“And so,” he says, eyes narrowing slightly, “my proposal is simple. Miss Batiste marries me instead. A real marriage, legal and binding—for the duration of the negotiations. I will sign whatever prenup you wish, Mr. Batiste. I’ll ensure her assets are protected. There will be no scandal, no risk to your reputation or name. But without her, I can’t secure access to the materials your company’s contracts now rely on.”
My mouth falls open. And then I slam it shut.
Hard.
There it is.
I feel it hit me in the chest, somewhere soft and unguarded I didn’t realize I’d left open to him.
Not after the other night.
Not after the heat of his mouth on mine, the way he said this—we—mattered outside the boardroom.
And now?
I’m just leverage.
Collateral with curves.
That’s all this is to him.
Not the heat of his hands on my skin.
Not the way he kissed me like he wanted to rearrange my bones.
Not the way he looked at me afterward.
Like he’d been starving his whole damn life and finally tasted something real.
No.
Just business.
And business is the one thing I’m good at pretending I don’t get emotional over.
I glance at my father.
He still won’t look at me.
Jaw tight. Fist flexing.
He’s too proud to say the words, but I know him. He’s torn between outrage and strategy.
Between protecting me and protecting the empire I was raised to inherit.
Atlas keeps talking—calm, controlled, clinical.
His voice is crisp and detached as he lays out contingencies, protections, prenups.
He’s selling my future like it’s a line item.
And the worst part?
He’s good at it.
The men in the room listen like he’s speaking gospel.
But I see it. My father will never agree. I can tell by the stone of his expression when Atlas finishes.
