Chapter 5

Dominic walked into the drawing room and slammed the heavy oak door shut behind him. The loud bang rattled the brass fixtures.

He didn't turn around. He walked straight to the window, shoving one hand into his pocket, presenting his broad, rigid back to her.

Cynthia stopped three feet away. She crossed her arms over her chest, her posture defensive, her eyes tracking his every movement like he was a dangerous animal.

Suddenly, Dominic spun around. His other hand dipped into his custom-tailored jacket and pulled out a leather checkbook and a solid gold fountain pen.

He scribbled a number so fast the pen nearly tore the paper. He ripped the check out and tossed it into the air. It fluttered down, landing on the Persian rug right at Cynthia's cheap sneakers.

"Ten million dollars," Dominic said, his voice dripping with venom. "Take it, and disappear from my grandmother's sight before the sun goes down."

Cynthia didn't even blink. She didn't look down at the paper that could buy a small island.

She let out a short, breathy laugh. "Is the life of the great Dominic Church only worth ten million?"

The words hit him like a physical blow. His paranoia flared into a raging fire. She wants more. She wants everything.

Dominic closed the distance between them in two massive strides. His towering frame cast a dark shadow over her. The sheer physical intimidation forced Cynthia to tilt her head up, but she refused to step back.

"I know exactly what you are," Dominic snarled, his face inches from hers. "You think you can use a cheap parlor trick on a train to marry into the Church family? You want my assets. You want the billions."

Cynthia stared into his furious, irrational eyes. A pulse of anger beat in her throat. She wanted to punch him.

But then, an image flashed in her mind. Almon, gasping for air under the oxygen mask. Inger's cruel voice threatening to pull the plug.

If she had the title of Dominic Church's fiancée, Inger wouldn't dare touch Almon's medical funding. And the Astor family would back off immediately.

Cynthia's eyes cooled. The anger vanished, replaced by cold, calculating logic.

She walked past him, moving to the antique mahogany desk in the corner. She grabbed a piece of heavy stationery and a pen.

"I don't want your money, and I definitely don't want you," Cynthia said, the pen scratching rapidly across the paper. "But we both have a problem. You need your grandmother off your back, and I need a shield."

Dominic turned, his eyes narrowing into suspicious slits. "What are you doing?"

"A thirty-day contract," Cynthia said, not looking up. "We fake an engagement for one month. After thirty days, we announce an amicable split."

She wrote the terms in sharp, aggressive strokes. "Clause one: Zero interference in each other's private lives. Clause two: Absolutely no physical contact of any kind."

Dominic let out a harsh, barking laugh. "No physical contact? Don't flatter yourself. I'd rather touch a corpse."

Cynthia ignored the insult. Her hand kept moving. "Clause three: During these thirty days, the Church Group will provide a medical sponsorship to the Bowers family. Specifically, covering Almon Bowers' hospital bills. Consider it my acting fee."

She finished writing, spun the paper around, and slid it across the polished wood toward him. She looked up, her eyes completely devoid of lust, affection, or greed. It was a pure business transaction.

Dominic stared at the paper. The medical fee demand fit perfectly with his theory-she was bleeding him for cash. But thirty days of peace to appease his grandmother's failing heart was a tactical advantage. It would give him time to expose this fraud to the world.

He pulled the gold pen from his pocket. He leaned over the desk and slashed his signature across the bottom of the page, the ink bleeding through the thick paper.

Cynthia took the pen and signed her name with quick, precise movements. She folded her copy and slid it into the pocket of her jeans.

"Keep to your side of the line," Dominic warned, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Do not try to climb into my bed."

Cynthia rolled her eyes, a genuine look of exhaustion crossing her face. "I have zero interest in paranoid old men."

Dominic's face turned a dangerous shade of red. The vein in his temple throbbed visibly.

They stared at each other, the air between them thick with mutual hatred and a toxic, crackling tension.

Cynthia broke the stare first. She turned, grabbed the brass doorknob, and pushed it down. "Showtime."