Sunlight didn't just filter into the room, it assaulted it. Agaton cracked one eye open silk sheets, a ceiling that belonged in an art gallery. He shifted, his skull violently protesting and realized two things with sickening clarity. One, he was in his boxer briefs. Two, he was in the multi-million dollar penthouse of his CEO, Crystal Martin.
The bedroom door clicked open. Crystal leaned against the frame, immaculate in a tailored suit, sipping black coffee. "Relax, Agaton. We didn't sleep together," she said, her voice entirely devoid of warmth. "But you are going to marry me.
Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Agaton lay paralyzed beneath a duvet that probably cost more than his car. His brain, sluggish from whatever premium liquor he had inhaled the night before, scrambled to process her words. marry me. He squeezed his eyes shut, praying for a reset. When he opened them, Crystal was still there.
She wasn't smiling. It wasn't a joke. Agaton sat up slowly, clutching the duvet to his chest in a pathetic display of modesty. His mouth tasted like stale copper and bad decisions. He rubbed a hand over his face, feeling the rough scrape of morning stubble.
"I need some water," he croaked. Crystal didn't move to get him any. She simply nodded toward a crystal carafe sitting on the nightstand to his left. He reached for it with trembling hands, pouring a glass and downing it in one long, desperate gulp. The cold water hit his empty stomach like a stone.
I'm going to assume, Agaton started, his voice rasping, that I'm still drunk, or that I hit my head on the marble floor out there. You didn't hit your head, though you did trip over the Persian rug in the foyer. Crystal took a slow sip of her coffee. She looked perfectly rested. Her dark hair was pulled back into a severe, flawless chignon.
Not a single strand was out of place. She looked exactly as she did in the boardroom, untouchable, calculating, and terrifyingly competent. You passed out on the sofa. I had my security detail move you to the guest bed. Guest bed?
Agaton echoed. He looked around. If this was the guest room, he couldn't fathom the master suite. Floor to ceiling windows offered a panoramic, dizzying view of the Seattle skyline, currently wrapped in a cynical gray drizzle. Yes, guest bed, you've been asleep for 7 hours.
She checked the thin gold watch on her left wrist. It is currently 8:30 on a Sunday morning, which means we have roughly 48 hours to get our story straight before the board meeting on Tuesday. Agaton dropped his feet over the edge of the mattress. The hardwood floor was heated. Of course, it was.
He spotted his trousers neatly folded on a velvet armchair in the corner. His dress shirt was draped over the back. He stood up, ignoring the way the room tilted slightly to the left and walked over to his clothes. He didn't care that he was standing in his underwear in front of his billionaire boss. He was 34, a single father, and completely exhausted by life.
Dignity was a luxury he had stopped affording 3 years ago. He pulled his trousers on, his mind finally catching up to the gravity of the situation. Crystal, Miss Martin, I don't know what kind of game this is, but I have a 7-year-old daughter who is currently with a babysitter I pay by the hour. I need to go home. I've already transferred $5,000 to your babysitter's account.
I told her you were pulled into an emergency executive offsite and that she is compensated for the entire weekend. Agaton froze, his zipper half up. He looked at her, really looked at her. Her face was a mask of polite indifference, but there was a tightness around her eyes, a micro expression of absolute desperation. You track down my babysitter.
I am the CEO of a global logistics firm, Agaton. Finding the phone number of a college sophomore in Ballard is not exactly a herculean task. She stepped fully into the room, setting her coffee cup down on a glass vanity. I didn't touch your phone. I had my assistant pull your emergency contact file from HR.
It took 3 minutes. He finished zipping his pants and grabbed his shirt. That is a massive violation of privacy. It's a down payment, she countered, her voice dropping an octave. The cool veneer cracked just a fraction.
Sit down, Agaton. You look like you're going to fall over and we have a lot to discuss. He didn't sit. He buttoned his shirt, misaligning the buttons on the first try and cursing under his breath as he started over. There's nothing to discuss.
I got drunk at the company holiday party, which by the way, I only attended because HR made it mandatory for middle management. I clearly made an ass of myself. You brought me here out of some misplaced sense of pity or liability avoidance and now you're messing with me. I don't do pity and I certainly don't do practical jokes. Crystal crossed her arms.
I need a husband by Tuesday and you are the most logical candidate. Agaton let out a harsh barking laugh. It hurt his throat. Logical, right? Because the billionaire heiress and the mid-level supply chain analyst with a maxed out credit card and a kid with chronic asthma make such a sensible pairing.
I'm leaving. He grabbed his jacket from the floor and started toward the door. As he passed her, she didn't step back. She held her ground. $50,000, she said to his back. Agaton stopped.
His hand hovered over the brass door knob. He hated himself for stopping. He hated the way his brain immediately calculated how many months of rent, how many inhalers, how many private tutoring sessions for Lucinda that number could buy. That 50,000 upfront to clear your debts, Crystal continued, her voice perfectly level, aiming right for the bruised, tired parts of his soul. A h 100,000 deposited into a trust for your daughter's education, and a monthly stipend of $20,000 for the duration of the arrangement.
Agaton turned around slowly. What arrangement? A legal marriage? A public relationship? You move in here.
You and Lucinda, you play the part of the devoted, grounding influence in my chaotic, reckless life. She walked back to her coffee cup, running a manicured finger along the rim. It won't last forever. 2 years maximum. After that, an amicable divorce. You walk away with a multi-million dollar settlement.
I walk away with my company intact. Agaton stared at her. The hangover was retreating, replaced by a cold, sharp adrenaline. This wasn't a game. She was dead serious, and she had cornered him with the one thing he couldn't walk away from, survival.