The next morning, Imogen woke up stiff. Her neck felt like it had been fused into a permanent angle of tension. She put on her stiff, wrinkled jeans and the shirt that still had a faint gray stain on the hem. She tried to scrub it out with hand soap, but it was useless.

She had to walk twelve blocks to the coffee shop because she couldn't afford another Uber. The wind was biting, cutting through her thin jacket.

At 9:55 AM, she stood outside Bean & Leaf. She took a deep breath, trying to summon a persona she didn't possess: a compliant, eager-to-please girl who wanted to marry a middle-aged dentist.

She pushed open the door. The bell chimed.

The cafe was busy. The smell of roasted coffee made her stomach cramp with hunger. She hadn't eaten since yesterday lunch.

She scanned the room. Linda had said: He'll be wearing a grey sweater and glasses.

Imogen looked around. Businessmen in suits. Students with laptops.

Then she saw him.

In the back corner booth, a man sat alone. He was wearing a grey hoodie-close enough to a sweater-and thick-rimmed black glasses. He was looking at a tablet.

He looked younger than the photo. Much younger. And... better. His jawline was sharp enough to cut glass. His hair was dark and slightly messy, in a way that suggested he had run his hands through it in frustration.

Maybe the photo was old? Or just unflattering?

Imogen straightened her spine. This was it. The performance of her life.

She walked over to the booth. The man didn't look up until she was standing right next to the table.

"Hi," she said, forcing a bright, brittle smile. "I'm Imogen. Sorry I'm exactly on time, I usually like to be early."

The man looked up.

Imogen felt a jolt of recognition. Those eyes. Dark. Intelligent. Cold.

A prickle of unease ran down her spine. The sterile, silent interior of that luxury car flashed in her mind for a split second before she pushed it away. It couldn't be. That was a man in a different universe. This was just some guy in a coffee shop.

The man stared at her. His gaze dropped to her stained shirt, then back to her bruised cheek. His expression didn't change, but his fingers paused on the screen of his tablet.

"Imogen," he repeated. He tested the name, rolling it around in his mouth like a sip of wine he wasn't sure he liked.

"Yes. Linda sent me?" She sat down opposite him without waiting to be invited. She needed to sit. Her legs were shaking. "Look, can we just... cut to the chase? I know why I'm here. I know what you're looking for."

The man raised an eyebrow. A slow, amused smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. The biceps under the grey hoodie bulged slightly.

"Do you?" he asked. "And what am I looking for?"

"A wife," Imogen said bluntly. "Someone to... settle down with. Someone presentable." She gestured vaguely to herself, flushing. "I know I don't look like much right now. I had a rough night. But I clean up well. I can cook. I'm quiet. I won't get in your way."

The man was silent for a long beat. He took off his glasses and set them on the table. Without the lenses, his gaze was even more piercing.

"You're proposing a business arrangement," he stated. It wasn't a question.

"Isn't that what this is?" Imogen leaned forward, lowering her voice. "Linda said you needed someone reliable. I need... stability. I need to get away from my parents. If we do this, I can be whatever you need me to be."

Gael Fuller looked at the girl. He recognized her instantly, of course. The girl from the rain. The architect genius with the broken suitcase.

She thought he was her date. She thought he was some dentist Linda had dug up.

He should tell her. He should tell her that he was the CEO of the company she wanted to work for, and that her sketchbook was currently sitting on his mahogany desk in the penthouse.

But then he looked at the bruise on her cheek. He saw the desperation vibrating off her like heat waves.

"Stability," Gael said softly. "That's a valuable commodity."

"I'm a hard worker," Imogen pressed. "I'm not looking for love. I just need... an out."

Gael tapped his finger on the table. Tap. Tap. Tap.

"Okay," he said.

Imogen blinked. "Okay? You mean... you're interested?"

"I'm listening."

"So," Imogen exhaled, her shoulders dropping about two inches. "We should discuss terms. I assume you have a prenup? I'll sign it. I don't want your money."

Gael fought the urge to laugh. If only she knew how much money she was agreeing not to want. "We can discuss the paperwork later."

"Imogen!"

The voice came from the entrance, loud and booming. Imogen flinched so hard her knee hit the underside of the table.

She turned. Standing there, looking red-faced and furious, was Chad.

"I knew it," Chad sneered, marching toward their booth. He was wearing a tight polo shirt that emphasized his gym muscles, his face slick with sweat. "Linda said you were meeting some guy. I didn't believe her."

Imogen stood up, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. "Chad. Leave me alone."

"You belong to me, Immy. You don't get to just walk away." Chad reached out and grabbed her upper arm. His fingers dug into the exact spot where he had bruised her last week.

"Let go!" Imogen cried out, trying to twist away.

"Who's this?" Chad looked at Gael with a sneer. "This the dentist? Look at him. He looks like he spends all day playing video games in his mom's basement."

Gael didn't stand up. He didn't even look angry. He just looked... bored.

"Let go of the lady's arm," Gael said. His voice was conversational, low.

"Or what, four-eyes?" Chad laughed, tightening his grip. Imogen winced, a small sound of pain escaping her lips.

That sound was the trigger.

Gael moved. It was a blur. One second he was sitting; the next, he was standing, his hand clamped around Chad's wrist.

Gael didn't look like a bodybuilder. He was lean, elegant. But the grip he had on Chad was iron. He squeezed.

Chad's eyes bulged. His mouth opened in a silent scream as the pressure on his radial nerve became unbearable. His hand sprang open, releasing Imogen.

"I said," Gael whispered, leaning in close to Chad's face, "let go."

He twisted Chad's arm behind his back with a sickening pop of the shoulder joint, forcing the larger man down onto his knees.

The coffee shop had gone silent. Everyone was watching.

"You're breaking my arm!" Chad squealed.

"If you ever touch her again," Gael said, his voice calm and terrifyingly devoid of emotion, "I will not just break your arm. I will dismantle you. Do you understand?"

"Yes! Yes!"

Gael released him, shoving him toward the door. "Get out."

Chad scrambled up, cradling his arm, his face purple with humiliation. He shot a venomous look at Imogen, then fled the shop.

Imogen stood frozen, her chest heaving. She looked at Gael with wide, shocked eyes.

"You..." she stammered. "You're a dentist?"

Gael picked up his glasses and slid them back on, transforming instantly back into the mild-mannered man in the hoodie. He checked his knuckles for damage.

"I have... very strong hands," he said deadpan. "Root canals require a lot of torque."

They sat back down. The adrenaline was slowly leaving Imogen's system, leaving her shaky and cold.

"Thank you," she whispered. She stared at his hands. They were elegant, long-fingered. No dentist had hands like that. "You saved me."

"He seems like a charming individual," Gael said, signaling a waitress to bring a glass of water.

"He's my ex. My parents... they like him because he has money. Or they think he does." Imogen took the water with trembling hands. "I can't believe you did that. You could have been hurt."

"I work out," Gael lied effortlessly.

"For a dentist, you're very... intense."

Gael leaned forward. "Imogen. I have a confession."

Her heart sank. Here it comes. He's a serial killer. Or he's married.

"I'm not a dentist," he said.

Imogen stared. "What?"

"Dr. Aris is a colleague. He was called into an emergency surgery and asked if I could meet you so you wouldn't be stood up. I shouldn't have let it go on this long." He paused. "I work in IT. Backend developer."

Imogen let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. The story was plausible, a neat explanation for the mix-up. And yet, the faint memory of that silent, expensive car still lingered. An IT guy? She looked at his calm demeanor, the way he handled Chad with brutal efficiency. It didn't quite add up. But what other choice did she have? Believe the lie and get out, or question it and go back to Rick and Linda? Desperation made the choice for her. "Oh. Oh, thank god."

Gael frowned. "Thank god?"

"I hate dentists," she admitted. "The sound of the drill... it freaks me out." She smiled, a genuine, small smile that transformed her face. "IT is good. IT is safe. You just... type code, right?"

"Right," Gael said. "Lots of typing. Very boring."

"Boring is good," Imogen said fiercely. "I want boring. I want a life where nobody throws bottles and nobody screams."

She looked down at her hands. "Does this mean... you're still interested? Even after seeing the baggage I come with? Even though this was a mix-up?"

Gael looked at the bruise on her cheek. He thought about the sketchbook in his apartment. He thought about the board meeting he was missing right now, and how much he hated the sharks in suits who wanted to marry him off to some senator's daughter to merge assets.

He needed a shield. She needed a sword.

"I'm interested," Gael said.

"Really?"

"But I have conditions."

"Name them."

"We get married. Legally. As soon as possible. My... family... is pressuring me to settle down. If I show up with a wife, they back off."

"Done," Imogen said immediately. "I need the marriage certificate to get a new passport without my parents' signature. They're holding my documents hostage."

Gael's jaw tightened. "They're holding your documents?"

"Yes. It's complicated."

"We'll get them back," Gael said, a dark promise in his tone that Imogen missed. "Condition two: We live together. It has to look real."

Imogen hesitated. "Live together? In your... apartment?"

"It's a two-bedroom," Gael lied. He had ten bedrooms. "You'll have your own space. I work long hours. You'll barely see me."

"Okay," Imogen nodded. "Okay. I can do that."

"Condition three," Gael said, his voice dropping lower. "This is a contract. A partnership. No emotional entanglements. No... expectations."

Imogen looked at him. He was handsome, strong, and apparently kind. It would be hard not to have expectations. But she was broken, and she had nothing to offer a man like him but debt and drama.

"Agreed," she said. "Strictly business."