The Billionaire's Contract Wife

Chapter Two

The Proposal

He ordered water. I thought that said something about him, though I wasn't sure what.

I didn't speak for a full minute. He didn't rush me.

"You're serious," I finally said.

"I don't make proposals I'm not serious about."

"You're proposing marriage."

"A contract," he corrected, quiet and precise. "Three years. A legal arrangement that benefits both parties. Not a love story."

The word love in his mouth sounded like something he'd read about but never tasted. I'd just had my heart carved out by the real thing — or what I'd thought was the real thing — and somehow this felt less dangerous.

That should have alarmed me.

"Walk me through it," I said.

He did. Methodically. The Bennett family's financial situation — which I knew was worse than my parents admitted — required a strategic alliance with Lancaster Group. The board would approve the partnership only with a demonstrable family commitment. His word was sufficient in most rooms, but not this one.

"And the other reason," I said.

His expression didn't shift. "I need a wife who won't want anything from me I can't give."

"Meaning."

"Meaning I need someone who isn't looking for love." The word again, flat and clinical. "Someone who has their own ambitions, their own work, their own life. Someone who will play the part publicly and leave me to mine privately."

I looked at him for a long moment. "Why me specifically? There must be a dozen women who'd sign that contract without needing to be tracked to a bar at midnight."

Something moved behind his eyes. Brief. Almost imperceptible.

"Because you're the only one I've considered," he said, "who wouldn't make the mistake of falling for me."

The sting was immediate and clean, like a paper cut. He hadn't meant it cruelly. That almost made it worse.

"You know nothing about what I would or wouldn't do," I said.

"I know you've spent seven years with a man who didn't deserve you and still walked out intact. I know you run your studio at a loss because you refuse to compromise the work. I know you are not someone who confuses proximity for attachment."

I went very still. "You've researched me."

"I research everything."

Silence settled between us. Outside the bar window, the city moved in its indifferent way.

"The terms," I said.

He slid a folded paper across the table. The broad strokes — I'd get the full document tomorrow. Five million dollars upon signing. Bennett Studio would retain full creative independence. We'd live together publicly. Separate bedrooms. Three years, then a clean divorce.

"No emotional entanglement," he added. "That clause is non-negotiable."

"And your family? Your board?"

"They'll be informed after the fact. The story will be a private romance. A whirlwind. Your reputation in the fashion world and my business interests create a plausible narrative."

I folded the paper. Slipped it into my coat pocket next to the portfolio I'd been carrying all night.

"I'll think about it," I said.

He rose, buttoning his jacket. No argument. No pressure.

"You have until tomorrow morning," he said. "My driver will take you home."

He walked out without looking back.

I sat alone with my untouched scotch and thought about forty-two white tiles, and about a man who'd just offered me a life that made no promises — which, tonight, felt like the most honest thing anyone had said to me in years.