The Kingsley Contract

"Get married?" Adrian asked giving a bemused look at Amara.

Usually, suggestions in this office evaporated before anyone noticed.

If Adrian didn't respond right away, that was it-your idea just drifted off, swallowed by the humming climate controls and the heavy silence that meant don't bring this up again.

Amara had seen it happen plenty of times. Vice presidents, consultants flown in from halfway across the country, even a branding firm that billed four hundred grand and got barely eleven minutes before Adrian flipped their proposal face-down and moved on.

But this idea? It lingered.

She could feel it-his silence wasn't the usual dismissal, but something more. He looked indifferent, sure, but his stillness had changed. Underneath it, he was actually considering what she'd said, even if his face said otherwise.

Adrian gave a low, flat sound-a laugh, technically. "Absolutely not."

"Suit yourself," Amara said. "Enjoy the fallout."

She reached for her tablet, acting like she meant to leave. That was one of her favorite tricks with him; pretending she'd dropped it got Adrian looking twice.

She'd learned he paid attention when he thought she was walking away. She'd barely pulled the tablet toward her before he spoke again.

"So you want me to attach myself to a stranger just for optics."

He wasn't asking. She waited, letting him take his time working it out.

He stood up. He always did that when he was undecided, pacing his desk like his thoughts wanted to escape the room. He wandered over to the window, staring down at the city-gray, glittering, forty-four stories below, completely indifferent to whatever drama played out up here.

"A fake relationship," he said.

"A managed one," Amara corrected him. "There's a difference. Fake means you're pretending.

"But I am pretending "

"I'm talking about a strategic arrangement-a clear structure, a timeline, legal protections. A contract, just for two years Adrian. Not a love story." Amara continued.

"Still marriage."

"On paper. For twelve to eighteen months, depending on the market, and how fast we spin your narrative. After that, you quietly separate. No drama, no big press conference. The story's clean: two people who tried, found they wanted different things. Simple. Human. Easy to recover."

"Besides even if it doesn't improve your image, it's good diversion anyway, at least until we can another way around this mess"

He just stood there, looking out. The skyline reflected in the glass softened him a little-he almost looked tired, for once. Not that she'd ever tell him that.

"Who?" he finally said.

She picked up the tablet. She'd expected this-and prepared for it, as always, thoroughly and without fuss. She turned the screen around, placing it on the edge of the desk for him.

He turned, finally. On the screen was a photo grabbed from yesterday's viral footage, right after Adrian's infamous outburst when the room was still trying to remember how breathing worked.

It showed a young woman in her mid-twenties, pretty unremarkable-no careful makeup, no rehearsed expression. After the emotional embrace and she pulled away when Mr. Chan finally got himself,

She stepped back a little hugging l a folder to her chest, like a shield, leaning a little toward Mr. Chan. Not just nearby. Her face, caught with lucky clarity by the camera, looked like one thing.

Concern. Real, unguarded concern.

She'd been background in the clip, but eventually, after it went viral, someone zoomed in and posted it with two words: she cares. Four hundred thousand shares later, everyone had seen her.

Adrian studied the photo.

Amara let him have the silence. When it dragged out, she finally spoke. "She went viral. Not on purpose. Like all those tiktokers and their stage performances that you see on the street every week, New hire-HR says it's her first week. The cameras caught her reaction, and people latched onto it. Social media decided she's what they haven't seen here in years." She let that hang. "Empathy, Compassion....., Decency."

He didn't look away. She watched his eyes scan the photo, not with warmth-never that here-but with focused calculation, as if deciding if she was worth acquiring.

"There's a genuine look on her face," Amara said. "People believe her. Right now you need someone believable beside you."

"Name."

"Chloe Benson."

He was quiet. "She'll agree?"

Amara's mouth twitched-not quite a smile. "Nope."

He looked at her.

"She has no clue any of this is coming. Four days in the building. Small-town background. Serious student debt. By all accounts, exactly what you see." She folded her hands. "That's why it'll work."

He held her gaze. Something shifted in his eyes-maybe not hesitation, but the silent calculation of a man used to adding uncomfortable decisions to his list.

Finally he said, "Set it up."

Amara stood. "I'll bring her up this afternoon."

She was nearly out the door when his voice stopped her.

"Amara."

She paused.

"She's not going to like this."

"No," Amara said. "She's not and that's for you to figure out."

A moment passed.

"Good," he said, almost softly. She couldn't really say what he meant by that.

She left.