The Billion-Dollar deal

Mornings smelled like burnt espresso and cheap floor cleaner.

It was the kind of scent that clung to your clothes long after your shift ended, the kind that whispered "you're still stuck here." I tied my apron for the third time that day, trying to force the knot to hold like the rest of my life.

The café was buzzing with noise coffee orders, impatient tapping, and the occasional hiss of steamed milk.

My back ached. My feet were screaming. Rent was due in four days. And I still hadn't figured out how to pay Mikey's school fees.

I wiped down the counter and forced a smile as the next customer stepped up, barely looking. "Hi, welcome to Daily Roast. What can I get you?"

"Medium chamomile tea. No sugar."

I paused. Not at the order, but the voice.

It was deep, precise, and smooth the kind of voice that didn't ask it expected. Like velvet laid over steel.

I looked up... and regretted it instantly.

He stood at least six-foot-three, dressed in a tailored black coat that looked like it belonged in some fashion campaign, not in our dusty little café on the 6th.

His hair was dark and perfectly styled, though slightly windswept like he'd just stepped out of a car driven by someone else. But it was his eyes that made my mouth go dry, piercing ocean blue, sharp and unreadable.

They looked over me like I was something on a spreadsheet he hadn't decided whether to delete or invest in.

And I was staring.

His hot my subconsciousness told me

Too long.

And maybe I would've kept staring if my elbow hadn't caught the tray behind me.

Hot tea. Full cup. No lid.

Before I could blink, the cup tipped forward, hot liquid splashing down the front of his pristine shirt.

"Oh my God!"

I gasped, reaching over the counter with a napkin like that would fix a ruined thirty-thousand dollar dress shirt.

"I'm so so so sorry Sir, I didn't mean to please".

The café went silent. Even the espresso machine stopped hissing, like it wanted to hear what would happen next.

He looked down at his shirt, slowly, like he was confirming this wasn't a joke. Then his eyes lifted back to mine. No yelling. No swearing. Just silence and an unreadable look that made my stomach twist.

Then... he pulled a small silk handkerchief from his coat pocket and dabbed at the stain, calm as ever.

"This better not happen twice," he said.

But it wasn't anger in his tone.

It was something else.

Something quieter. Sharper. Like curiosity, barely restrained.

And then I heard it.

My manager's voice cut through the awkward tension behind the bar.

"Aria! Get over here and clean up the spill!"

He froze.

His eyes flicked back at me.

"Aria," he repeated softly, like he was testing how the name felt on his tongue.

That was the moment. The exact second something shifted behind those cold, blue eyes.

He walked away without another word.

I stood frozen, heart hammering, hands shaking, trying to breathe past the panic tightening my throat. My shirt stuck to my back from sweat and nerves. It took all my strength not to collapse on the counter.

"He didn't yell," Tara whispered beside me, blinking. "That man looked like he owns three islands and a private jet... and you poured boiling tea on him. And he smirked?"

I groaned. "Please don't."

She grinned. "You might've just stumbled into your sugar daddy era."

I tossed a napkin at her, but the corner of my lips curved slightly. Just slightly.

But the moment was gone as quickly as it came. The manager, Mrs. Mal stormed out from the back, her sharp heels clacking like gunshots on the tiled floor.

"Aria Reed," she snapped, and not without a hot slap that rang bells in my ears, "That man you almost burned is not a regular." A very quiet and rare one. Do you have any idea what that shirt probably cost? You can't afford to breathe next to it!"

"I said I'm sorry"

"No. Don't apologize. Just mop the floor, stay off the counter, and pray he doesn't report us."

By the time my shift ended, my body felt like it had been run over by caffeine and capitalism. I untied my apron, shoved it into my locker, and pulled on my faded hoodie.

The sun was already dipping low outside. I had forty minutes to get home, start dinner, and help Mikey with his assignments.

Tara caught up with me near the door, slipping me a tiny wrapped candy. "Here. Sweetness for the road."

"Thanks."

"Hey." She looked at me. "That guy... blue-eyes? He didn't look angry. He looked like he noticed you. Like... really noticed."

I shrugged. "I'm not in the business of being noticed."

"Well, you should be. You're cute. And smart. And your life deserves better than this place."

I offered her a tired smile. "We do what we can."

She bumped her shoulder into mine. "Take care of that little brother of yours."

I walked home. I couldn't afford transport tonight. Again.

The sky had turned a soft orange, the wind tugging at my sleeves. My phone buzzed with a reminder:

Mikey's exam fees due in 2 weeks. $5,000 still missing

I swallowed hard.

The walk gave me time to think which was usually the worst part of my day.

What if I can't come up with the money?

What if Mikey had to drop out of school?

What if this was just... it? A life of running between coffee shifts, cleaning jobs, and night shifts at that fast-food place just to survive?

When I opened the door to our tiny apartment, Mikey looked up from the floor, his textbooks spread out like a broken fan. He was thirteen, thin for his age, but sharp as ever.

"Hey, sis!" he called. "You smell like coffee and regrets."

"Charming." I dropped my bag and sank into the old couch. "You eat?"

"Leftover jollof. I saved you the last spoon."

"My hero."

He grinned, and I felt a piece of the day slide off my shoulders. Mikey was my anchor the only family I had left. Mom passed three years ago. Dad walked out long before that.

It was just us now.

And I would work myself to the bone if it meant keeping him in school, in clothes, in a life that didn't look like mine.

I didn't think about the man with the ocean-blue eyes again until much later that night, when I finally collapsed into bed and let my body stop pretending it was strong.

He said my name.

The way he said it...

"Aria."

It was nothing. Just a customer. Just a slip.

Right?

Meanwhile, in a black car parked two streets over...

Julian Styles leaned back in his seat, unbothered by the faint tea stain on his shirt. His driver said nothing. The city lights blinked outside the window, casting shadows across his jaw.

He held the silk handkerchief loosely in one hand.

And murmured to himself.

Aria

He smiled faintly.

"That's the name."

Then, quietly:

"Interesting."

It was past 1 AM, and the room was quiet except for the ticking of the wall clock and Mikey's soft breathing from the mattress on the floor.

I lay on my bed, staring up at the ceiling fan. It spun in slow, sleepy circles, barely cutting through the humidity. My body was aching, but my mind... my mind was wide awake.

I should've been thinking about rent. Or the bill notice on the kitchen counter. Or the late-night text from my second boss asking if I could pick up someone's shift tomorrow at the restaurant.

But I wasn't.

I was thinking about him.

The man with a voice like silk and eyes like storms. Julian. I didn't know his name yet, but that's how he lived in my mind now, cold, sharp, too clean for this city. He didn't belong in our café, didn't belong anywhere near girls like me who walked home on blistered feet and scraped their dignity together like pocket change.

But still.

He said my name.

Aria.

Like it mattered.

I turned over and shut my eyes tight, forcing myself to forget the shape of his mouth when he said it.

The next morning started before the sun did.

Mikey groaned when I woke him up. "It's Saturday," he mumbled.

"I know," I said, handing him bread and eggs. But you've got a school club. "You're the future genius, remember?"

He smirked, half-asleep. "Future billionaire."

I tapped his forehead gently. "Make it happen faster, please. Your big sister needs a mansion."

While he dressed, I pulled on a wrinkled work shirt. My schedule today was back-to-back: café till 2 PM, cleaning shift at the hotel till 6. If I survived both, maybe I could rest before tomorrow's waitressing job.

Maybe.

Maybe not

As we stepped outside, the city was already buzzing. Yellow buses screeched down cracked roads. Street sellers shouted prices like battle cries. Life here didn't pause. It didn't care if you were tired, or broke, or broken.

Mikey waved as he headed for the school gate. I watched until he disappeared into the crowd, then adjusted my bag and headed toward the café.

Across town...

Julian stood in a conference room full of glass and silence.

His assistant read out figures, but he wasn't listening. His mind was elsewhere. Somewhere far from spreadsheets and board members. Somewhere closer to... spilled tea and a trembling voice.

That girl.

Aria.

Not a name he'd expected to hear again. But there it was, echoing in his memory like a chord that hadn't finished playing.

He didn't know why she stood out.

She was clumsy. Nervous. Drenched in cheap perfume and worry.

But she had looked him in the eye and looked like she didn't care who he was. And for some reason... that had stayed with him.

He slipped his phone from his pocket and typed the name into a note app.

Aria Daily Roast Café.

Just in case.

Back at the café, the morning rush was brutal.

I was halfway through mopping a milk spill when Tara bumped into me again.

"Oh my God," she hissed, waving her phone. "Guess who just posted a story tagging this café?"

I blinked. "Who?"

"Julian. Styles. The billionaire. Real estate. Tech. He's like... worth hundreds of millions!"

I froze. "Wait..what?"

Tara shoved the screen in my face. Sure enough, there it was a blurry image of our café front. Captioned only:

"Tea. Unexpected."

And tagged right underneath?

@dailyroastcafe.

I stared at the screen, heat crawling up my neck.

"Oh God."

"You made a billionaire spill his tea," Tara said, laughing. "You're officially famous."

"No, I'm officially unemployed," I muttered.

But deep down... a strange warmth flickered in my chest.

That night, Julian sat in his penthouse study, untouched whiskey by his side. The city lights glittered through the glass behind him.

He scrolled through his calendar of meetings, launches, mergers.

His parents called twice today.

"You need a woman in your life, Julian. "You're thirty. "We're not handing the company to a man who can't build a family."

He rolled his eyes. He didn't believe in love. Not after Nicole. Not after the betrayal. Not after losing his grandmother the only woman he trusted.

But still...

Aria.

Her name pulsed in his thoughts like a small ember refusing to die out.

He clicked on her café tag one more time.

And said softly to no one but the city sky:

"Maybe you're exactly what I need."

Some mornings feel heavier than others.

Not because of anything dramatic, just the quiet weight of surviving.

I stared at the ceiling of our tiny apartment, sunlight creeping in through the broken blinds.

Mikey's alarm buzzed faintly from the other side of the room, but he was already awake, flipping through his science notebook and mumbling formulas under his breath.

"Are you sure it's Sunday?" I asked groggily, my voice still sleep-rough.

He glanced at me. "Yeah. Why?"

I sighed, rubbing my face. "Because it doesn't feel like I rested at all."

He gave a half-smile. "Maybe your dreams were doing night shifts again."

I chuckled despite myself and sat up. The floor was cold beneath my bare feet. I reached for the hoodie hanging by my bed same one I'd worn yesterday and pulled it on.

Another day, another dollar. Or more accurately, another ten if I was lucky.

I had a cleaning shift booked at Rosegate Community Hall, a multipurpose space two neighborhoods away. They paid cash, no questions asked.

I took Mikey with me when I could. It was safer than leaving him home alone, and he used the time to study. It made me feel like less of a failure.

"Ready?" I asked.

He nodded, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. "Always."

We walked the mile to Rosegate. Couldn't afford a cab. The bus routes were slow on Sundays, and I'd rather save the fare for dinner.

The streets were still waking up. Damp sidewalks. A cold breeze cutting between buildings. Someone played jazz from an open window two floors up.

For a moment, I let myself pretend we were in some city where things worked where sidewalks didn't crack and electricity didn't blink twice before staying off.

The manager at Rosegate was a grumpy middle-aged man named Mr. Allen, who always smelled faintly like furniture polish and disappointment.

"You're late," he barked as we arrived ten minutes early.

"No, sir," I said, holding up my phone screen. "See? Nine forty-eight."

He muttered something about "kids with attitudes" and shoved a mop in my direction.

Mikey settled into a plastic chair in the corner and opened his book. I caught him watching me between math problems quiet, observant. He never complained, not even once, about having to tag along.

I hated that.

I hated that he was growing up learning how to survive instead of just being a kid.

Two hours later, my back ached, and my arms were sore. My knees had started to sting from scrubbing scuff marks off the marble stage floor. When we were done, Mr. Allen handed me $25 in cash.

No "thank you." No "good job." Just the rustle of bills and the sound of a man already forgetting I existed.

We stopped at a small diner on the way home, and I used $7 to buy Mikey grilled cheese and a milkshake. He offered to split it, but I shook my head.

"Eat," I said. "You're still growing. I'm already stunted."

He laughed and dug in. The milkshake gave him a whipped cream mustache, and I took a mental picture I'd keep in my heart forever.

These were the golden moments, the ones that didn't cost much but felt like everything.

Back at the apartment, I cleaned up, changed into sweatpants, and opened my planner.

Rent due in 10 days.

$690 still short.

I closed it again. Pretending it wasn't real was easier than staring at numbers I couldn't change.

Instead, I curled up on the couch and pulled a blanket over my legs.

Mikey had dozed off during his science reading. His head leaned to the side, mouth slightly open. His glasses slipped halfway down his nose. He looked peaceful.

I should've let that peace exist.

But my brain didn't rest. It never did.

I thought of everything at once:

The overdue phone bill

My third job cutting hours next week

Mikey's upcoming school trip he hadn't even told me about yet

And... oddly, irrationally...

Him.

The man from the café.

The one I spilled tea on.

I didn't even know his name. He hadn't said it. But the way he looked at me like he recognized me somehow, even though we'd never met it kept replaying in my head, like a line from a song I couldn't shake.

Why was someone like him in a place like ours?

And why did it feel like it wasn't the last time I'd see him?

We lived in a walk-up building on the east side of Brooklyn, not far from Prospect Avenue. The kind of place where the walls were thin, the neighbors were loud, and the rent was always rising but you stayed anyway because where else could you go?

The hallway always smelled like old takeout and bleach. Our upstairs neighbor played Spanish music like it paid his bills. And the heating clanked like it was in pain.

Home.

Or something like it.

I'd just settled on the couch when my phone buzzed. A text from our house agent, Mr. Gardner.

"Hey, Aria. Just a heads up your rent's overdue again. I need something by the 10th, or we'll have to talk about options."

"Talk about options." That was his way of saying find a miracle or get out.

I stared at the screen, thumb hovering over it.

I had nothing to say.

I dropped the phone face down on the table and sank deeper into the couch cushions. Mikey was still asleep beside me, wrapped up like a burrito in my old hoodie. I didn't have the heart to wake him. Not when he looked so peaceful.

By early evening, I'd gotten dressed again and headed a few blocks west, toward Lexington Avenue, where my friend Danika worked at a 24-hour bodega.

She and I had done a few gigs together back in the day cleaning jobs, food service, even one weird night working at a Halloween pop-up shop in Queens.

Danika was street-smart, unapologetic, and never afraid to hustle. If anyone knew where to find extra work, it was her.

She lit up when I walked in.

"Look what the 6 train dragged in," she teased, pulling her curls into a messy bun. "Haven't seen you in a minute."

"Been drowning," I said, leaning against the counter. "Rent's choking me again."

She clicked her tongue. "Same. Capitalism's a disease."

"I need another gig. Anything."

Danika hesitated, then gave me a look. "Okay. I do have something. But it's weird."

"Weird how?"

"Weird as in hush-hush. Cash up front. No receipts. Could be nothing. Could be a little shady."

I raised a brow. "And you trust it?"

Meanwhile, somewhere across the city Upper Manhattan, maybe Julian Styles sat in the backseat of his black Mercedes, scrolling through something on his phone.

The café's name popped up again.

Daily Roast Brooklyn.

That same girl's face flashed in his mind. Not clearly. Just a flicker. A memory.

What was it about her?

She wasn't stunning. Not in the way models were. But there was something... unshaken about her. Unapologetic. Messy, but grounded.

And she'd looked him in the eye.

Most people didn't.

His assistant, Blaze sat up front with the driver.

"Did you find the name of the girl from the café?" he asked suddenly.

Blaze blinked. "The one who spilled on you?"

"Yes."

She tapped something into her tablet. "Working on it. Shouldn't take long. The café manager said her name's Aria Reed. They have her on the books as part-time."

"Aria," he repeated quietly.

A pause.

"Want me to run a background check?"

"No," Julian said. "Not yet."

Back in our apartment, I returned home to Mikey reheating the last two frozen waffles and humming along to a song playing from his phone.

"Hey," he said, tossing me one. "Did you get another gig?"

"Maybe," I replied. "A friend's working on it."

He nodded, taking a big bite. "Think it'll be enough?"

"No idea."

We didn't speak for a few minutes after that. The silence between us was soft, not heavy.

I glanced at the rent note on the fridge. Then at Mikey, who was trying to balance his fork on his nose.I didn't know how we were going to get out of this.

But if it meant saying yes to something weird, something risky, something that felt just a little off maybe that was still better than sinking.

Maybe survival looked a little shady sometimes.

We lived on the east side of Brooklyn, in a worn-out walk-up where the pipes groaned louder than the neighbors and the house agent only showed up when the rent was late.

The streets here always smelled like concrete, deli grease, and damp pavement. Still, something about the New York air made it feel like anything could happen even if it rarely did.

I spent the afternoon cleaning the apartment. It was pointless, honestly. The floor was scratched beyond saving, and the sink dripped like it had a grudge. But doing something, kept the panic quiet.

When Mikey fell asleep after finishing his leftover grilled cheese, I sat with my knees pulled to my chest on the couch, just staring at the fridge.

Our overdue rent notice was still pinned there. I hated how casual it looked like a to-do list instead of a threat.

My phone buzzed beside me.

Unknown number.

I frowned and picked it up.

"Hello?"

There was a short pause, then a woman's voice calm, clipped, and eerily composed.

"Is this Aria Reed?"

"Yes?" My voice came out slower than I meant it to.

"I'm reaching out on behalf of a private client. They've expressed interest in arranging a brief, discreet meeting with you."

I blinked. "I'm sorry, who is this?"

The woman didn't answer directly.

"You were referred through a trusted source. That's all I can disclose at this time."

I sat up straighter. "Referred... for what, exactly?"

"The nature of the meeting will be explained if you choose to accept. The client is willing to compensate you for your time."

Compensate?

This was weird.

I looked over at Mikey, his face relaxed in sleep.

"I don't usually meet with strangers," I said carefully. "Especially ones who won't tell me what it's about."

"I understand," she said smoothly. "There's no pressure. But I'd advise keeping an open mind. Not all opportunities look the way you expect."

Before I could ask another question, she added:

"If you're willing, reply to the number that sent this. You may choose the time and public location. No obligations. We'll respect your decision either way."

Then the call ended.

I sat there for a full minute, phone still in my hand.

What the hell was that?

It didn't sound like a scam. It didn't even sound like desperation. Whoever it was... they weren't begging me. They were waiting.

I opened my texts and sure enough, there was a new one:

"We hope you'll consider. Your comfort and safety are our priorities. Location of your choice."

- B.

My stomach twisted. It was all too vague. No job title. No company name. No clear request.

I thought of Danika. Maybe she had something to do with this. But even she wouldn't toss me into something like this blind would she?

I didn't reply.

I turned off my phone and tossed it onto the coffee table like it had burned me.

That night, I couldn't sleep.

I lay in bed listening to the city through our cracked window car horns, sirens, the occasional dog barking. Brooklyn never slept. And neither did my anxiety.

What if this was dangerous?

But what if it wasn't?

What if this was... a real

Julian Styles didn't beg. He didn't explain himself either. When he wanted something, he took it.

That was the rule. The rhythm. The very foundation of my name.

So when I sat in the obsidian-black leather chair at the head of the Styles International conference room that morning, the last thing I expected was a marriage ultimatum.

Across from me, was my father staring with that same disapproving sneer I had known since childhood.

"You're almost thirty-five, Julian,"

"Thirty" ..

"And still not married,"Henry Styles said flatly.

I leaned back in my chair, ice-blue eyes unreadable. "And yet here I am. Running half your empire."

My mother, Mallory, who sat beside dad cool, elegant, in pearls and polished heels.

"You're a public figure now," she chimed in. "There are expectations. We're not asking you to fall in love. Just... look respectable."

"Respectable?" My jaw twitched. "You want me to play husband like it's a seasonal role."

"If it keeps the board happy, yes," Henry snapped. "If it keeps investors from questioning your personal stability, yes."

My gaze darkened. "You want me to parade some empty socialite for photo ops?"

"You need a wife,"Mallory said simply. "Whether you like it or not. That's the condition. No engagement, no marriage no inheritance."

That was it I stood, are these people not tired of this same topic I told myself.

The room quieted.

Julian was tall lean muscle under crisp charcoal suits. His presence always sucked the air out of a room. Cold. Beautiful. Dangerous. The kind of man you fantasize about and fear in equal measure.

I exhaled slowly.

Then "Fine."

His parents blinked.

"I have someone," I said coolly, adjusting my cufflinks. "We've kept it private."

Ok why I said this i don't know why but it's not a bad idea

Henry narrowed his eyes. "Who?"

I paused and smiled as I thought of the right person to use.

A flash of blonde hair, startled brown eyes, and trembling fingers hit my mind.

I hadn't seen her since that day at the café. Aria Reed.

"She's... unconventional," I said. "Not from our world. But exactly what you want. Quiet. Loyal."

Mallory leaned in. "Does she know?"

"She will," I replied.

I didn't waste time.

I have to meet her since she didn't respond well to what blaze sent to her.

By afternoon, I was in his sleek black Maserati, engine humming as I pulled up to the modest brownstone in Brooklyn. Not my kind of place. But hers.

I had my reasons for not coming with the driver..

I stepped out, crisp boots hitting the sidewalk like punctuation.

Aria Reed lived here.

The girl with shaky hands and stubborn eyes. I remembered the heat of the spilled tea. The sting of her name on my chest is like perfume. There'd been something... pure about her. Too pure.

Exactly what made her useful.

Of course I wasn't a man who chased women. They usually chased me drawn to the mystery, the cold arrogance, the silent confidence I wore like cologne.

But Aria?

She hadn't even looked at him like he mattered.

And now, he was offering her everything.

I rang the doorbell. No answer.

Then I heard a voice inside. Soft. Feminine. And annoyed.

"Hold on, I'm coming!"

The door opened.

Aria stood barefoot in an oversized T-shirt, a dish towel in one hand, blonde hair pulled into a messy bun.

Her skin was smooth and honey-toned, those rich brown doe eyes blinking in confusion as she saw him.

"You?" she said.

I arched my brow. "You remember me."

She stepped halfway into the doorway, hand gripping the knob. "You're that guy from the café."

"Julian Styles," I said smoothly . "May I come in?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"I have a proposition. One you'll want to hear."

Inside, she reluctantly let me sit on a patched-up couch while she folded her arms like armor.

"Make it quick," she said trying to sound annoyed or disturbed but who was she trying to fool I could send that she was scared or anxious about why I came

I studied her.

She had curves she clearly tried to hide under soft cotton. Legs tucked under her like she didn't know how stunning they were. No makeup. No polish.

Not bad, not bad

Just raw beauty. Realness.

I leaned forward, with my knees crossed. "I want you to marry me."

The silence was immediate.

Aria blinked.

"Excuse me?"

"I want you to enter a legally binding contract marriage. With me. For one year. Strictly business."

She laughed.

I didn't.

She stared. "You're serious."

"Very."

"Are you insane?"

"Some would say brilliant."

She stood. "Get out."

"I'll pay you two billion dollars."

Her breath caught.

I smirked, got you there didn't I?

"You'll get one billion upfront. The rest when the year is over. Terms will be simple. You'll attend a few events, smile for the press, play the part. Then we divorce. Clean. Quiet."

Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

I stood, closing the space between us.

I didn't touch her. But my presence... dominated.

"You won't have to sleep with me," I added in a low voice. "Unless you want to."

Her face flushed.

I leaned in, just slightly. "And trust me, Aria. If you do... you'll beg for more."

She shoved me back.

"I don't care how much money you have," she snapped. "You can't buy me."

I didn't flinch. "It's not about buying you. It's about using each other."

"I'm not a pawn."

Now she's wasting my time

"No," I said softly. "You're a solution."

She trembled. "Get out of my house."

I nodded, coolly.

Then reached into my inner pocket, pulled out a black and gold card, and placed it on the table.

"You have 24 hours," I said. "To think. To choose."

She didn't look at the card. Didn't say another word.

I walked to the door and paused. "You should know," I added, voice like ice. "There are women who'd kill for this spot."

She turned to him, fierce. "Then go find one of them."

My lips curled in a wicked half-smile.

"No," I said. "I want the one who doesn't want me."

And then left.

The next morning, I sat shirtless in my penthouse suite, sipping black coffee as I reviewed documents on my tablet. Behind me, the New York skyline glowed beneath a stormy sky.

Nicole's name popped up in my email.

I ignored it.

She'd left me for my business rival, Grey Vale manipulative bastard that he was.

Nicole had wanted power. I had wanted peace.

She chose ambition. I chose silence.

She choose money over love

And now, she was trying to crawl back.

"I heard you're seeing someone new," her message read.

"She won't last. You don't do love, Jules. You destroy it."

Now how did she know that

Sighs

I had to delete the message.

Then, for some reason, I thought of Aria.

No. She wasn't like Nicole.

She was... real.

And she had no idea what kind of game she'd just been invited to.

That night, Aria lay in bed, staring at the card.

Julian Styles.

Billionaire. Control freak. Devil in a suit.

And now the man who had offered her salvation in exchange for pretending to love him.

She could use the money.

She could save her brother's future.

She could survive.

But could she trust herself?

She thought about his voice. The way her name sounded in his mouth, the way his tongue rolled while saying her name. The way her body had reacted when he stood too close. Heat. Confusion. Need.

She pressed her thighs together, shivering.

God, no.

This wasn't a romance novel.

This was a transaction.

So why did it already feel like temptation?

Meanwhile, Julian stood in his dark bedroom, silk sheets behind him, rain tapping against the window like applause.

He watched the city

And imagined what she'd look like in his bed.

Her legs tangled in his sheets.

Her mouth gasped.

Her anger burned into desire.

He didn't smile.

He didn't fantasize often.

But tonight, he let it happen.

And it felt... dangerous.

Because Aria Reed wasn't just a contract.

She was a gamble.

And Julian Styles never lost.....

Julian Styles didn't beg. He didn't explain himself either. When he wanted something, he took it.

That was the rule. The rhythm. The very foundation of my name.

So when I sat in the obsidian-black leather chair at the head of the Styles International conference room that morning, the last thing I expected was a marriage ultimatum.

Across from me, was my father staring with that same disapproving sneer I had known since childhood.

"You're almost thirty-five, Julian,"

"Thirty" ..

"And still not married,"Henry Styles said flatly.

I leaned back in my chair, ice-blue eyes unreadable. "And yet here I am. Running half your empire."

My mother, Mallory, who sat beside dad cool, elegant, in pearls and polished heels.

"You're a public figure now," she chimed in. "There are expectations. We're not asking you to fall in love. Just... look respectable."

"Respectable?" My jaw twitched. "You want me to play husband like it's a seasonal role."

"If it keeps the board happy, yes," Henry snapped. "If it keeps investors from questioning your personal stability, yes."

My gaze darkened. "You want me to parade some empty socialite for photo ops?"

"You need a wife,"Mallory said simply. "Whether you like it or not. That's the condition. No engagement, no marriage no inheritance."

That was it I stood, are these people not tired of this same topic I told myself.

The room quieted.

Julian was tall lean muscle under crisp charcoal suits. His presence always sucked the air out of a room. Cold. Beautiful. Dangerous. The kind of man you fantasize about and fear in equal measure.

I exhaled slowly.

Then "Fine."

His parents blinked.

"I have someone," I said coolly, adjusting my cufflinks. "We've kept it private."

Ok why I said this i don't know why but it's not a bad idea

Henry narrowed his eyes. "Who?"

I paused and smiled as I thought of the right person to use.

A flash of blonde hair, startled brown eyes, and trembling fingers hit my mind.

I hadn't seen her since that day at the café. Aria Reed.

"She's... unconventional," I said. "Not from our world. But exactly what you want. Quiet. Loyal."

Mallory leaned in. "Does she know?"

"She will," I replied.

I didn't waste time.

I have to meet her since she didn't respond well to what blaze sent to her.

By afternoon, I was in his sleek black Maserati, engine humming as I pulled up to the modest brownstone in Brooklyn. Not my kind of place. But hers.

I had my reasons for not coming with the driver..

I stepped out, crisp boots hitting the sidewalk like punctuation.

Aria Reed lived here.

The girl with shaky hands and stubborn eyes. I remembered the heat of the spilled tea. The sting of her name on my chest is like perfume. There'd been something... pure about her. Too pure.

Exactly what made her useful.

Of course I wasn't a man who chased women. They usually chased me drawn to the mystery, the cold arrogance, the silent confidence I wore like cologne.

But Aria?

She hadn't even looked at him like he mattered.

And now, he was offering her everything.

I rang the doorbell. No answer.

Then I heard a voice inside. Soft. Feminine. And annoyed.

"Hold on, I'm coming!"

The door opened.

Aria stood barefoot in an oversized T-shirt, a dish towel in one hand, blonde hair pulled into a messy bun.

Her skin was smooth and honey-toned, those rich brown doe eyes blinking in confusion as she saw him.

"You?" she said.

I arched my brow. "You remember me."

She stepped halfway into the doorway, hand gripping the knob. "You're that guy from the café."

"Julian Styles," I said smoothly . "May I come in?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"I have a proposition. One you'll want to hear."

Inside, she reluctantly let me sit on a patched-up couch while she folded her arms like armor.

"Make it quick," she said trying to sound annoyed or disturbed but who was she trying to fool I could send that she was scared or anxious about why I came

I studied her.

She had curves she clearly tried to hide under soft cotton. Legs tucked under her like she didn't know how stunning they were. No makeup. No polish.

Not bad, not bad

Just raw beauty. Realness.

I leaned forward, with my knees crossed. "I want you to marry me."

The silence was immediate.

Aria blinked.

"Excuse me?"

"I want you to enter a legally binding contract marriage. With me. For one year. Strictly business."

She laughed.

I didn't.

She stared. "You're serious."

"Very."

"Are you insane?"

"Some would say brilliant."

She stood. "Get out."

"I'll pay you two billion dollars."

Her breath caught.

I smirked, got you there didn't I?

"You'll get one billion upfront. The rest when the year is over. Terms will be simple. You'll attend a few events, smile for the press, play the part. Then we divorce. Clean. Quiet."

Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

I stood, closing the space between us.

I didn't touch her. But my presence... dominated.

"You won't have to sleep with me," I added in a low voice. "Unless you want to."

Her face flushed.

I leaned in, just slightly. "And trust me, Aria. If you do... you'll beg for more."

She shoved me back.

"I don't care how much money you have," she snapped. "You can't buy me."

I didn't flinch. "It's not about buying you. It's about using each other."

"I'm not a pawn."

Now she's wasting my time

"No," I said softly. "You're a solution."

She trembled. "Get out of my house."

I nodded, coolly.

Then reached into my inner pocket, pulled out a black and gold card, and placed it on the table.

"You have 24 hours," I said. "To think. To choose."

She didn't look at the card. Didn't say another word.

I walked to the door and paused. "You should know," I added, voice like ice. "There are women who'd kill for this spot."

She turned to him, fierce. "Then go find one of them."

My lips curled in a wicked half-smile.

"No," I said. "I want the one who doesn't want me."

And then left.

The next morning, I sat shirtless in my penthouse suite, sipping black coffee as I reviewed documents on my tablet. Behind me, the New York skyline glowed beneath a stormy sky.

Nicole's name popped up in my email.

I ignored it.

She'd left me for my business rival, Grey Vale manipulative bastard that he was.

Nicole had wanted power. I had wanted peace.

She chose ambition. I chose silence.

She choose money over love

And now, she was trying to crawl back.

"I heard you're seeing someone new," her message read.

"She won't last. You don't do love, Jules. You destroy it."

Now how did she know that

Sighs

I had to delete the message.

Then, for some reason, I thought of Aria.

No. She wasn't like Nicole.

She was... real.

And she had no idea what kind of game she'd just been invited to.

That night, Aria lay in bed, staring at the card.

Julian Styles.

Billionaire. Control freak. Devil in a suit.

And now the man who had offered her salvation in exchange for pretending to love him.

She could use the money.

She could save her brother's future.

She could survive.

But could she trust herself?

She thought about his voice. The way her name sounded in his mouth, the way his tongue rolled while saying her name. The way her body had reacted when he stood too close. Heat. Confusion. Need.

She pressed her thighs together, shivering.

God, no.

This wasn't a romance novel.

This was a transaction.

So why did it already feel like temptation?

Meanwhile, Julian stood in his dark bedroom, silk sheets behind him, rain tapping against the window like applause.

He watched the city

And imagined what she'd look like in his bed.

Her legs tangled in his sheets.

Her mouth gasped.

Her anger burned into desire.

He didn't smile.

He didn't fantasize often.

But tonight, he let it happen.

And it felt... dangerous.

Because Aria Reed wasn't just a contract.

She was a gamble.

And Julian Styles never lost.....