I wake up with a start, and instantly as if the universe wants me unhappy, wants me to know that my life would soon be over, the same suffocating dread that had wrapped itself around me the night before comes crashing down on me again like a wave. I lay still for a moment, staring blankly at the ceiling, hoping helplessly that I could shake it off. No such luck. Instead, I feel hollow.

I have a business meeting today. Another company looking to score a deal with us. Normally, I'd welcome this. Thrive on it, even. But this morning, with this gnawing hollowness in my chest? It feels like I'm dragging a dead weight.

Still, business is business. I'm going to do my best. I sigh heavily, rolling off the bed. I make my way to the bathroom and stare at myself in the mirror. My hair is in disarray and there's dried drool on my cheek. A hot shower might melt this dread off my skin at least, I hope.

The bathroom is a sleek display of modern opulence marble floors, floor-length mirror, glass walk-in shower. I stand under the steaming water, letting it beat against my skin as if it could wash away my worries, warming me up to positive hope.

Once I step out, I choose my outfit with care. A custom-tailored cream pantsuit from Elie Saab, its fabric whisper-soft yet commanding in presence. The blazer cinches perfectly at my waist, paired with a matching tailored pencil skirt. A Cartier diamond necklace nestles elegantly against my collarbone, and pearl drop earrings added the right touch of understated class. I also chose a pair of Louboutin heels but decided I'd put on sandals first. I could put on my heels when I get to work.

Hair pulled into a sleek ponytail, lip stick with blush powder on, and I look gorgeous, even with the simplicity of my makeup. I look every inch the heiress and business mogul-in-the-making. The image is perfect. If only I felt half as strong as I looked. If only I were the heiress.

Breakfast's a quiet affair, a single croissant, a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. I don't trust my stomach for anything heavier.

By the time I step out to the driveway, my Bentley is waiting already, glistening under the morning sun. The keys dangling in my fingers. I open the driver's seat then pause. No. I'm not driving today. Not with the way I'm feeling.

"Jason," I called out.

Jason, one of our drivers ,a loyal, efficient man in his late thirties, appears almost instantly. He gives me a polite nod as I toss him the keys.

"You're up today."

"Of course, ma'am."

Sliding into the backseat, I lean my head against the cool glass of the window, letting the city's morning hum lull me into a state of distant observation as we drive past. People bustling, birds singing, walking children, honking cars, life happening all around me.

Then a sudden jolt.

My body lunges forward before the seatbelt yanks me back. My heart thuds.

I blink, straightening. "What the hell"

Jason mutters a curse, unbuckles his seatbelt, and steps out of the car.

Confused, I peer through the windshield. Parked sideways right in front of us, a sleek black McLaren, dangerously angled as though its driver had just screeched into position.

A one-way street.

I shook my head with a sigh. Wonderful. Just wonderful. The exact kind of hassle I didn't need this dreadful, early morning.

Jason could handle this. That's what he was here for.

But as I leaned back, preparing to close my eyes, movement caught my attention.

Jason...is in the air.

My jaw drops.

I blink again. Am I hallucinating? Has Jason discovered a hidden talent for levitation? Is this some bizarre, stress-induced daydream?

No. it's not.

A man tall, broad-shouldered, practically radiating fury, had Jason by the collar, hoisting him off the ground. His other hand clenched into a fist, his eyes burning with a ferocity I'd never seen.

What in the hell?

I throw the door open and jump out, my sandals squeaking sharply on the pavement. A strange mix of anger and frustration flooded me.

"Hey! You put him down. At once."

The man didn't even flinch.

"Ma'am..." Jason croaked, dangling helplessly.

"I said, put him down," I repeat, my voice low and steely.

With a grunt, the man drops him and Jason stumbles backward, gasping, his hands clutching at his shirt.

I fold my arms, glaring. "What happened, Jason?"

Jason's voice shook.

"He appeared out of nowhere. He was driving against traffic, a one-way street. I saw him at the last second. If I hadn't hit the brakes, we'd all be in the hospital. And instead of apologizing... he decided to assault me."

"That's because you spoke to me disrespectfully," the man thundered, his voice booming.

Jason shook his head.

"I didn't! I only told him what he did was wrong." His words quivered.

I place a calming hand on Jason's shoulder.

"Go back in the car. I'll handle this."

He opens his mouth to protest, but I silence him with a look.

Jason turns, casting a wary glance at the man before retreating to the Bentley.

Now, it's just me and Mr. Anger Issues. Mr Anger Issues?. Where did that come from?.

He turns his gaze on me, folding his arms across his chest.

"What? Are you expecting an apology?"

I give a cool smile.

"Of course not. I know your type."

His brow quirks. "Oh really? And what type is that?"

I fold my arms too "The kind that thinks breaking the law and endangering lives is a casual pastime. And doesn't care who they hurt along the way."

He smirks, a slow, disdainful twist of his lips.

"I know it's illegal. I just don't care. About it..., about you or what you think. Nothing's going to happen. Now, if you'll excuse me, why don't you scurry off to whatever little errand it is you're running?"

I stare at him, eyes narrowed, pouring every ounce of fury into my glare. I could have sworn for a fraction of a second his stance shifted. But he quickly masked it with a raised brow.

"Run along now," he says with a mocking grin.

I exhale slowly, tamping down my temper. I could have caused a scene right here and now. But I'm sure people are watching, and I don't want to attract a bad tag, especially for the sake of the company

"Unbelievable." I spin around and march back to the car.

Jason didn't say a word as he drove and the city rolls by in a blur.

At the office, Courtney greets me with her usual bright smile.

"Good morning, Miss. Rachel."

"Good morning Courtney, how are you?"

"I'm fine thank you."

"What's my schedule today"

"You have a meeting with Arclight Corporation at 4:30 pm. Because of the distance, we'd have to leave by 3:30 maximum"

Arclight. One of the biggest players in the industry. Even bigger than us. Slightly. I nodded.

"Get the executive team ready. Make sure Desmond's on board."

"Yes, ma'am."

I immerse myself in back-to-back reports, calls, and project briefs. Anything to shake off the lingering encounter.

As soon as it's 3:30, I head to Arclight with Courtney, Desmond, and the rest of the team. Arclight's headquarters is a gleaming skyscraper all glass and steel, towering confidently over the city.

We were ushered inside by a polished receptionist.

"Mr. Westwood will be with you shortly," she says with a warm smile.

I smile back. For the first time today, I feel hopeful. This could actually be good for us. I'm going to push Dad's utter madness out of my head for this.

We were led into a stunning conference room, mahogany table, plush leather chairs, and a panoramic city view. I took the head seat, adjusting my blazer.

A soft knock.

The door opens...

And in walks Mr. Anger Issues himself.

My heart lurches.

Gone was the street brawler look. He now wore a sharp black tailored suit, dark hair styled with precision, confidence oozing from every pore.

"Good afternoon," he greets, scanning the room before his eyes land, unwavering, on me. "I'm Damian Westwood. CEO of Arclight."

I barely managed to keep my expression neutral.

Of course.

I force a professional smile. "Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Westwood."

His smirk deepens , like he knows exactly who I am.

"Likewise... Miss?"

"Hartley"

His eyes flicker, recognition flashing behind them.

"Right. Well, shall we begin?"

I nod, folding my hands together.

Oh, this is going to be so interesting.

I'm not sure whether I wanted to strangle him or laugh.

But one thing is certain.

This meeting is about to get very, very personal, interesting even. I'm going to make him so uncomfortable. Make him doubt himself. Pour out my despair into this meeting.

Okay Hartley Holdings, let's make a clown of Damian Westwood.

Just after our eyes locked and formal introductions were made, I noticed something, an almost imperceptible expression in Mr Westwood's eyes and a light twitch at the corner of his mouth, a flicker of nerves masked beneath that polished calm.

Was he... flustered?. He disguised it quickly, slipping on his armour of nonchalance and polished professionalism, but I caught it. This could be good. For the first time since my father's will had thrown my world into chaos and a feeling of emptiness, I find myself enjoying a moment. I have the upper hand in this situation. And it feels delicious and intoxicating. Normally, I would have just played the passive role, nodding here, offering a courteous question there, and letting the executives iron out the messy details. But not today. I wanted him cornered. I wanted him to fumble. Leaning forward, I lace my fingers together atop the table.

"So, Mr Westwood," I begin, my voice smooth, "tell me, why exactly does Arclight want a partnership with Hartley Holdings?"

His jaw tenses ever so slightly.

"We're convinced that your company's market presence complements our expansion strategy." I tilt my head, feigning polite curiosity.

"Expansion strategy?. Could you elaborate, please?". Mr Westwood folds his hands together.

"We're targeting emerging markets across Africa and parts of Europe. Your distribution networks offer a significant advantage."

I nod slowly.

"Hmm. So you're looking to use our infrastructure to gain access to territories you haven't been able to penetrate on your own? "

His brow lifts. "Leverage is the word-collaborate... semantics."

I chuckle softly. "Semantics are important in business, Mr Westwood. Words shape deals."

Then, a flicker of something in his eyes. Irritation? Or admiration? I can't tell. Yet. Desmond shoots me a curious glance from across the table. He's probably confused at what was going on.

Courtney makes a smirk. The rest of the executing team are surprised that I'm taking the wheel. I usually leave it to them. Asking questions occasionally. Mr Westwood's team look equally bewildered but maintain calm expressions on their faces. I press on.

"And what exactly are you offering in return for this... collaboration? "

"Technology integration. Joint marketing campaigns. Cross-brand promotions-"

I hold up a hand. "Joint marketing with a company known for hostile takeovers?"

A faint murmur ripples through the room. Mr Westwood's eyes narrow.

"That was a strategic acquisition, not a hostile takeover," he replies coolly while fumbling with his pen and lightly tapping his feet on the floor. I have him where I want him. Discomfort.

"Of course," I say, leaning back in my chair, studying him.

"Let's talk numbers then. Your last quarterly growth report – care to explain the sudden dip? "

Desmond's eyes widened slightly. Courtney's pen paused mid-scribble. Mr Westwood didn't flinch. "Market fluctuations. We're diversifying investments to counterbalance."

"Market fluctuations? " I echo. "Or investor confidence?". A muscle twitched in his jaw. I smirk inwardly.

For the next thirty minutes, I hammer him with question after question - client retention strategies, internal management turnover, scalability concerns and revenue growth.

Every answer he gives, I twist, reframe, challenge, and poke holes in. And every time, I saw him tighten up just a bit more. By the time I finally leaned back, crossing my legs elegantly, Mr Westwood's carefully maintained mask had cracks.

"Well, Mr Westwood," I say with a gracious smile, gathering my notes, "thank you for your time. We'll be in touch."

I know I'm going to accept the proposal. I'm just playing around. His lips pressed into a thin line.

"Of course."As I rise, one of his associates approaches, offering a polite bow. "If you don't mind, ma'am, we'd love to treat you to lunch." I offer him a warm, professional smile.

"Oh, no, thank you very much. Perhaps another time."

He nods respectfully before walking off. My gaze lingers on him for a moment. They really do have polite people in this company. Why's Damian Westwood such an exception? . I start heading out with Desmond and Courtney.

"My, that was intense," Desmond comments."Really?" Courtney interjects,

"I enjoyed it." I laugh.

"Me too."And that's when I heard it.

"Rachel." I freeze. I recognise that voice quite alright. But "Rachel" with no formality?. I turn, a slow smirk curving my lips.

"Yes, Mr Westwood?"

He doesn't reply. Instead, he closes the distance between us, grasps my hand firmly, yet not roughly, and pulls me toward a side hallway.

"We need to talk." Courtney opens her mouth, but I give her a subtle wave. Desmond looks alarmed, and I signal him to stay put.

"I'll be back. You guys head on. Tell everyone I'll be right there." They nod. Apprehensively. I let him lead me, his grip firm but not painful. Oddly enough, it's... warm. Almost protective. Like he doesn't want to hurt me. Well, he shouldn't. His company's reputation could be on the line. He pulls me into a quiet corridor, away from the bustling conference rooms.

Once we're alone, he spins around, pushing me lightly against the wall. His hands shoot up, pinning me gently but firmly over my head.

"Excuse me? " I gasp. He leans in, his face inches from mine. His eyes lock onto mine, hard and unyielding. And I feel a stupid shiver run through me.

"Just so we're clear," he says, his voice low, "I'm not desperate for this deal. Hell, I could close down your company within the twinkle of an eye if I wanted. I'm only doing this because our fathers were friends. Mine asked me to help, so see this as me honouring his wishes. I won't have you play games with me or tease me when I most definitely don't have anything to lose." He leans even closer, my insides tingling at the close proximity.

"I still don't care about you."

His words hit like a slap. His father?. What's his father got to do with this?. Then it hits me. Westwood. The name. Dad's friend. At the funeral. Oh my goodness. I stare back at Damian, stunned. I'd read him wrong. Totally wrong. How come I didn't know about this? Dad didn't mention anything about Arclight. Mr Westwood certainly didn't mention it. But then, pride is a stubborn thing. I square my shoulders, lift my chin, and meet his stare head-on. And that's when I really saw him.

He stands at least 6'2, a towering figure of handsomeness. His dark, sleek hair framed a symmetrical face - cheekbones sharp enough to cut, a strong jawline, and full lips pressed into a frown. His fitted suit barely contains the muscles beneath: broad shoulders and toned arms. A hint of ink peeked from under his collar, a tattoo snaking along his neck. He looks...raw, dominating. Masculinity personified. And for a moment... I forget how to breathe.

"Rachel," his deep voice snaps me back to the present. Without thinking, the words blurt from my lips.

"Marry me." Wait, what? The silence that followed was deafening. Then his brows shoot up.

"What did you just say? " I swallow, straightening.

"Marry me. A contract marriage. Business only." Am I seriously proposing to this man?. I'm such a mess. He looks genuinely amused now. "You're serious? " I draw in a breath. In one fast, breathless sentence, I tell him everything: my father's will, the insane marriage condition, and the looming deadline. His expression slowly shifts from amused to contemplative. When I finish, I hold his gaze.

"So basically... we get married, I get my company, and you honour your father's wish. A win-win situation." He nods slowly.

"Interesting." I brace myself for a flat-out rejection. Instead...A slow, unamused smile spreads across his face, the kind that could make a sane woman run. The kind that made me want to place a slap across that smug face of his.

"I like it," he says. I blink.

"You... do? " He does?. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a sleek black business card and hands it to me.

"Call me. Or text. Whichever, so we can discuss the details."

Yes. He's definitely insane. Before I can process it, he turns on his heel and walks off, his confident stride unhurried. I just stand where he left me, heart thundering in my chest, clutching the card like a lifeline. Did that really just happen? Could this day get any more chaotic?. When I finally returned to my team, they were all waiting with curious glances. I force a neutral expression, sliding the business card into my purse.

"Everything alright? " Courtney asks quietly."That was more intense," Desmond comments. I give a short laugh before I respond.

"Everything's perfect. How about we get pizza on the way? "

"Sounds great. I haven't had lunch," Desmond says, placing his hand on his stomach. Courtney rolls her eyes. I laugh again, but my insides are a whirlwind of emotions. I'm not sure if I'd just made the smartest business move of my life...or the most dangerous mistake of my life.

After a long, gruelling day at the office, with my emotions tangled in knots, I finally get home. The moment the front door clicks shut, I exhale a deep, weary sigh, the weight of the day pressing down on my shoulders. I drop my purse by the console and pull out my phone to place an order for dinner. I'm in the mood for the usual. Tonight calls for indulgence. I order a seafood platter-lobster tail bathed in garlic butter, grilled scallops, king prawns, and oysters on the half shell-paired with a bottle of vintage white wine. For dessert, I settle on a creamy tiramisu and a slice of molten chocolate cake. I tell the chef I'd be dining in my room.I start up the staircase, desperate for a hot bath, when I catch sight of Aunt Vera descending. I instinctively roll my eyes. Why is she still here?.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't the CEO of Hartley's, soon to be crumbled," she sneers, her voice a mocking singsong.I stop in my tracks, forcing a smile.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't the aunt who got dumped because she couldn't keep her legs closed and still hasn't gotten her life together after twelve years."

The maids nearby giggle. I throw them a playful wink.Aunt Vera's face twists as if she'd swallowed a mouthful of sour bile.

"Just you wait. My son will be the head of this company. And I'll have you and your mother out of this house as fast as this." she says as she snaps her fingers.I give her a slow, deliberate look.

"You're delusional, Aunt Vera. Honestly, you're more of a dreamer than Alice in Wonderland."

Jason passes by, trying not so hard to hide the amusement on his face. He smothers a grin before walking off. The light mood lifted some of the heaviness lingering since the reading of the will yesterday. It's a small victory, but I'd take it.

"Rachel!" Mum's voice calls. I turn as she approaches, brushing past Aunt Vera like she was invisible.

"You're back," she says warmly, giving me a brief hug. Aunt Vera scoffs and slinks away, feeling scorned.

"Yes, Mum. I'm exhausted. I just want to eat and sleep."

"Before you go to bed, sweetheart, there's something I want to talk to you about."I groan inwardly.

"Okay, Mum."I retreat to my room and step into yet another hot shower. It feels... therapeutic. The water cascades down my body, but it can't wash away the thoughts swirling in my head-mostly about Damian. Am I making the right decision with this arrangement? Could I handle being tied to a man as proud and headstrong as I was? I see friction in our future. Hell, there's no future. Nevertheless, I'm going to pull through this. I always pull through every and any situation or inconvenience.After my shower, I slip into a silk nightgown and perch on the edge of my bed, skimming through reports on my tablet. A knock interrupts me. I open the door to find Mum standing with a maid carrying a food tray.

"I haven't had dinner either, so I thought I'd eat with you," Mum says softly.I nod and gesture for her to come in. She sat at my table while I remained on the bed. We eat in silence, the air thick with unspoken words. I could feel them simmering just beneath the surface.Finally, I set my spoon down.

"Mum. I know you're not in my room just to have dinner. Spill it."

She sighs. "Honey, I'm worried. You don't have a fiancé or a partner. What's the plan?

"I'll figure it out, Mum." Matter of fact, I have. But then, I'd love for this to be a surprise. "I spoke to Mr Raymond and we've agreed that you can marry his son." She says plainly. Like it was the best thing she's ever done for me. Like she did not just set my whole being ablaze with irritation. "You did what?. Without my permission?"

I clench my hands into a fist. I have no idea why I did that. It's not like I'm going to hit her.She gives me a sharp look.

"Looking for a partner and planning a wedding isn't going to be easy. Do you think I'd want a rushed wedding for my daughter?. I had to find you a husband fast so we can focus solely on the wedding preparations." Wow. She's more bothered about the wedding than about whoever it is I would be getting married to. In that case, I have nothing to worry about. But still, her words enraged my insides. I clench my jaw.

"I said I'll handle it mum."She leans forward.

"By doing what exactly? Waiting for a miracle? This isn't a fairy tale. You need a husband, and you need one now."

"Mum, I know exactly what I need. I don't need you trying to shove some desperate plan down my throat."

Her expression darkens. "Desperate? I'm trying to save you from losing everything your father built. But maybe you don't care about that."I shoot up from the bed.

"Don't you dare say that. Don't you dare imply that I don't care. I've sacrificed everything for this family, for this company. And you, what have you done? Arranged a marriage with a college kid? What in the world?"

Her face hardens.

"Richard is a good boy. And his family has influence. It makes sense. You should be grateful."

"Grateful?. He's a freaking child, Mum! Five years younger than me! He can't even legally drink, for God's sake!"

"It's a solution!" she snaps back. "Or would you rather see Aunt Vera's son take over? Is that what you want?"

My heart pounds in my chest. "I would rather figure this out on my own than marry someone I have nothing in common with, someone I don't respect. Someone I've never even spoken to"

Hell I never even thought of if Mr Raymond was married or had a family. I had no cause to. I only saw him like once a year when Dad was alive. Her eyes narrow.

"You've always been stubborn. Just like your father."

"And you've always been manipulative too. Just like your husband," I fire back before I could stop myself. She stands, her lips pressed into a thin line.

"If you want to throw your future away, be my guest."

"I don't want your help, Mum. I'll figure it out. My way."

She looks at me for a long, tense moment before turning on her heels and walking out. The door closes with a soft but final click.I sit back down, my hands trembling. I call in a maid to clear the dishes, the weight of the argument settling on me.Later, lying on my bed, I grab my phone and open a chat with Damian.

"Hi, it's Rachel," I type.His reply comes instantly.

"Hi."Straight to business, then.

"So, about the basis of the contract...""Yeah?" Short. Curt. Annoying. "We'd get married, I'd inherit my father's company, and you'd satisfy your dad's wishes."

"Established."Is he a robot? I'll try again. "It would be a short-term arrangement, four to six months. We'd get married, perform all the necessary appearances, and I'd have to move into your residence for credibility."A pause.

"Rachel, proposing a business deal and calling the shots... I like it." I can almost see his smirk. "But there would be rules. And four to six months is short. Could raise eyebrows. A year should be better."

"A year. That's fine. And what rules are you talking about?" I type, my fingers tight on the phone."You'd live in my house. This stays strictly confidential, between us. Strictly contractual."

"I'm not dumb, Damian. I know what this is." I scoff to myself.

"Then we're good. Come to my office tomorrow."I wanted to type, 'Can't you come to mine?' but then, I initiated this. So, I swallow my pride.

"Okay."I wonder what business it is Dad could have discussed with Mr Westwood. I'll ask Damian about it tomorrow. After tossing around for about 5 minutes, I head downstairs to help myself to tea. I don't want to disturb the maids. They'd be tired. As I'm heading back to my room, I notice light spilling from Dad's study. Curious, I peek in, and there was Mum, rearranging things that didn't need rearranging. Her grief sat on her shoulders like a heavy cloak.I go back into the kitchen to prepare some tea for her too.

"Here," I say, setting it gently on the table beside her.She looks up, her eyes softening. "Thank you."I offer a faint smile before turning and heading back upstairs to my room.Whatever arguments or disagreements lay between us, she's still my mother.And tomorrow... I'd meet Damian face-to-face to sign away the next one year of my life.