the air seemed to come with a price tag.

I’d seen photos of skyscrapers in Midtown, but standing here in person felt different. The building was tall, dark, gleaming, like someone had pulled it out of a billionaire’s fever dream. The marble floors shone so brightly I could see my reflection, pale and anxious, distorted by the polish.

I clutched my purse so tightly my knuckles turned white. It was ridiculous—I looked like a tourist who’d stumbled into the wrong world. All around me, people glided past in tailored suits and polished shoes, their confidence radiating like armor. I stood among them tugging at the sleeves of my jacket, trying to fake belonging.

I didn’t.

Every instinct screamed I shouldn’t be here.

But then I saw Leo’s face in my mind—the way his skin had gone too pale against hospital sheets, the fragility in his smile as though even that small effort hurt him. The way his hand had gripped mine when the nurse adjusted his IV.

That was why I was here.

So I kept my chin lifted, even though my stomach rolled with nerves, and forced myself to stay still beneath the gaze of a security guard who looked like he spent his weekends breaking kneecaps for MI6.

The receptionist, a woman so perfectly put together she might as well have been sculpted out of ice, looked up from her sleek headset. Blonde hair pulled into a chignon so tight it had to hurt. Cheekbones sharp enough to cut diamonds.

“Miss Sinclair to the executive floor,” she said crisply.

A low beep followed. Behind her, an elevator opened in perfect silence.

“Mr. Westcott is expecting you.” Her smile was thinner than a razor blade, her tone holding something between pity and disdain.

Of course he was expecting me.

—------

The Executive Office of the 54th floor felt like another world. As the elevator doors slid open, I stepped into silence so thick it pressed against my ears. The kind of silence where even the furniture seemed to be holding its breath.

The space looked more like a penthouse than an office. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed Manhattan’s skyline, all glittering glass and ambition. Every piece of furniture was sleek, expensive, curated—not a single wasted object. Even the air smelled deliberate: cedar, espresso, cold ambition.

And there he was.

Declan Westcott stood with his back to me, the morning sun outlining his frame like he belonged in the city’s skyline itself. One hand held a porcelain espresso cup; the other rested casually in his pocket. He didn’t turn until he wanted to.

“I was wondering if you’d come,” he said, finally glancing over his shoulder.

My voice came out tighter than I intended. “I didn’t have a choice.”

His mouth curved, but not into a smile. “Everyone has a choice. But desperation tends to erase the better ones.”

I froze when he picked up a sleek pen, clicked it shut, and spoke the words that made my stomach plummet.

“Your brother’s hospital bill is nearing ninety-two thousand dollars.”

I blinked, heart hammering. “You… looked me up?”

“I ran a basic background check,” he said smoothly, as though it were nothing. “You gave me your name. What did you expect—flowers?”

I stared at him. “I expected you to be a jerk, but this is impressive even for me.”

“Flattery won’t get you far.” His gaze sharpened.

“You said something about a job.”

I clung to the one thing I’d come for. “Yes. I—”

“Not a job,” he interrupted, gesturing toward the leather chair across from him. “A deal.”

I didn’t sit. “I’m not doing… that again,” I muttered, heat creeping into my cheeks.

His smirk returned, cutting and cruel. “Don’t flatter yourself. This is business.”

Declan leaned forward, fingers steepled, the predator scenting his prey. “Let’s not waste time. I can pay off your brother’s medical expenses. Get him the best treatment available. You want to save your brother? I need a wife.”

My brain short-circuited. “I’m sorry, what now?”

“A contract marriage,” he said, unblinking. “Twelve months. You play the part of my loving wife in public. In private, we stay out of each other’s way.”

“You need—what? A real wife? With rings and vows and matching pajamas?”

“I don’t care about pajamas.”

I gaped. “Why would you need a fake wife?”

His eyes locked on mine, unflinching. “My inheritance is locked behind a marital clause. My board is circling for a hostile takeover. I need stability—on paper, at least.”

I shook my head. “Okay, first of all, that’s the most sociopathic sentence I’ve ever heard. Secondly, surely there are hundreds of women who’d do this in a heartbeat.”

“They’d fall in love,” he said flatly. “Cause drama. Complicate things. I need someone convincing. Someone who won’t fall in love with me, won’t embarrass me, and won’t try to poison my drink. You, Hartley, strike me as someone who wants nothing from me but money.”

I shoved my chair back and stood. “This is insane.”

“One year,” he pressed, his voice like steel. “You’ll live here. Travel with me. Attend galas. Pretend to be mine. In exchange, your brother’s hospital bills are covered. And at the end, you walk away with five hundred thousand dollars. Clean. No strings.”

My heart thudded so loudly I could barely hear him. “And if I refuse?”

His tone was casual, almost bored. “Then your brother dies. And you go back to your little cubicle, pretending you still have options.”

Tears burned at the back of my throat. “You’re a monster.”

“Maybe,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “But I’m the monster with the cure.”

My legs gave out, and I sank back into the seat, trembling.

“I’ll need legal protection,” I whispered. “No touching. No… expectations.”

Without hesitation, he slid a thick folder across the desk. “Already drafted. My legal team will give you a copy to review.”

I opened it with shaking hands. The first page was as clear as a guillotine blade.

**Clause One: $500,000, Tax-free. Upon divorce after one year.**

Declan’s voice was a warning. “If you break the contract, you pay everything back. With interest.”

The words blurred together as I flipped through: Leo’s name, a wire transfer, a nondisclosure agreement.

“How do I know you’ll keep your word?” My voice cracked.

He leaned closer, gaze unyielding. “Because I don’t lie, Hartley. I manipulate, threaten, ruin—but I don’t lie.”

A pen sat between us.

One stroke of ink could save Leo. One stroke could destroy me.

My hand shook violently as I signed.

Declan leaned back, satisfied. “Congratulations, Mrs. Westcott. The performance begins now.”

Panic spiked through me. “Now?”

He stood, smooth and calm. “You have four hours to move into my penthouse. My driver is waiting.”

“Don’t I get to tell my brother?”

“You can tell him you’re marrying someone,” he said coldly. “But not who. And not why.”

My knees went weak, the folder sliding from my grip. But then came the final blow. Declan’s voice, tossed over his shoulder as he walked toward the elevator.

“Oh. And if you think you can back out, I suggest you read clause sixteen.”

My trembling fingers flipped through the contract. And then I saw it.

**Clause 16: Full custodial rights over Leo Sinclair will be transferred to Blackwood Holdings in the event of contract breach.**

My vision blurred.

He didn’t just own me now. He owned my brother too.

---

By the time I made it back to the lobby, my whole body was shaking. Not from fear. From fury.

I clutched the folder like it was a death sentence, my tears blurring the pristine marble floors beneath my feet.

And then my phone rang.

“Hello?” My voice cracked.

“Leo?” It was my brother's voice weak, small, but with that hopeful edge he always tried to give me. “They said you’re coming by later?”

I swallowed hard, pressing the phone to my ear like it could anchor me.

“Yes, Leo,” I whispered. “I’ll

be there.”

I already knew what I had to do.

I hated Declan Westcott. Hated him with every breath.

But I needed him.

And that made me hate myself more.