The Rainy Encounter

Chapter Six

Evan

She's shaking. But she's not breaking.

Nahla Givenshi sits across from me, rain still dripping off her coat onto my $8,000 Italian rug. She doesn't apologize for it. She doesn't even look down. Her eyes are locked on mine like she's daring me to blink first.

The office is silent except for the rain hammering against the floor-to-ceiling windows behind me. Tiny headlights blur beneath the downpour like dying stars, but Nahla doesn't care about the view. Her focus never leaves me.

"Two conditions," she says, her voice steady and annoying as hell.

I lean back in my chair and let her talk, letting her think she has control for the next 60 seconds.

"First, my mother's treatment. I want proof it's paid. Not a promise, proof. Second, my sister's school fees. Two years, paid directly to her school, in her name in case anything happens to me."

Predictable, but the way she says it? Like she's giving me orders, not asking for help, like she's already decided I'll say yes. Not hopeful, certain, there's a difference.

"Done," I say. "Anything else?"

Her jaw tightens and I catch the flicker of surprise she tries to hide. She expected me to drag this out, I don't.

Dragging things out wastes time, and time is the only thing nobody in this city can buy back.

"Now mine."

Here it comes, the real price.

I slide the contract toward her slowly, watching her eyes move over the pages. She reads every line carefully. Smart.

Most people don't.

"If we're married for one year, there's a chance of an heir," I say flatly. No sugar, no warning. "If that happens, the child belongs to the Vendel family. You sign over full custody at birth. It's in clause 14."

For half a second, the mask slips, rage.

She doesn't yell, she doesn't throw the pen. She just stares at me like I've told her the sky is red.

"You can't be serious," she says. Her voice is low now. "You want to rent my womb for a year and then take the kid?"

"I want to secure a successor," I correct. "This marriage is for the company, for the board, for stability. An heir provides that."

The words sound colder out loud, but I don't take them back.

She leans forward, and the power in the room shifts. It's subtle, but I feel it like the air gets thinner.

"You think you can buy my body for a year and take whatever comes out of it? You're horrible, Evan."

She used my first name. Nobody except my parents uses my first name, ever.

"I'm practical," I say. "There's a difference."

"Practical?" She laughs, but there's no humor in it. It's sharp. "No. You're just used to people saying yes because they're scared of you. I'm not though, I'm just desperate. There's a difference," She says, emphasizing on the "there's a difference" almost mocking me.

Damn.

She's right, and I hate that she knows it.

Most people in this building fear me before I even speak. Employees straighten when I walk past them, executives rehearse conversations before entering my office, investors smile too quickly, and talk too carefully.

Nahla does none of that.

She looks at me like she sees exactly what I am underneath the tailored suits and billion-dollar company and somehow that's worse.

She looks down at the contract, at clause 14, and I see her fingers tremble from restraint. She wants to rip it in half but she won't because her mother is dying and her sister's education is important and I'm the only one who can move money fast enough to matter.

The silence stretches between us, rain pounds harder against the glass and then finally, she picks up the pen.

Her hand shakes, but her eyes don't drop.

"If I sign this, you keep your word. No tricks, no delays. And if you break it, I'll make sure the whole world knows what kind of man you are."

She's threatening me, in my office, with my own contract.

I should shut her down, remind her who owns this building, remind her how easy it would be to ruin someone like her.

Instead, I say, "You have my word."

"I don't break contracts. That's how people like Marcus get leverage." I unconsciously mutter to myself.

Her eyebrows lifts slightly at his name even though I barely say it aloud.

Interesting.

Maybe she's heard of him, maybe everybody has.

Marcus Vendel, my cousin and my biggest shareholder problem. The man currently waiting for one mistake big enough to drag me out of my position and replace me with himself.

He smiles too much, talks too softly. He's the kind of man who poisons people slowly and calls it strategy.

Nahla sighs, hard. So hard the pen nearly tears through the paper, like she's signing his death warrant, not mine.

"Congratulations, Mrs. Vendel," I say.

"Don't call me that," she snaps immediately. "And don't think this means you own me. You bought a year, Evan, Not me, not my sister, not my mother."

Something in her voice almost sounds offended by the idea, like ownership disgusts her.

Good.

Fear I understand. Anger I understand. But people without fear make dangerous enemies.

She stands before I can reply, legs unsteady but spine straight. Like she's afraid if she sits down again she'll never get up.

Her wet coat hangs heavy around her shoulders. Her curls are still damp from the storm outside. She looks exhausted

but not weak, never weak.

"And if I get pregnant?" she asks over her shoulder.

There's something different in her voice now. Quieter, not emotional, just... Careful.

"Then we follow the contract," I say.

She pauses at the door, hand on the frame. For a second I think she's going to say something else,Something personal. But then...

"We'll see who follows what," she says.

Then she walks out, and the door clicks shut behind her.

The room feels too quiet after.

I don't move for a full minute. I just look at the signature.

Nahla Givenshi.

Slanted, aggressive, real. Not one of the forged ones my legal team gets weekly.

I tap the paper once with my finger, staring at the ink.

She thinks she's trapped.

She's not wrong.

But she doesn't know that I'm trapped too.

The board wants stability, investors want an heir, Marcus wants my seat, my father wants control, and now I have exactly one year to make this arrangement look real enough to survive scrutiny.

I stand and walk toward the window overlooking the city.

Rain slides down the glass in crooked lines.

Far below, traffic crawls through flooded streets while people run under umbrellas too small to matter. Everyone rushing somewhere. My reflection stares back at me in the darkened glass. Cold eyes, black suit, Controlled expression.

A man built entirely out of pressure and bad decisions.

Two days later...

My phone buzzes during a board call. I don't usually check it,

The boardroom drones on around me, executives arguing over quarterly projections and expansion timelines while a presentation glows across the massive screen behind them.

But the number isn't in the system.

Unknown, photo attached so I open it and I pause.

It's Nahla.

Rain-soaked, head down, leaving my penthouse at 11:58pm.

Her face is clear, my building's security cam timestamp sits in the corner. Someone had access to internal footage.

My grip tightens slightly around the phone.

The text below it is simple, smug, and I can immediately guess who it's from.

"Congrats on the new wife, Evan. Hope the board loves the heir clause. See you Friday. Don't be late."

Across the table, one of the directors keeps talking about stock movement, completely unaware that someone just declared war in the middle of his sentence.

I set the phone down face-down and finish the call like nothing happened.

My voice doesn't change. My pulse doesn't spike.

Years ago, my father taught me one useful thing:

Never let people watch you bleed.

Marcus. He's been watching.

And he thinks he has leverage.

The second the meeting ends, chairs scrape back across marble floors and executives start gathering their files. I stay seated until the room empties.

Then I call Thomas.

He answers before the first ring finishes.

"Sir."

"Marcus is moving," I say. "I want to know what he has, who he's shown, and how fast we can bury it. And find out who gave him access to level 4 security feeds."

Thomas doesn't ask questions. He never does.

"Understood, sir. I'll have a report by tonight."

The line disconnects.

No panic, no weakness.

Marcus wants a reaction.

He won't get one.

Giving him one is how you lose.

I walk back to the window and look down at the city again.

Still raining. It's always raining lately.

My phone screen lights up one more time beside me, Nahla's photo still open. She has no idea what she just walked into.

And honestly?

Neither do I.