Chapter 2 The Proposal

Clara Evans sat on the edge of her bed, the contract spread open across her lap like a dangerous puzzle. The paper smelled of wealth and control, crisp with legal precision. Her eyes scanned each clause:

Duration: Six months

Compensation: $10 million total, half up front, half after successful completion

Living Arrangement: Adrian Wolfe's residence

Public Appearances: Mandatory events, including galas, press functions, and family engagements

Intimacy Clause: None required; "Public affection as deemed appropriate by client"

Termination: Immediate with breach, no payment if violated

She exhaled. It was real. Unbelievably, terrifyingly real.

From the cracked window of her studio apartment, the city buzzed below, chaotic and unaware of the decision clawing at her chest. Her brother's latest hospital report lay beside the contract. It might as well have been a gun to her head.

She reached for her phone.

"I'll sign," she said when Mrs. Hughes answered.

---

By noon, Clara stood outside the glass fortress that was Wolfe Tower. The skyscraper loomed like a titan, its black facade swallowing sunlight. People in designer suits glided in and out, their lives efficient and polished.

She felt like a smudge on a masterpiece.

Inside the private legal suite, Mrs. Hughes greeted her with a thin smile. "Mr. Wolfe will join us shortly."

Clara nodded, clutching the signed contract in her tote like it might burn through the fabric.

Five minutes later, Adrian entered-flawless in charcoal grey. His presence shifted the air, commanding, cold. He didn't sit. Just stood across the table and glanced at the document she held.

"Read everything?" he asked.

"Yes," Clara replied. "Twice."

"Regrets?"

"Not yet."

He motioned for the folder. She handed it to him. His eyes moved over the signature page.

"No conditions from your end?" he asked without looking up.

Clara crossed her arms. "Just one."

Now he looked at her. "I'm listening."

"You treat me with respect. This may be fake, but I'm still a person, not a pet or a puppet."

A flicker of something passed through Adrian's gaze-approval, perhaps? Surprise?

"Fine," he said. "Respect. Duly noted."

Mrs. Hughes notarized the contract, stamped it, and stood.

"Congratulations," she said. "You are now legally engaged to be married in seventy-two hours."

Clara blinked. "That soon?"

"The deadline is tight," Adrian said. "We'll hold a private ceremony at my estate. No press. Just witnesses."

She bit the inside of her cheek. "So, I move in...?"

"Tonight."

Clara stiffened. "Don't you think we should... I don't know, get to know each other before pretending to be married?"

"You'll know enough," Adrian replied flatly. "I'm allergic to small talk."

"Well," Clara muttered, grabbing her coat. "This is going to be fun."

---

That evening, Clara arrived at Wolfe Manor in a borrowed cab with two duffel bags. She stared up at the mansion, stunned. It wasn't just large-it was obscene. Gated, sculpted, spotless. Like a palace for someone who didn't like to be touched by the world.

A butler opened the door before she could knock. "Miss Evans. We've been expecting you."

She was ushered into a marble foyer the size of her entire apartment building. Velvet drapes, abstract art, a chandelier that looked like it belonged in a museum. Clara felt like she'd walked into a dream... or a trap.

Adrian appeared at the top of the grand staircase, shirt sleeves rolled, tie loosened. He looked less robotic this time-less billionaire, more human.

"Room's ready," he said.

"No welcome tour?" she quipped.

He smirked faintly. "You'll learn as you go."

A housekeeper led her upstairs to a guest suite so elegant it made her throat tighten. Her bed at home had squeaked every time she shifted. This one looked like it could levitate.

As soon as the door shut, Clara sat on the edge and pressed her hands to her face.

What had she done?

---

Dinner was served in a silent dining room with too many forks and too few words. Adrian sat across from her, cutting steak with surgical precision.

"You'll need a new wardrobe," he said mid-bite.

Clara frowned. "Excuse me?"

"You'll be photographed soon. My fiancée can't wear ₦4,000 sandals to a gala."

She glared. "They were ₦6,000, actually. And maybe I don't like playing dress-up."

"You don't have to like it. You just have to do it."

She slammed her fork down. "Let me make something clear. I may be broke, but I'm not brainless. You don't own me."

Adrian leaned back, eyes sharp. "No. I own six months of your time. And if you make this hard, I'll make your life hell."

Clara stood. "I hope the steak chokes you."

She left without another word.

---

Later that night, she stood on the balcony of her suite, staring at the city lights from a mansion that didn't feel like hers. She didn't cry. Not yet. But the knot in her chest twisted tighter.

Behind her, the door creaked open.

She turned. Adrian stood there, his expression unreadable.

"I came to apologize."

Clara blinked. "You don't strike me as the apologizing type."

"I'm not. But I need this to work. So do you."

She nodded slowly.

"I ordered a stylist to meet you tomorrow," he added. "Tell her what you like. You don't need to pretend to be someone else. Just... look like someone who belongs here."

Clara's voice was soft. "Do I?"

Adrian didn't answer. He looked away. "Goodnight, Clara."

As he left, she whispered, "Goodnight... husband."