Chapter 1 - The Billionaire’s Proposal
“Good,” I repeated, resting my hands on the small iron table between us in Bryant Park. “Because the last thing I need is a man who thinks emotional collateral is a fun hobby. My ex-husband already exhausted my lifetime supply of dramatic lies.”
Julian Shaw did not blink. His amber-flecked grey eyes simply assessed me, as if measuring whether I was an asset to acquire or a liability to avoid. He adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, the afternoon sunlight catching the sharp angle of his jawline.
“Ryan Collins,” Julian said quietly.
I stiffened. “How do you know that name?”
“You are sitting in the park where my company’s logistics headquarters is visible three blocks away, wearing an NYU sweatshirt under a camel coat, and your best friend Nina Brooks happens to be my firm's lead corporate restructuring accountant. When Nina submitted your resume for this position—pardon me, this arrangement—she provided a comprehensive briefing.”
“She gave you my life story?” I asked, heat rushing to my cheeks.
“She gave me your statistics. Twenty-nine years old. Office manager for a mid-sized architectural firm in Long Island City. Divorced eleven days. Former name Collins, now legally Parker again. And most importantly, deeply, profoundly motivated by righteous fury.” Julian leaned back, crossing his long legs. “I respect efficiency, Mia. You want to show your ex and his new bride that you aren't broken. I want my family office off my back so I can finalize our acquisition of Apex Logistics without my mother staging a hunger strike in the lobby. It is a mutually beneficial transaction.”
“An employment contract with a diamond ring,” I muttered, echoing Nina’s words from the morning.
“Precisely.” He slid a thick cream-colored envelope across the metal table. “Review the terms. A baseline monthly stipend of fifteen thousand dollars. A luxury one-bedroom apartment in Tribeca, fully furnished, entirely yours to use. A clothing allowance handled through a designated stylist—though you appear to have good taste already. In exchange, you attend three specific high-society galas this quarter, smile for the cameras, and hold my arm while my mother asks intrusive questions about grandchildren.”
I opened the folder. The legal jargon was dense, written with the cold precision of a man who owned skyscrapers. But my eyes went straight to the signatures page. There was already a signature at the bottom: Julian H. Shaw. Bold, sharp, unhesitating.
“And if I break a rule?” I asked, looking up.
“There is only one cardinal rule,” Julian said, his voice dropping an octave, losing its conversational cadence and turning into something heavy and absolute. “We maintain absolute discretion. No outside entanglements that compromise our public image. No media leaks. And whatever happens behind closed doors in the Tribeca apartment stays between us. At the end of twelve months, you file for an uncontested divorce on grounds of irreconcilable differences, and the apartment is deeded directly to your name, alongside a severance payment of five hundred thousand dollars.”
Half a million dollars.
For a year of playing arm candy to a man who looked like an editorial spread in GQ.
In my kitchen just hours earlier, I had been eating cold lo mein out of a cardboard carton while my ex-husband posted honeymoon pictures with the woman who had lied to my face. Ryan thought he had discarded me like old trash. He thought I would spend months crying into my pillows.
Instead, destiny—or rather, my accountant best friend—had dropped a four-billion-dollar parachute at my feet.
“What’s the catch, Julian?” I asked, narrowing my eyes. “Men worth four billion dollars don't pull wives out of architectural offices in Queens unless there is a clause buried on page fourteen that turns me into a corporate scapegoat if your software tanks.”
“There is no scapegoat clause,” he replied smoothly. “Read it. You have forty-eight hours.”
May you like
“I don’t need forty-eight hours.” I pulled a pen from my coat pocket, flipped to the signature page, and wrote Mia Parker in sharp, defiant letters right beneath his name. “Where do we sign the actual marriage license?”
Julian looked down at my signature, a faint, almost imperceptible twitch of amusement touching the corner of his mouth. “City Hall, tomorrow at ten in the morning. Wear something ivory. My mother loves tradition.”
