Cold cash

Chapter Three

I told him nothing.

That was the plan, anyway. Sit in the dark, count the seconds, and keep my mouth shut about everything that mattered. My past. My debts. The reason I was delivering envelopes for a company that barely paid minimum wage when I had a degree hanging on my mother's wall.

But Adrian Wolfe didn't seem like the kind of man who accepted silence as an answer.

"Running from debt," he said. Not a question.

I didn't react. Didn't blink. Didn't give him the satisfaction.

"The boots," he continued. "The pepper spray. The way you checked the elevator corners before you stepped in. You're not scared of heights. You're scared of being followed."

"That's a lot of assumptions from a man who doesn't know my last name."

"Cole," he said.

My blood went cold.

"Ivy Cole. Twenty-six. Graduated from City College two years ago with a degree in marketing. Currently employed at Rapid Courier Services for eleven dollars an hour. You live in a studio apartment on Bleaker Street with a cat named—"

"Stop."

"—Pickles," he finished. "You named your cat Pickles."

The phone light illuminated his smirk. He'd enjoyed that. The research. The reveal. The way my face probably looked like someone had dumped ice water down my spine.

"How," I whispered.

"I own the building you delivered to. I also own the building where you live. The courier company you work for handles my contracts. You think I don't run background checks on everyone who steps into my office?"

"That's insane."

"That's business."

I stood up. My legs worked now—fueled by anger instead of fear. "You don't get to know those things about me. You don't get to say my cat's name like it's a punchline."

"Sit down, Ivy."

"No."

The elevator lurched.

Not a big lurch. A small one. The kind that said the generator is trying. The lights flickered once, twice, and then stayed off.

But in that half-second of light, I saw his face.

He wasn't smirking anymore.

He looked almost… human.

"Please," he said.

And that word—please—from a man who probably hadn't said it in years—made me sit back down.

---

"I'm not running from debt," I said quietly.

"Then what?"

"My mother."

The phone light flickered. Low battery. We had maybe ten minutes left before we were in complete darkness.

"She's sick," I continued. "Really sick. The kind of sick where the bills pile up faster than the hope. I took the courier job because it pays cash under the table and my other job—waitressing—covers the rent. Barely."

"Why not take a loan?"

"Who would lend to me?" I laughed, and it came out bitter. "Ivy Cole, Bleaker Street, cat named Pickles. I'm not exactly a good investment."

Adrian was quiet for a long time.

Then: "The envelope you delivered."

"What about it?"

"It was a termination notice. I was firing someone who's been stealing from me for three years."

"Oh."

"He's also my cousin."

The elevator creaked again. The lights buzzed overhead, threatening to return.

"He's going to fight it," Adrian said. "Publicly. Messily. He knows things about my family that could ruin more than just my reputation."

"Why are you telling me this?"

He turned the phone light toward his own face. His eyes looked different now. Less cold. More… tired.

"Because I need someone I can trust. Someone no one would suspect. Someone who isn't in my world and doesn't want to be."

"You don't even know me."

"I know you named your cat Pickles. I know you wear broken boots because you spent your last paycheck on your mother's medication. I know you're stubborn and scared and too proud to ask for help."

The lights came back on.

Bright. Harsh. Real.

Adrian stood up, brushed off his suit, and looked at me like I was already his.

"So here's my offer, Ivy Cole."

The elevator started moving again. Floor numbers lit up one by one. Lobby. Ground. Exit.

"I'll pay your mother's medical bills. Every single one. I'll move her to the best facility in the city. And I'll triple your salary."

I opened my mouth. Closed it.

"In exchange," he said, as the doors slid open, "you pretend to be my fiancée for six weeks. You smile for the cameras. You wear the ring. And you help me destroy my cousin before he destroys me."

The lobby stretched out behind him. Marble floors. Chandeliers. A world I didn't belong to.

"What happens after six weeks?" I asked.

Adrian stepped out of the elevator. Turned back. And gave me that almost-smile again.

"After six weeks, you walk away. Rich. Free. And you never have to see me again."

He held out his hand.

"Deal?"