Ty.
In thirty minutes, the hotel maid would walk into my office. I knew she'd call, I'd seen the desperation in her eyes yesterday, the kind that only comes from someone who's been backed into too many corners. That was my cue to act. I made my move.
She's a beautiful woman. I'd be blind to deny that. But thank God I don't find her attractive in the way that matters. I've always preferred my women with poise, sophistication, and class. And it was obvious she had none of that. Not by my standards. Still, I couldn't ignore one thing: she had a presence. A raw, disarming presence.
She must've been through a lot. It was in the way she held her head high, even when I spoke to her like she was nothing. I knew she'd understand the terms. No emotions. No intimacy. Just contracts. That's all this marriage would be. And that's exactly what I wanted.
Except… yesterday, something got to me.
She looked breathtaking. Skin that glowed without effort, hair that framed her face perfectly, just the kind of length I could imagine threading my fingers through if I let my guard down. Her fingers, her voice, her fire, it lingered longer than I wanted to admit.
But I had sworn off two kinds of women. I don't do them at all: those without class and it was obvious she had none, but her attitude! Oh my God! She had an attitude that matched mine. That attitude nearly leveled me.
She snapped back without fear, even when she needed me. Most women I've known wouldn't dare. The ones from money? They wanted more of it. So they smiled pretty, laughed when I said something cruel, and swallowed their pride in exchange for mine. But not her. That woman? She threw words at me like she had nothing to lose.
I lied to her yesterday when I said I only surrounded myself with women who didn't need anything. The truth? They all needed something: status, validation, or my wealth. Greed was their common thread.
But I didn't tell her that. Why should I make her feel better?
I wanted her to understand what she was getting into. No romance. No illusions. I had long accepted a loveless life; as long as I had a healthy sex life, nothing else mattered.
And we're not pretending to love each other; that alone makes everything easier. No heartbreak, no messy expectations, no tangled emotions. Just money in exchange for a role she plays well. That's the deal, and for now, it works.
I don't know how long this arrangement will last. Maybe a year, maybe five. If it were up to me, I'd let it stretch forever, so long as we keep things clean and clear. No strings. No demands outside the ones on paper. But knowing the kind of woman she is, she'll want a defined timeline. Something exact. Logical.
Fine. Five years. That should be enough time to silence the board members and shut down their whispers. Ever since they decided I lacked a "family image," they've been circling like vultures. My grandfather built the company with legacy in mind; family was the cornerstone of everything. And now they're trying to use that against me. Because I'm unmarried? Because I don't smile for the cameras with a ring on my finger?
Imagine the irony. They're questioning my character and my ability to lead while conveniently forgetting that I built a thriving company from scratch. That I turned a stagnant name into a global empire. Yet here we are, arguing reputation over results.
But after this marriage? After five years of steady success, visible stability, and no scandal, they won't be able to deny me the seat that was always meant to be mine. I'll file for divorce quietly, without fanfare. Let the contract dissolve and let them guess. If they find out, they'll be too embarrassed to admit they were wrong. If they don't, all the better.
They act like their lives are spotless. But I know better. They've all got skeletons; they've just learned how to keep the closet doors shut. Married? Sure. But perfect? Hardly. Some of them backed me when my father was alive, loyal to his name, not to me. And now they've turned their backs in favor of someone new. Someone who's likely promised them the moon.
When my secretary called to say a Miss Carrie was outside, I had to think for a second. The name barely rang a bell. I remembered her last name, Brown. That stuck.
"Send her in," I said, without much thought.
Then she walked in, and… damn.
She looked even better than I remembered. Maybe I hadn't taken a good look yesterday. Maybe I'd tried not to. But today? She was stunning. Confident. Composed. She had the kind of presence you couldn't ignore, even if you wanted to.
On second thought, she was an attractive woman. Beautiful, even. It was a pity I wasn't interested in her that way, or maybe I was just pretending not to be. If we'd met under different circumstances, I might've already had her beneath me, her fingers tangled in my hair, her lips gasping my name.
But this? This wasn't about lust. This was about business. About survival.
"Take your seat," I said, casually.
She didn't respond. No hello, no smile. Just walked over and sat down, calm as ever. I picked up a pen, pretending to be busy; why, I wasn't sure. Maybe I didn't like the way she made me feel so unprepared.
When Gina, my secretary, brought in the coffee, she still hadn't spoken. If I wanted this meeting to get anywhere, I'd have to speak first.
"I was expecting you'd bring a lawyer to look over the terms," I said, keeping my tone neutral.
"I'm fine without a lawyer. Can I see the contract now? I'm ready to sign it," she said, cool and direct.
No hesitation. No posturing. Just business.
I slid the contract toward her. It had been sitting on my desk for an hour, untouched. My lawyer had drafted it, left space for negotiation, and even offered to reach out in case she had revisions. But she hadn't asked for much.
In fact, she hadn't been demanding at all.
She was here to get what she needed, and suddenly, I wasn't sure if I was in control of this deal anymore.
The contract was simple on the surface but detailed enough to cover every inch of the arrangement. Five years. That was the agreed duration. Within that time, both parties were free to live their lives, travel, work, and even entertain romantic partners if they wished. That clause, in particular, was non-negotiable. He'd insisted on it.
There were other stipulations too, ones that mattered just as much. A mutual non-disclosure agreement was outlined in bold, preventing either of their partners from discussing the marriage publicly or privately, preventing them from also talking about what they share with any person. If they ever did meet, it would be in the controlled privacy of his penthouse. No cozy dinners in public, no "accidental" paparazzi shots. Ty Yates didn't do scandal, and neither would his wife be found in such. He especially didn't want it now.
He had also made sure another condition was clear: Carrie must have a clean record. No legal trouble, no tabloid-worthy drama, nothing that could become an issue down the line. It wasn't personal, at least not entirely. It was about damage control. About image. Always about image.
He watched her now, eyes flickering over the pages. Her fingers were steady, her expression unreadable. She didn't ask questions. Didn't hesitate. Just absorbed the terms like she'd already made peace with whatever was written.
And then, without ceremony, she signed.
He let out a breath, slow and measured. He hadn't even realized he was holding it.
"We'll get married tomorrow," he said, voice even.
She didn't flinch. Didn't blink. "Okay," she said. Then added, "How about my brother's hospital bills?"
She wasn't even looking at him when she asked. That irked him more than it should have.
"I'll start working on it today," he replied. "I believe I can trust you, even though I'm already holding up my end of the bargain before the wedding." He leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing, like he was daring her to take offense.
It was a petty comment. He knew it. Unnecessary. But there was something about her silence that unsettled him. He'd rather have her sharp tongue than this quiet compliance.
She glanced at him then, and for a moment—just a second—he saw the fire flicker in her eyes. Like she wanted to tell him off, just like she had yesterday. But instead, she pressed her lips together, nodded, and said nothing.
That silence? It was deafening.
Where was the girl who'd been a spitfire yesterday? The one who stood her ground even when she needed him most?
Somewhere between that conversation and this room, she'd hidden herself away. And strangely, he wasn't sure if he liked this new version of her better.