He names the number—which happens to be pushing seven figures.
I just stare at him. The breath leaves my lungs in a rush. “You cannot be serious.”
“I am.”
“That’s…” I let out a short, stunned laugh. “That’s more money than I’ve made in, like, ever.”
His face doesn’t change. “Then you understand the incentive.”
I’m still trying to process it. The number is obscene. Life-changing. Rent-for-life, debt-gone, mom-never-needs-a-cent-from-me-again kind of money.
My pulse kicks hard. “You’d pay me that,” I say slowly, “if I have you married off before the end of the week.”
“Yes.”
“A wife. Not just a date.”
“Yes.”
“That’s insane.”
“So is my timeline.”
I stare at him, half waiting for a smile, a crack in his mask, any sign that this is some kind of test.
There isn’t one. He means it.
“I don’t understand,” I say. “If this is that urgent, why me? Why not hire a professional matchmaker? An agency? Some terrifying society woman with a spreadsheet and a bloodless smile?”
His mouth almost curves. “You underestimate your own usefulness.”
“I think you’re avoiding the question.”
“I think,” he says, taking one slow step closer, “that you’re very good at seeing what people don’t say.”
That stills me.
His gaze drops briefly to my mouth, then lifts again.
“And right now,” he adds, “I need someone I can trust to understand the difference between what looks good on paper and what actually works.”
I let out a breath and look away for a second, trying to think. The number keeps flashing in my mind. So does my mother’s voice. My overdue bills. The way I stood in my kitchen last night wondering how long I could keep pretending I wasn’t drowning.
When I look back at him, he’s still watching me with that same infuriating intensity.
“One week,” I say.
“One week.”
“And if I do this…”
“You get paid.”
I laugh softly, still stunned. “You really think money fixes everything.”
“No.” His voice is quieter now. “Just most things.”
There’s something tired in the way he says it. Something honest.
