Breaking Free from Christian's Game

Ambrose's eyes remained steady as he listened to my proposal, his expression revealing nothing of his thoughts. The sleek lines of his office, with its floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, made me feel small—but I refused to shrink away.

"A marriage of convenience," he repeated, his voice carrying that same measured tone I'd heard in our previous meetings. "With my brother's ex-girlfriend."

"Future ex-girlfriend," I corrected, straightening my spine. "After the tenth wedding, I'm done being Christian's doormat."

Something flickered in Ambrose's eyes—interest, perhaps, or amusement. It disappeared so quickly I might have imagined it.

"And you think marrying me will solve your problems?" he asked, setting down his pen.

"It solves both our problems," I replied. "I get my dignity back, and you... get to teach your brother a lesson."

Ambrose leaned back in his chair, studying me with an intensity that made my cheeks warm. "I have a different proposition."

My heart stuttered. "What kind of proposition?"

"We get the marriage license before the ceremony," he said, his voice taking on a businesslike edge. "Not after. Before."

I blinked, trying to process this. "Why?"

"Legal leverage," he replied smoothly. "If Christian tries to contest anything later, we're already legally bound."

But something in his expression told me there was more to it than that. This wasn't just about strategy—it was about ensuring I couldn't back out.

"You're as manipulative as your brother," I said quietly.

A smile—small but genuine—curved his lips. "I prefer 'strategic.'"

He reached for his checkbook, and I watched in surprise as he wrote an amount that made my eyes widen.

"This is for your fashion business," he said, tearing out the check. "Not a loan. An investment."

"In future family?" I asked, taking the check with trembling fingers.

His eyes met mine. "In you."

---

Two days later, I stood in the plush interior of Tiffany & Co., clutching my grandmother's silver necklace. The clasp had broken, and I needed it repaired before my next job interview.

"Ms. Jenkins?" The jeweler approached with a deferential smile. "What can we do for you today?"

I explained about the necklace, but his expression shifted to confusion.

"I think there's been a misunderstanding," he said. "You're not here for the Martinez commission?"

"Martinez?" I echoed.

"The pink diamond ring Mr. Christian Martinez commissioned," he explained. "It's quite spectacular—five carats, custom setting."

My stomach dropped. "Could I... see it?"

The jeweler hesitated, then nodded. He disappeared into the back and returned with a leather portfolio.

"These are the final sketches," he said, spreading them before me.

I stared at the intricate designs—a massive pink diamond surrounded by smaller white diamonds, the setting intricate and elegant. The price tag at the bottom made my breath catch: $1.2 million.

"It's for his fiancée," the jeweler continued. "Ms. Young. The ring should be ready next month."

I reached into my pocket, feeling the small glass ring Christian had given me at the orphanage. It was scratched now, its edges worn smooth from years of handling.

"Thank you," I whispered, handing back the portfolio.

As I walked out of the store, I finally understood. Christian had spent $1.2 million on Savannah's ring while keeping mine as a sentimental trinket. The contrast couldn't have been clearer if he'd shouted it from the rooftops.

---

"Are you warm enough?" Ambrose asked as we settled at a corner table in the Blue Note Jazz Club.

The place was dimly lit, the air thick with the notes of a saxophone and the gentle hum of conversation. This was our first public appearance together—part of our plan to make the upcoming wedding believable.

"I'm fine," I replied, wrapping my hands around the martini he'd ordered for me.

He studied me for a moment, then pressed a button on the table. A server appeared instantly.

"The temperature seems off," Ambrose said. "Could you have someone adjust the thermostat? Ms. Jenkins is cold."

I blinked in surprise. "I didn't say I was cold."

"You were hugging yourself," he replied simply. "And your nose is pink."

The server nodded and disappeared. Within minutes, warm air began flowing through the room.

"So," Ambrose said, leaning forward slightly, "tell me about your designs. What inspired your latest collection?"

The question caught me off guard. No one had ever asked me about my work—certainly not Christian, who always steered conversations back to himself.

"Well," I began slowly, "I've been working on a line inspired by... broken things."

His eyebrows rose slightly, inviting me to continue.

"Beautiful things that have been damaged but become more interesting because of their imperfections," I explained. "Like Kintsugi pottery—the Japanese art of repairing broken ceramics with gold."

"Showing that damage can make something more valuable," he murmured, his eyes never leaving mine.

As the evening progressed, I found myself relaxing. Ambrose listened—truly listened—to every word I said. When I spoke of my dreams, he didn't dismiss them as childish fantasies. When I mentioned my fears, he didn't offer empty platitudes.

And when I shivered again later in the evening, he simply shrugged off his jacket and draped it over my shoulders—no grand gestures, no declarations. Just quiet action.

I looked at him then—really looked at him—and wondered why I'd spent so long waiting for a boy who made promises when a man who kept them sat right in front of me.