The Silent Bride's Billion Dollar Contract

The air inside Café Lalo was crisp and smelled of roasted coffee beans and expensive perfume. It was a stark contrast to the humid, garbage-scented air of the street. Dawn shivered as the cool air hit her damp skin.

It was crowded. People were laughing, clinking forks against ceramic plates. It was a symphony of normalcy that Dawn felt entirely excluded from.

She pulled her phone out of her bag. The screen was dark. She pressed the power button, but nothing happened. The battery had died during the walk.

She closed her eyes for a second, trying to recall Lydia's text. Table 11. By the window. Or was it Table 1? The crack in her screen went right through the number.

She scanned the room. The tables were packed tightly together. Near the back, tucked away in a semi-private alcove surrounded by large potted ferns, was a table with a small brass number stand.

It looked like a 1.

A man was sitting there. His back was to her. He was wearing a suit jacket that fit across his shoulders perfectly-no wrinkles, no strain. The fabric looked dark and expensive.

Dawn hesitated. The man in the photo Lydia had shown her-Mr. Vane-had looked... wider. Sloppier. But maybe the photo was old. Or maybe this suit was just very slimming.

She walked toward the table. Her heart was thumping a frantic rhythm against her ribs. One, two, three, four.

She reached the table and gripped the back of the empty chair.

"Hello," she said softly. "I'm... I'm the one Lydia sent."

The man went still. He was reading a document in a blue folder. He slowly closed the folder and turned his head.

Dawn's breath hitched.

This was not Mr. Vane.

This man was terrifyingly handsome. He had a jawline that looked like it had been cut from granite. His hair was dark blond, swept back with precision. But it was his eyes that stopped her. They were ice blue, cold and intelligent, and they were looking at her with an intensity that made her want to step back.

He didn't speak. He just looked at her, then his gaze dropped to the ID badge she had forgotten to take off. It was clipped to the strap of her bag. Dawn Roth. Junior Restorer.

"Lydia sent you?" His voice was low, a deep baritone that seemed to vibrate in the air between them.

Dawn nodded, her throat tightening again. "Yes. I'm sorry if I'm late. The walk was... long."

He looked at her flushed face, the slight sheen of sweat on her forehead, the cheap red dress that hung a little loose on her frame. Then he looked past her, toward the front entrance.

Dawn started to pull the chair out. "I know this is awkward. I've never done this before."

A waiter appeared instantly at the table. "Sir, is this young lady bothering you?"

The man looked at the waiter, then back at Dawn. His eyes narrowed slightly, calculating.

"No," the man said. "She's with me."

The waiter nodded and vanished.

"Sit," the man said. It wasn't a request.

Dawn sat. She placed her bag on her lap, hiding the scuffed toes of her shoes under the table.

"Drink?" he asked.

"Just water, please."

He signaled the waiter with a single finger. "Water. And another black coffee."

He leaned back in his chair, studying her. He looked like a predator deciding whether to play with a mouse or eat it. "You said you walked?"

"From the Met," Dawn said, her voice barely a whisper. "I work there."

"I see." He tapped his finger on the blue folder. "And Lydia... she arranged this meeting?"

"She's my aunt," Dawn explained, feeling the need to fill the silence. "She said you were looking for... that you needed a wife."

The man's finger stopped tapping. His expression didn't change, but the air around him seemed to drop a few degrees. "Is that what she said?"

"She said you wanted someone stable. Someone quiet." Dawn looked down at her hands. She was twisting the strap of her bag. "I don't talk much. I have... trouble with it sometimes."

"Selective Mutism," he said. It wasn't a question.

Dawn looked up, surprised. "How did you know?"

"I observe," he said. "You count your fingers when you're nervous. You're doing it right now under the table."

Dawn froze. She stopped her thumb from tapping her index finger.

Suddenly, a loud voice erupted from the front of the café.

"I'm looking for a girl! Red dress! Table 11!"

Dawn turned in her seat. Her blood ran cold.

Standing at the hostess stand was Mr. Vane. He looked exactly like his photo, only sweatier. He was wearing a brown suit that was too tight, and he was wiping his bald head with a handkerchief. He was shouting at the hostess.

"She's supposed to be here! Lydia said Table 11!"

Dawn looked at the brass number on the table she was sitting at. It was a 1. Not 11.

She had sat at the wrong table.

Panic exploded in her chest. She scrambled to stand up. "Oh my god. I'm so sorry. I made a mistake. I have to..."

She looked back at Mr. Vane. He was scanning the room. His eyes were bulging slightly. He looked angry.

Dawn looked at the man across from her. He hadn't moved. He was watching the scene at the door with a look of mild distaste.

"Please," Dawn whispered, her voice trembling. "I have to go."

She turned to leave, but a hand shot out and clamped around her wrist.

His grip was warm and firm. It wasn't painful, but it was absolute. He pulled her back down into the chair.

"Sit down," he said.

"But he's..."

"He's a pig," the man said calmly. He shifted his chair slightly, blocking Mr. Vane's line of sight to Dawn. "And if you walk over there, you're going to spend the next two hours listening to him chew with his mouth open while he tells you how lucky you are that he's willing to pay your debts."

Dawn stared at him. "How do you..."

"Sit," he repeated. He released her wrist, but his eyes held her in place. "Don't turn around."

Dawn sat frozen. She could hear Mr. Vane arguing with the hostess.

"Table 11 is empty, sir," the hostess was saying.

"Well, where is she?" Vane bellowed.

Dawn shrank into her chair. She wished she could dissolve into the floor.

The man across from her picked up his coffee cup. He took a slow sip, his eyes never leaving her face.

"So," he said, his voice smooth and dangerous. "You're looking for a husband to solve your financial problems. And I need a wife to solve my public relations problems."

Dawn blinked. "What?"

He placed the cup down. "I'm Gerhard Holcomb."

The name landed heavy in the air. Dawn knew that name. Everyone in New York knew that name. Holcomb Industries. The donors of the wing she worked in.

"You sat at the wrong table, Miss Roth," Gerhard said. A ghost of a smile touched his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes. "But I think you might be exactly where you need to be."