A Fiancée to Make

ROMAN

The heavy, thumping bass of the upscale bar vibrated straight through the floorboards and up into my boots, doing absolutely nothing to soothe the violent irritation clawing at my chest. The lighting was dim, designed to make everyone look dangerous and alluring, but all it did was give me a headache.

“She told me I’d fucking lost my mind and walked out,” I ranted, my voice low but laced with absolute venom. My knuckles were turning a stark, bloodless white as I gripped my heavy crystal glass of whiskey. I squeezed it so tightly I half-expected the expensive crystal to shatter in my palm and slice my hand open.

Sitting across the small booth from me, my lawyer and closest friend, Gideon, threw his head back and laughed loudly. The bastard was practically wheezing, acting exactly as if I had just delivered the greatest, most flawlessly executed joke of the entire year.

“It isn’t funny,” I growled, glaring at him across the polished wood of the table.

“With that kind of approach, what did you expect, asshole?” Gideon asked, finally sobering up just enough to take a long, unbothered swig of his imported beer. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and leaned forward, clearly enjoying my absolute misery. “You’ve made her life a living hell for the past few months. You treat her like garbage, overload her desk every single day, and then out of nowhere, you waltz right into her personal space and tell her to marry you? You’re fucking delusional, Roman.”

I clenched my jaw so hard my teeth ground together. The muscles ticked rapidly in my cheek as I stared him down, but I didn't say a word in my defense. I was forcefully made to swallow the bitter, inescapable truth of his words. He was right, and that only pissed me off more. Gideon was my best friend for a reason—he didn't sugarcoat a damn thing, even when the truth tasted like ash.

“You came up with the idea,” I muttered darkly, shifting the blame onto his shoulders where it belonged. “Now I need a Plan B. And I need it yesterday. If I don’t get married within a month, everything I’ve built, every hour of sleep I’ve sacrificed, goes to total waste.”

This entire infuriating, suffocating situation stemmed from my grandfather’s final, vindictive punch from beyond the grave. The old man practically raised me. He was the only real father figure I had growing up, and I owed my drive and my ambition entirely to him. But the stubborn bastard always had a flair for unnecessary drama, and he just couldn't rest in peace without executing one last, massive power play.

Yesterday, the formal reading of his Will revealed a clause so ridiculous it felt like a sick prank. According to the thick stack of legal documents, I am to inherit 65% of our massive business empire. It is the controlling stake. The ultimate prize. But there was a catch, and it was a massive one: I can only inherit those shares under the strict condition that I marry for love within a month of his death. Furthermore, the marriage must last with absolutely no divorce for at least three long years.

He knew how I felt about marriage. He watched my parents’ absolute disaster of a union destroy everyone around them, yet he still shoved this impossible mandate down my throat. If I fail to meet these ridiculous, highly restrictive demands, the entire controlling stake goes directly to my sorry excuse of a father.

I refuse to let that happen. Over my dead fucking body will Arthur Bancroft lay his filthy, incompetent hands on my company.

It was Gideon who had originally pitched the elegant, highly pragmatic plan to get me out of this trap. *Marry your PA,* he had said yesterday. The logic was completely sound. We could easily fabricate a secret, long-standing romance and sell the lie to the board and the public, considering we have worked closely together in the same office for long enough. More importantly, we could completely avoid any complicated, messy feelings since it is glaringly obvious to anyone with a set of eyes that we absolutely hate each other’s guts.

Except, my brilliant, bulletproof plan hit a massive brick wall when she looked me dead in the eye this morning and said no.

Of course she said no.

Clara wasn't even my own choice for an assistant. I never would have hired someone like her. My father, Arthur, specifically hired her, placing her directly in my office as a so-called "competent" watcher. It was a thinly veiled excuse to constantly keep an eye on my daily operations and report my every move back to him. Because her employment contract was ironclad and heavily protected by HR, I couldn't just outright fire her without triggering a massive internal investigation.

Instead, I spent the last two months systematically trying to break her spirit. I buried her with impossible deadlines, forced her to work late into the night, and treated her with nothing but cold, dismissive cruelty just to force her to quit on her own. I wanted her to pack up her desk and run out of the building in tears.

Yet, she never cracked. She remained annoyingly professional, completely silent, and obedient to a fault. She took every single piece of abuse I threw at her and handed it back as perfectly completed spreadsheets. That is, until today, when she suddenly grew a spine, snapped back, and forcefully rejected my proposal.

Gideon’s phone suddenly vibrated on the table. He glanced at the screen, groaned, and stood up. “I gotta take this. Be back in a minute.”

He stepped away from the table, vanishing into the crowded bar and leaving me completely alone with my dark, spinning thoughts.

Just then, a woman with a highly calculated, overly generous neckline saunters over to my booth. She leans in entirely too close, her cleavage aggressively pushed up and practically spilling onto the table. Her perfume is instantly cloying—a cheap, heavy floral scent that completely masks the smell of expensive alcohol in the room.

“Hey, handsome,” she purrs, her voice sugary and entirely fake. “Can I buy you a drink?”

Normally, I would readily take the distraction. I would use the meaningless, physical encounter as a numbing escape for the night, letting the friction and the anonymity wash away the stress of the boardroom. But tonight, everything feels wrong. My skin feels incredibly tense, my mind racing with legal clauses and impending doom.

“Not interested,” I reply flatly, not even bothering to look at her fully. I keep my eyes fixed on my empty whiskey glass.

The woman doesn't budge. She lingers persistently, shifting her weight and leaning in a little closer. “Just one drink, and then maybe we could—”

Thankfully, my phone vibrates heavily in my tailored pocket, granting me a perfect, undeniable excuse to escape her suffocating perfume. I pull it out, completely ignoring the woman, and step away from the table. I push my way through the heavy velvet curtains and step out into the cool, biting night air of the city street. The sudden quiet is a massive relief.

I look down at the screen and raise my eyebrows in genuine surprise at the caller ID flashing in the dark.

My PA.

I press answer and lift the phone to my ear, the cold wind whipping against the side of my face.

“About your offer…” Clara’s voice filters through the speaker.

I freeze. The tone of her voice is entirely wrong. It is shaky, remarkably hesitant, and completely devoid of the sharp, defiant fire she showed in my office just hours ago.

“Were you... were you serious?” she asks, the words trembling on her tongue.

“Yes.” I deliver the word with zero hesitation. There is no room for doubt in my voice.

“Then I’ll take it,” she whispers into the receiver.

I stand completely frozen on the pavement for a fraction of a second. I can practically hear the quiet, devastating surrender dripping from her words. The line feels heavy with a crushing defeat. Something catastrophic must have broken her down since this morning. Something massive and terrifying has pushed her past her limits into sheer, blinding desperation to make her accept a deal she clearly reviles.

I am a ruthless businessman. I destroy my competitors without a second thought, and I crush anyone who gets in the way of my empire. But I am not cruel enough to pry into that fresh, bleeding pain tonight. If she is desperate enough to sign her life away to a man she despises, she has reached rock bottom. I don't need to dig my fingers into the wound to verify it.

“Good,” I say smoothly, keeping my tone perfectly cool, professional, and entirely measured. “We’ll discuss the terms tomorrow. At the office.”

I end the call immediately. I don't give her a single second to second-guess her decision or back out of the agreement. I slowly slide the expensive phone back into my pocket, staring out at the blurred tail lights of the passing traffic.

She actually said yes.

A cold, calculating thrill of triumph washes over my initial frustration. This insane, desperate plan might actually work. It might completely save my empire and keep Arthur’s grubby hands off my legacy. Or, it might spectacularly ruin absolutely everything I have built over the last ten years. The risks are astronomical.

But for now, I don't care about the risks. For now, I’ve got a fiancée to make.