I blinked, stunned for a second. I stared at him, my heart tightening in my chest not from love, of course not, but from the coldness of it, the way his words cut without warning, without care. Just like that, he said it. That I wasn't desirable. That I wasn't enough, not even to spark a flicker of attraction.
I swallowed hard and forced a smile to mask the sting. "So, I'm not the kind of girl you find attractive," I said, keeping my tone light, almost amused. "Yet here you are, asking me to marry you." My voice sounded so strong and bold, but hey! I did not want him to know his statement hurt me.
But why should I feel hurt that he did not find me attractive or desirable?
He didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. "Most women I know and find attractive come from money. They don't need anything. Certainly not enough to sign a contract like I want you to sign. And even if they agreed, they'd expect more: emotional investments, eventual power, maybe even a family. That's not what I want. I only want someone who wants money; if they find me attractive, they would start making plans on how to make this permanent, which is not something I can give. I need someone who needs my money more than I need them."
Double ouch.
I nodded slowly, trying to keep my expression neutral, even as the heat rose behind my eyes. This man… He had a gift for speaking daggers while wearing a silk glove. But what he didn't know, what he clearly underestimated, was that I could play the same game. I might not have his wealth, or his status, or his cold detachment, but I had my pride. I had my own sharp edges.
And I wasn't as fragile as I looked.
"You've got a real way with words," I said with a small, icy smile. "Truly. Any girl would be lucky to be insulted so elegantly. Who knew being desperately broke could finally qualify me to be someone's wife?" I tried chuckling, but it didn't come out nice.
His brow lifted slightly, amused. Maybe he thought I'd cry or break or beg. But I'd done my crying in silence, behind hospital curtains and on empty train rides home. I didn't break easily. He tilted his head slightly, one eyebrow lifting again in that maddeningly arrogant way of his.
"Well, if it makes you feel better, I've always found desperation more honest than ambition. At least you're not pretending to love me for who I am."
A pause.
"You're just here for the money. And I'm just here for the position of a married man, the image. So really, we're perfect for each other." He gave a slow, dry smile, not warm, not kind but calculated. " You're still getting more out of this than most women ever get from love. Don't act insulted." He looked at me in a way that showed he was silently asking me to fill in my name.
That made me remember that we have been talking for how long now, discussing marriage and we didn't even know our names. He'd made it clear that this wasn't about love or desire. That I was simply useful. A placeholder. A woman who was desperate enough to trade her name and body for money, well, maybe not 'body' in the way you would think. So why would he care about knowing my name in the first place?
And fine. Maybe I was desperate.
I am desperate.
But I'd make damn sure he never forgot that it was his idea to ask me. I sat still for a few seconds after he finished speaking, the silence stretching between us like a taut thread ready to snap. So that was it. He wanted a wife who wouldn't expect love, wouldn't demand affection, and wouldn't complicate his life with emotions. Someone quiet, compliant, desperate. Someone like me who wouldn't request more.
I should've felt humiliated. Maybe I did. But the feeling was buried beneath something heavier—responsibility, fear, urgency. This wasn't just about me. This was about Peter. About the surgery that could save his legs. His life.
If I had to marry a cold, emotionally unavailable billionaire to make that happen, then so be it.
But that didn't mean I'd walk into this blindly.
He thinks I'm desperate. And he's right. But I'm not stupid.
I looked at him closely now, not at the sharp jawline or those expensive clothes, but at the man behind them. Calculated. Controlled. Probably used to getting his way. The kind of man who was always five steps ahead.
So I had to be six.
If I were going to do this, I'd need to protect myself, not just my body, but my dignity and my sanity. I'd need clear boundaries. I'd need control over a few things at least like my movements, my choices, and, above all, the right to walk away when this was over.
He wants to bind me in a contract? Fine. But I'll have my own terms.
I straightened, meeting his gaze with more steel in mine than I'd shown before. "The name is Carrie Brown," I replied without vigor and then continued. "If I agree, I want it written in black and white how long this arrangement lasts, what you're responsible for, and what I get out of it. Including my brother's treatment."
His brows arched slightly, either impressed or amused; frankly, I didn't care which.
"I also want the freedom to pursue my studies or work, as long as it doesn't interfere with the image you're trying to project. I'm not going to be some bird locked in a golden cage."
He leaned back, clearly intrigued now. He was going to say something, but I cut him off.
"And when this ends, it ends. Cleanly. I want a clause in the contract that guarantees I walk away with enough to start over. I won't be left stranded after playing your wife for God knows how long."
I paused, pulse steady, even though my hands were clenched in my lap.
"I may be desperate," I said softly, "but I'm not disposable."
He gave a slight nod, his expression unreadable. But I could tell he hadn't expected that much fire. Maybe he thought I'd jump at the offer, no questions asked.
He was learning now that I wasn't the weak, trembling maid he assumed I was.
And if I was going to wear his ring, I'd do it on my own terms.
He leaned back slightly, arms folded, eyes locked on me in a way that felt both calculating and amused. Like I'd just turned the tables on a game he thought he had full control over.
Interesting.
"I wasn't expecting a maid with a spine," he said at last, his voice low, edged with something like respect, though it was wrapped in sarcasm. "I thought you'd just nod and accept. Maybe cry a little. Beg, even."
"Well," I replied, meeting his gaze evenly, "you thought wrong."
He stared at me for a beat longer than necessary, as though reassessing everything he'd assumed about me since I first opened the door. And in that pause, I knew I had done something he didn't see coming.
I had made myself a player, not just a pawn.
Then he smirked, not a full smile, not the charming kind that could melt hearts, but one corner of his mouth curved up in a way that said he was intrigued, maybe even a little challenged.
"Fine," he said slowly, drawing the word out like a test. "You want it in black and white? You'll get it. I don't do verbal agreements anyway. You'll have a lawyer go over the terms. I'll have them draft it tonight. And I am a generous man, by the way. I had mentioned earlier that you would get your freedom as long as you do not jeopardize my corporate image; the marriage would not be out in the open; I just need to be able to say I am married anytime the need for it comes, and when there is a need to show who my wife is, that is where you come in. I know they will search for your background or if you had a scandalous past or are currently doing something scandalous. You need to be clean as a whistle, and regarding your job, I would find you something better if you insist on working. We don't want them finding out my wife is a hotel maid, now do we?"
I stayed quiet, watching him as he stood and adjusted the cuffs of his pristine shirt like this whole conversation had been part of some boardroom negotiation.
"You'll get your brother's surgery. The best hospital, the best doctors, whatever it takes. He'll want for nothing while this marriage lasts." He took a step closer, and though his tone remained casual, there was steel beneath it. "But just as you won't be disposable, I won't be undermined. This arrangement benefits both of us. The moment you breach that, I pull the plug."
Fair. Harsh, but fair.
I gave a slight nod, unsure what expression to wear. Part of me still wanted to slap that smug look off his face, and another part of me, one I hated, felt strangely relieved. At least he wasn't pretending this was something it wasn't.
"I can live with that," I said quietly.
He reached into his coat, pulled out his business card, and handed it over to me. I looked at it and gaped. No fucking way this is Tyler Yates. Oh my freaking God!
"Place a call to my office. We'll arrange a meeting. Paperwork. Everything formal."
Then, just as he turned to leave, he paused by the door, glanced over his shoulder, and added, "You're not what I expected. That's… probably a good thing."
And then he was gone.
The door clicked shut, but his presence remained, like the echo of a storm that had passed but left the skies darker.
I sat there, numb, my body still humming with adrenaline. I hadn't even processed the shock of who he truly was, let alone the weight of what I had just agreed to.
A contract marriage.
With a cold, calculating billionaire who didn't find me attractive but found me useful, who is a popular hotel magnate. Popular for his success and playboy lifestyle.
And yet… for Peter, I would sign a thousand contracts.
Even if it meant signing away parts of myself I'd never get back.