The Impossible Proposal

CLARA

The sterile scent of bleach filled the hospital ward. Sitting closely beside my frail mother, I forced a bright, reassuring smile onto my face, feeling exactly like I was lying through my teeth.

"You’ll be fine, Mom. I promise," I said, desperately painting a picture of total financial stability. "My job pays exceptionally well. My savings will comfortably cover the costs of your chemotherapy very soon."

I had to be the strong one here, but she only responded with a weak, defeated sigh, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

"You shouldn't be squandering your most vibrant years tethered to my illness," she gently scolded, heavy with guilt.

"Stop." I tucked a stray curl behind her ear. "Don't worry about anything. I have it handled."

The fragile atmosphere shattered when her voice dropped to a timid whisper. "How is your father?"

My jaw clenched in involuntary, bitter anger. That man, a phantom of responsibility, hadn't bothered to visit once since the day of her diagnosis.

"I haven't seen him," I stated with flat, icy finality. "And I fervently hope I never cross paths with him again."

Before she could muster the energy to defend his inexcusable absence, I pressed a tender kiss to her feverish forehead. "I have to get to my job. I'll see you later."

In the suffocating back seat of a city cab, I clutched my work bag against my chest with a white-knuckled grip, as if my survival depended on it. Hidden inside was a daunting file that Roman Bancroft, my tyrannical boss, had callously tossed onto my desk last night, like a ticking time bomb meant to destroy my evening.

My mind inevitably drifted to Roman. Dangerous in custom Dior and utterly heartless in tailored Hugo Boss, he had broad shoulders, a razor-sharp jawline, and piercing hazel eyes that possessed the terrifying ability to slice straight through a person's soul. To the rest of the world, he was a walking fantasy. To me, he was a living nightmare in immaculate suits.

For two grueling months, he had dedicated himself to making my existence miserable with impossible deadlines and freezing stares. Yet, quitting was a luxury I couldn't afford. The cold, hard cash I earned through delivering flawless results was the only thing keeping my mother in a decent hospital bed instead of some neglected, rundown public clinic.

Dread peaked the second I stepped into my polished office. Before I could even set my bag down, the intercom buzzed with violent urgency.

"My office. Now."

There was no basic greeting, no polite inquiry—just the sharp, glacial command of a man used to absolute obedience.

"God, give me strength," I muttered. My voice trembled slightly as I forced my legs to carry me down the hallway toward his looming, heavy wooden door.

Stepping into his domain, I instinctively straightened my spine, adopting my professional armor. "Good morning, Mr. Bancroft. You called for me?" I asked, projecting a calm I didn't feel.

He delayed his acknowledgment, keeping his head down. When he finally looked up, his striking hazel eyes locked onto mine with the precision of a sniper.

"Sit," he barked, the underlying irritation lacing every syllable.

I obeyed, slowly taking my seat. The ensuing silence stretched out, thick and suffocating, lasting just long enough to make me nervously fidget in the chair. The anticipation gnawed at my nerves.

Then, without any warning, he shattered the quiet air with two impossible words:

"Marry me."

I blinked rapidly. My brain stalled, unable to process the sheer absurdity.

"What?" I managed to whisper in utter disbelief.

"Don't make me repeat myself," he replied smoothly, his tone terrifyingly casual, acting as though he hadn't just utterly demolished my reality.

And just like that, my nightmare said he wanted to make it legal.