She studied me for a moment, as if gauging whether I was teasing her or I really didn't think she'd say yes. “You thought I'd change my mind.”
I opened my mouth to lie, then closed it. Why pretend with her? My words came out rough: "I thought… that you might change your mind. After you had time to really think, you'd realize it's not as simple as it looks."
She nodded slowly, like that was a reasonable assumption. “And yet here we are.”
Here we were.
"Are you sure you want to do this?"
“Yes,” she grinned, not giving me the chance to question her decision. "I've wanted this for so long."
I froze, her words echoing in my chest. What exactly did she mean by wanting this? My pulse quickened with hope and confusion.
“I would obviously compensate you,” I said, breaking the silence because it was starting to feel suffocating. “Generously. This wouldn’t be charity. It would be a contractual agreement for two years.”
Evania tilted her head slightly, her hazel eyes still fixed on me. “Two years?”
“Yes,” I said, nodding. “Two years should be long enough to convince my parents and the board that I can commit to something as demanding as marriage. That I’m stable. Reliable. Capable of… long-term responsibility.”
I didn’t say, or they’ll strip me of the CEO position, but it hovered between us anyway.
She leaned back in her chair, folding her arms loosely across her chest. That should have been my first warning. “And after two years, we'd get a divorce?"
"That's the plan."
“And the narrative is… what? That you tried marriage, decided it wasn’t for you, and walked away?”
I frowned. “That’s oversimplifying it.”
“Is it?” she asked gently.
I opened my mouth to argue, then stopped. Because the more I replayed it in my head, the more it sounded exactly like that.
She continued before I could even gather my thoughts. “In my humble opinion, that looks less like growth and more like confirmation of everything they already think about you.”
I stared at her, shocked but also impressed by her logic. She continued without giving me a chance to speak.
“If you marry me - someone with no wealth, no prestigious family name, no corporate influence - and then divorce me two years later, it doesn’t exactly prove you're a responsible and family-driven person,” she said. “It looks like you played house and got bored.”
For the third time today, all I could do was look at her—my throat tight, my pulse rushing. I had arrived so sure of myself, the architect of this moment, certain I’d keep control. But in less than a minute, she stripped my logic bare, leaving my confidence unraveling. She looked at me like I was already hers, wanting me for more than two years. The thought didn't repel me, but uncertainty buzzed beneath my skin—what did she truly want?
“I-” I stopped, exhaled sharply, and scrubbed a hand over my jaw. “You’re assuming they’d see it that way.”
She raised a brow. “You don’t think they would?”
I had no answer.
Because the truth was… she was right. I’d spent years negotiating contracts worth billions, anticipating every angle, every objection. And somehow I’d completely overlooked my parents plotting against me.
“That’s why,” she continued, “if you’re going to do this, you can’t treat it like a countdown.”
I straightened. “What do you mean?”
She leaned forward now, resting her forearms on the desk between us, closing the distance just enough that I could smell her perfume—something subtle and warm that absolutely did not belong in a room where I was trying to keep my head clear.
“I mean,” she said, “you’d have to treat it like a real marriage.”
The words landed like a punch to the chest.
