All The Sides Of Mr. Grease

FOUR | SYLVIE

"Miss Scott, will you marry me?"

For a moment, I genuinely wondered if I'd finally snapped under the pressure. Maybe the investor meeting had broken something in my brain. Maybe the constant stress, the sleepless nights, and the looming possibility of losing my company had finally caught up with me. Because there was absolutely no way this ridiculously attractive billionaire standing in front of me had just proposed marriage.

I stared at Damian Grease. He stared back. Neither of us said anything for nearly a minute.

Then I laughed. Not a cute or charming laugh. The kind of laugh people made when they were one inconvenience away from a complete mental breakdown. "I'm sorry," I said. "What?"

Mr. Grease didn't look amused, or embarrassed, or even uncertain. If anything, he looked annoyed that I wasn't processing information fast enough. "I believe I was clear."

"Oh, you were clear." I nodded. "The problem isn't clarity. The problem is that you're crazy."

His expression didn't change. "I assure you, I'm not."

"That's exactly what a crazy person would say."

"Miss Scott—"

"No." I held up a hand. "Actually, before you continue, I need to make sure we're talking about the same thing."

He waited.

"When you said marry you..."

"Yes."

"You meant legally."

"Yes."

"With paperwork."

"Yes."

"An actual marriage."

"Yes."

I blinked. "Why?"

For the first time since this torturous conversation started, he seemed to realize he might need to provide more information than that. "It's a contractual arrangement."

I gave him a blank look. "That explains absolutely nothing."

His jaw tightened. "It would be temporary."

I shook my head slowly, contemplating. "Still explaining nothing."

"We would establish terms beforehand."

"Damian." I said curtly. His eyebrows lifted slightly at my use of his first name. I didn’t care much. "You skipped several important steps between 'hello' and 'let's get married.'"

He folded his hands behind his back, looking every bit the polished executive standing in his immaculate charcoal suit that probably cost more than my rent. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Impossibly composed. His brown hair was neatly styled, not a single strand out of place. His green eyes were frustratingly striking. Somehow every expensive, polished detail about him made him more irritating.

Because people who looked like Damian Grease weren't supposed to have bizarre conversations about contract marriages in corporate hallways. They were supposed to be on magazine covers– which he already was– or intimidating shareholders. Not proposing to complete strangers.

"I require a spouse for a limited period of time," he said.

I stared. "You somehow made that sound worse."

"It isn't intended to sound romantic."

"Oh, thank God. I was worried this was your version of flirting." I said sarcastically.

Something suspiciously close to exasperation crossed his face. "I am attempting to solve a problem."

"And your solution was marriage?"

"It solves multiple problems."

"That is a terrifying sentence."

He ignored me. "You need capital."

"I know that."

"I need someone intelligent, responsible, and capable of maintaining a public image."

I snorted a laugh. "Was that a compliment?"

"It was an assessment."

"Of course it was."

His gaze remained steady. "If we entered into a temporary arrangement, your company would receive the funding it requires."

I frowned. "Why me?"

That question seemed to catch him off guard. "Because your company is viable."

"That's not what I asked."

A brief silence followed. He glanced out towards the hallway. "You are also unlikely to become emotionally attached."

I stared at him and laughed. Then I laughed harder, so much I doubled over.

His expression darkened. "What's funny?"

I caught my breath. "You think I'm the emotionally unavailable one?"

"I think you're extremely practical."

"That's rich coming from a man who just proposed a merger disguised as a marriage."

For a second, I thought I saw the corner of his mouth twitch. The sight was so unexpected that it nearly distracted me.

"Start from the beginning," I said. "Explain this properly."

To my surprise, he did. He explained the inheritance. His grandfather's conditions. The ownership structure of Grease Holdings. The fact that becoming CEO required him to fulfill specific requirements, one of which was marriage. The more he talked, the more the pieces started fitting together. I hated to admit, but it was a financially foolproof plan, nothing romantic or irrational.

"So this isn't about wanting a wife."

"No."

"It's about wanting control of the company."

"Control I was already intended to have."

"And marriage unlocks it."

"Essentially."

I stared at him. "Your grandfather was weird."

Something suspiciously close to amusement flashed across his face. "That's one way of putting it."

I folded my arms. "So let me get this straight. You need a wife. I need funding."

He nodded. "Correct."

"We get married."

"For nine months."

"You get your inheritance."

"I become CEO."

"And I get an investment."

"Yes."

The simplicity of the arrangement somehow made it more ridiculous. I shook my head. "No."

His expression remained calm as he c****d a brow. "No?"

"No." The answer came easily. Far too easily. Because regardless of how desperate things were becoming, marrying a man I'd known for less than an hour seemed like an objectively terrible life decision.

To his credit, Damian didn't immediately launch into a sales pitch. He simply nodded. "As expected."

That annoyed me. "You expected me to reject you?"

"I expected you to be rational."

I narrowed my eyes. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"It's an observation."

Of course it was. Everything about him felt like an observation. A calculation. A conclusion reached after examining all available facts. Meanwhile, my life was currently held together with caffeine and optimism. The contrast was irritating.

"Well," I said, adjusting my bag on my shoulder, "good luck finding a wife."

"Thank you." I took a step away but then I paused. "Wait." He looked at me.

"How many women have you proposed this arrangement to?"

His expression remained unchanged. "Just one. You."

For some reason, that answer caught me off guard. Not because it mattered. It absolutely did not matter but I'd somehow assumed there was a list. A spreadsheet, maybe. A carefully organized selection process. The idea that he'd walked into that conference room, rejected my company, overheard one phone call, and decided I was the solution to his problem was somehow even stranger.

His mouth twitched slightly. "Goodbye, Miss Scott."

I rolled my eyes and turned toward the elevators. "You're insufferable."

He followed. "Frequently."

"That's not a compliment."

"I didn't assume it was."

The elevator doors opened and I stepped inside. Just before they closed, Damian reached forward. For one alarming second, I thought he was going to continue arguing. Instead, he held out his phone. "What are you doing?"

"Taking your number."

I scoffed. "No."

"The offer remains available."

"I already said no."

"I understand but give it a thought. You may change your mind."

"I won't."

His expression suggested he disagreed. Which was somehow even more annoying than if he'd argued. Before I could stop him, he took my phone from my hand with the confidence of a man entirely unused to being denied anything.

"Hey—"

A few taps later, he handed it back. His contact information sat neatly in my phone. Damian Grease.

I glared at him. He looked completely unbothered. "If rationality eventually fails you," he said, "you know how to reach me."

Then he turned and walked away. Just like that. No pressure. No further attempts to convince me. As though he genuinely believed I'd eventually call. Which was completely and utterly ridiculous.

I was back in Brooklyn by the evening. Trying with all my might to avoid thinking about marriage proposals or any kind of proposals. At least for the next few hours because I had a date. A date with Jon and I didn't want my debilitating financial crisis to ruin the night ahead.

Yes, I had called him that night and for the first time since college, I was foolishly excited to talk to a man. We’d talked nearly everyday since our encounter at the bar. Between then and now I'd learned three major things about Jon. He was an artist, he absolutely despised mangoes and every time he tried to make a playlist, he got distracted halfway through.

The moment I spotted him waiting outside the Bedford Avenue station, a smile appeared before I could stop it. He was in black corduroy pants and a matcha-green sweater that complimented his eyes.

His grin widened when he saw me. "There she is."

For some reason, the sight of him immediately made the tension in my shoulders ease. "Hi."

"Hi." The look he gave me lingered, warm and familiar despite how little time we'd actually known each other. And suddenly I was reminded exactly why I'd been excited to see him.

"You look lovely," he said, digging his hands into his pockets.

I laughed softly. "That's good because I changed outfits three times."

"Only three?"

"Don't mock my process."

"Nah, I'm impressed by your restraint."

I shook my head fondly.

His grin turned into a smirk. "Come on."

I glanced around. "Where are we going?"

He started walking. "It's a surprise."

I followed hesitantly. "That's usually how people end up in documentaries."

"Trust me."

Against my better judgment, I did. Ten minutes later, we were standing beside a tiny street food stall tucked beneath a mural-covered brick wall that stretched halfway down the block.

The smell alone was enough to make my stomach growl. I looked at him. "This is your big date plan?"

"You sound judgmental."

"I sound hungry."

"Good. That’s kinda the whole point."

Jon ordered enough food for what looked like six people and led me toward a nearby park where musicians and artists had gathered around the plaza. The entire place felt alive. Someone was playing saxophone near the fountain. A painter worked on a massive canvas propped against a bench. Kids danced to music spilling from a portable speaker. It was messy but unplanned and creative. Very Jon.

"This is one of my favorite places," he said.

I watched him greet three different people within thirty seconds. "You know everyone."

"I know interesting people."

"That's not the same thing?"

"No."

I laughed.

The evening unfolded naturally after that. We shared food from paper trays while he told me stories about disastrous gallery shows and the time he'd accidentally sold a painting he wasn't finished with.

"How does that happen?"

"Some guy offered me money."

"So your artistic integrity folded immediately?"

"More like my artistic ego, you know how it feels to be so good your unfinished work is sale worthy?" He frowned, “In hindsight, I think the dude just had weird taste.”

I laughed so hard I nearly choked. The sound seemed to please him because he was giving me that look like I was the most fascinating thing ever.