The Contract Scheme

There are people I don't quite recognize at Dad's funeral. They look like moguls and tycoons , dressed in silk black , with bodyguards around them. One would think this is the burial of the Mafia. But then, Dad could have been Mafia. Who knows?

"Rachel," I turn around and see Mum walking up to me. "We have to head home soon. The reading of the will will be taking place."

"Can't it be done tomorrow?" How do you read a dead person's will the same day you bury them?

"No, Rachel. It has to be done today. "

"I'll meet you at home. " She looks at me for a lingering second before moving on. I want to see if I can strike up a conversation with any of these people. Maybe attract a business collaboration.

A small smile spreads across my face. I'd just buried my dad in less than ten minutes, and I'm already thinking of striking a deal. Oh well. He wired me that way.

I see one of them walking up to me - Dad's friend , Mr. Westwood.

"Rachel," he smiles. "How do you do?"

"I'm very well, thank you. How do you do?" I reply , as politely as I can.

"I'm alright. Where's your mother?"

"Oh, she's just gone home."

"The poor thing. Is she okay? Make sure you take care of her , " he says with a sympathetic expression on his face -one I don't find irritating, unlike the others.

"Yes, sir, I will."

"If you ever need anything, feel free to come to me, okay?"

"Okay, sir."

"Alright now. I'll be on my way," he says as he gives me a light, fatherly pat on the back and walks back to his car.

Oh well. I guess it's time to head back home.

Once Jason pulls into the driveway, I start to feel nervous. I wonder what could be in that will. I enter the house and see Mum, Aunt Vera, and Aunt Lillian - Dad's sisters ; Collins, Jude, Stephanie, and Rina - my cousins ; lots of other family members whose names I' ve forgotten ; and Dad's lawyer, present to hear Dad's will concerning his properties.

They all stare at me, but I don't care. I greet Mum and walk past the rest of them to take a seat.

"Mr. Raymond?" Mum breaks the silence. "You can go on now, please. "

"Thank you, Mrs. Hartley."

He starts reading out the will, but I'm not even paying attention. I'm soaking up everybody's expressions .

"...and to my only daughter, Rachel Hartley," Mr. Raymond's voice echoes my name, pulling me back to the present. "I bequeath Hartley Holdings, on the condition that she weds within two weeks of this being read. Should she fail to marry within the stipulated time, the company shall be given to my first nephew, Collins."

My mouth goes dry.

I can feel the air tighten around me. It's as if everyone else in the room had taken a collective step back, watching to see if I'd combust.

Two weeks? Huh?

My eyes dart to the paper in Mr. Raymond's hand, as if rereading the words with my own eyes would make them change. Two weeks to find a husband, or everything I've worked for - everything I'd given up so much for-would be gone. Given out to an individual who hasn't worked a day in his life?

Is this his final joke? Some sick, twisted power play from six feet below?

I'd spent the last five years reshaping myself into the daughter he wanted . I walked away from my scholarship at Parsons, dumped my dreams of neurosurgery, and stepped into the cold marble floors of Hartley Holdings just to prove I could be the daughter he expected me to be. I traded experiments for spreadsheets, saving lives for boardroom presentations. I let him mold me into the heir he wanted and sacrificed my dreams for his.

But no.

This is how he repays me.

A lifetime of silent sacrifices, all boiled down to this : get married in two weeks or lose everything. Like I was some pawn in a corporate chess game he was still playing, even in his grave.

"I know this may come as a shock," Mr. Raymond says, his voice softer now. "But this is Mr. Hartley's final wish."

Final wish.

I almost laugh out loud.

Hasn't it always been his wish to control me? To ensure I lived life on his terms? Even in death, he was pulling the strings. And I, the fool, Rachel Hartley, still get tangled in them.

I feel heat rush to my cheeks, a bitter cocktail of anger and humiliation burning inside me. My fists clench in my lap, nails digging into my palms until I almost welcome the sting. At least pain is honest.

"Would that be all?" I ask, my voice sharper than I intended.

Mr. Raymond blinks, hesitating. "Yes... that concludes the reading."

The room stirs as others exchange glances, some trying, and failing, not to look smug or amused. I catch my Aunt Vera smirking behind her lace handkerchief. Of course. They all thought I'd fail. That I'd crumble under this impossible condition.

Let them.

I stand up slowly, smoothing my skirt with deliberate calm. "Thank you, Mr. Raymond."

He gives a respectful nod. "Rachel, if you'd like, I can offer some-"

"I'll handle it," I cut in before he can finish.

I meet every single stare in the room, holding their gazes one by one until most of them shift away. They'd waited for me to fall apart. Prayed for it, even. They were waiting for Hartley Holdings to slip from my grasp.

But if my father wanted to play games with my life, I'd play to win.

Marriage in two weeks? Fine.

If that's what it takes to take everything he'd built and make it mine, I'd do it.

"On that note," he says, quite apprehensively, "I'll be taking my leave."

"That's fine . Jeremy will see you out ."

Mum says. I sink back into the soft leather shoulder and stare at the ceiling, a grand chandelier hanging in the centre, a monstrous piece of crystal and gold that gleams beneath the soft lighting. It was worth a small fortune, probably custom-made in some European factory Dad never even visited. As the crystals sparkled like a sky of tiny suns, a dark thought crossed my mind. I wish-just for a fleeting, wicked moment-that Dad was sitting right beneath it. And then, just as suddenly, the whole damn thing would come crashing down on his arrogant head. Maybe then, he'd understand what it felt like to have your life crushed by something you never saw coming. Instead, he's already gone. And I'm left staring at the chandelier in a room filled with people in stiff suits and different expressions on their faces. It's suffocating.

Mum had been quiet through the whole thing. I guess she's trying to process it too. I bounce to my feet and ascend angrily up the stairs to my room and slam the door.

I lean my head on the wall for a while before collapsing on my bed, the phrase "two weeks" ringing repeatedly in my head. I sat up and placed a call to the kitchen. "I want ice cream and chocolate cake...no no, to my room...make it both flavours...with rainbow sprinkles...thank you." I shouldn't be taking such sweet things, but I need it right now. This is unfair. I'm the reason why Hartley Holdings is where it is today. In fact, I've practically been the CEO ever since I started overseeing things there. I collaborated on projects with other companies, and I brought it public recognition. I should have been made CEO even before he died. I deserve it.

Now I have to get married before I can inherit the company I worked my ass off for. While still wallowing in despair, I hear a knock on my door. That was fast."Rachel, open up!" Giving a heavy sigh, I open the door to reveal Layla, my best friend. She couldn't be at Dad's funeral because she had an interview. She throws herself around me in a hug, and I just stay still. "How are you?" she says as she pulls away and looks at me."Fine." "Yeah, right, spill. It's been a long day" I sigh. Of course I could talk to her about it. Another knock raps on the door. It better be my order this time. I open up, and it is. "Uh, could you make this again, please, at least triple? I have a guest." I say to Emily, the maid who took my order. She beams a smile at me. "Coming right up, ma'am." And she turns to leave. I close the door behind her and make my way to my bed. Layla is already helping herself to some cake. I tell her everything and watch her assimilate it all. The first thing she says is, "We need to find you a husband. ASAP."

I wake up with a start, and instantly as if the universe wants me unhappy, wants me to know that my life would soon be over, the same suffocating dread that had wrapped itself around me the night before comes crashing down on me again like a wave. I lay still for a moment, staring blankly at the ceiling, hoping helplessly that I could shake it off. No such luck. Instead, I feel hollow.

I have a business meeting today. Another company looking to score a deal with us. Normally, I'd welcome this. Thrive on it, even. But this morning, with this gnawing hollowness in my chest? It feels like I'm dragging a dead weight.

Still, business is business. I'm going to do my best. I sigh heavily, rolling off the bed. I make my way to the bathroom and stare at myself in the mirror. My hair is in disarray and there's dried drool on my cheek. A hot shower might melt this dread off my skin at least, I hope.

The bathroom is a sleek display of modern opulence marble floors, floor-length mirror, glass walk-in shower. I stand under the steaming water, letting it beat against my skin as if it could wash away my worries, warming me up to positive hope.

Once I step out, I choose my outfit with care. A custom-tailored cream pantsuit from Elie Saab, its fabric whisper-soft yet commanding in presence. The blazer cinches perfectly at my waist, paired with a matching tailored pencil skirt. A Cartier diamond necklace nestles elegantly against my collarbone, and pearl drop earrings added the right touch of understated class. I also chose a pair of Louboutin heels but decided I'd put on sandals first. I could put on my heels when I get to work.

Hair pulled into a sleek ponytail, lip stick with blush powder on, and I look gorgeous, even with the simplicity of my makeup. I look every inch the heiress and business mogul-in-the-making. The image is perfect. If only I felt half as strong as I looked. If only I were the heiress.

Breakfast's a quiet affair, a single croissant, a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. I don't trust my stomach for anything heavier.

By the time I step out to the driveway, my Bentley is waiting already, glistening under the morning sun. The keys dangling in my fingers. I open the driver's seat then pause. No. I'm not driving today. Not with the way I'm feeling.

"Jason," I called out.

Jason, one of our drivers ,a loyal, efficient man in his late thirties, appears almost instantly. He gives me a polite nod as I toss him the keys.

"You're up today."

"Of course, ma'am."

Sliding into the backseat, I lean my head against the cool glass of the window, letting the city's morning hum lull me into a state of distant observation as we drive past. People bustling, birds singing, walking children, honking cars, life happening all around me.

Then a sudden jolt.

My body lunges forward before the seatbelt yanks me back. My heart thuds.

I blink, straightening. "What the hell"

Jason mutters a curse, unbuckles his seatbelt, and steps out of the car.

Confused, I peer through the windshield. Parked sideways right in front of us, a sleek black McLaren, dangerously angled as though its driver had just screeched into position.

A one-way street.

I shook my head with a sigh. Wonderful. Just wonderful. The exact kind of hassle I didn't need this dreadful, early morning.

Jason could handle this. That's what he was here for.

But as I leaned back, preparing to close my eyes, movement caught my attention.

Jason...is in the air.

My jaw drops.

I blink again. Am I hallucinating? Has Jason discovered a hidden talent for levitation? Is this some bizarre, stress-induced daydream?

No. it's not.

A man tall, broad-shouldered, practically radiating fury, had Jason by the collar, hoisting him off the ground. His other hand clenched into a fist, his eyes burning with a ferocity I'd never seen.

What in the hell?

I throw the door open and jump out, my sandals squeaking sharply on the pavement. A strange mix of anger and frustration flooded me.

"Hey! You put him down. At once."

The man didn't even flinch.

"Ma'am..." Jason croaked, dangling helplessly.

"I said, put him down," I repeat, my voice low and steely.

With a grunt, the man drops him and Jason stumbles backward, gasping, his hands clutching at his shirt.

I fold my arms, glaring. "What happened, Jason?"

Jason's voice shook.

"He appeared out of nowhere. He was driving against traffic, a one-way street. I saw him at the last second. If I hadn't hit the brakes, we'd all be in the hospital. And instead of apologizing... he decided to assault me."

"That's because you spoke to me disrespectfully," the man thundered, his voice booming.

Jason shook his head.

"I didn't! I only told him what he did was wrong." His words quivered.

I place a calming hand on Jason's shoulder.

"Go back in the car. I'll handle this."

He opens his mouth to protest, but I silence him with a look.

Jason turns, casting a wary glance at the man before retreating to the Bentley.

Now, it's just me and Mr. Anger Issues. Mr Anger Issues?. Where did that come from?.

He turns his gaze on me, folding his arms across his chest.

"What? Are you expecting an apology?"

I give a cool smile.

"Of course not. I know your type."

His brow quirks. "Oh really? And what type is that?"

I fold my arms too "The kind that thinks breaking the law and endangering lives is a casual pastime. And doesn't care who they hurt along the way."

He smirks, a slow, disdainful twist of his lips.

"I know it's illegal. I just don't care. About it..., about you or what you think. Nothing's going to happen. Now, if you'll excuse me, why don't you scurry off to whatever little errand it is you're running?"

I stare at him, eyes narrowed, pouring every ounce of fury into my glare. I could have sworn for a fraction of a second his stance shifted. But he quickly masked it with a raised brow.

"Run along now," he says with a mocking grin.

I exhale slowly, tamping down my temper. I could have caused a scene right here and now. But I'm sure people are watching, and I don't want to attract a bad tag, especially for the sake of the company

"Unbelievable." I spin around and march back to the car.

Jason didn't say a word as he drove and the city rolls by in a blur.

At the office, Courtney greets me with her usual bright smile.

"Good morning, Miss. Rachel."

"Good morning Courtney, how are you?"

"I'm fine thank you."

"What's my schedule today"

"You have a meeting with Arclight Corporation at 4:30 pm. Because of the distance, we'd have to leave by 3:30 maximum"

Arclight. One of the biggest players in the industry. Even bigger than us. Slightly. I nodded.

"Get the executive team ready. Make sure Desmond's on board."

"Yes, ma'am."

I immerse myself in back-to-back reports, calls, and project briefs. Anything to shake off the lingering encounter.

As soon as it's 3:30, I head to Arclight with Courtney, Desmond, and the rest of the team. Arclight's headquarters is a gleaming skyscraper all glass and steel, towering confidently over the city.

We were ushered inside by a polished receptionist.

"Mr. Westwood will be with you shortly," she says with a warm smile.

I smile back. For the first time today, I feel hopeful. This could actually be good for us. I'm going to push Dad's utter madness out of my head for this.

We were led into a stunning conference room, mahogany table, plush leather chairs, and a panoramic city view. I took the head seat, adjusting my blazer.

A soft knock.

The door opens...

And in walks Mr. Anger Issues himself.

My heart lurches.

Gone was the street brawler look. He now wore a sharp black tailored suit, dark hair styled with precision, confidence oozing from every pore.

"Good afternoon," he greets, scanning the room before his eyes land, unwavering, on me. "I'm Damian Westwood. CEO of Arclight."

I barely managed to keep my expression neutral.

Of course.

I force a professional smile. "Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Westwood."

His smirk deepens , like he knows exactly who I am.

"Likewise... Miss?"

"Hartley"

His eyes flicker, recognition flashing behind them.

"Right. Well, shall we begin?"

I nod, folding my hands together.

Oh, this is going to be so interesting.

I'm not sure whether I wanted to strangle him or laugh.

But one thing is certain.

This meeting is about to get very, very personal, interesting even. I'm going to make him so uncomfortable. Make him doubt himself. Pour out my despair into this meeting.

Okay Hartley Holdings, let's make a clown of Damian Westwood.

Just after our eyes locked and formal introductions were made, I noticed something, an almost imperceptible expression in Mr Westwood's eyes and a light twitch at the corner of his mouth, a flicker of nerves masked beneath that polished calm.

Was he... flustered?. He disguised it quickly, slipping on his armour of nonchalance and polished professionalism, but I caught it. This could be good. For the first time since my father's will had thrown my world into chaos and a feeling of emptiness, I find myself enjoying a moment. I have the upper hand in this situation. And it feels delicious and intoxicating. Normally, I would have just played the passive role, nodding here, offering a courteous question there, and letting the executives iron out the messy details. But not today. I wanted him cornered. I wanted him to fumble. Leaning forward, I lace my fingers together atop the table.

"So, Mr Westwood," I begin, my voice smooth, "tell me, why exactly does Arclight want a partnership with Hartley Holdings?"

His jaw tenses ever so slightly.

"We're convinced that your company's market presence complements our expansion strategy." I tilt my head, feigning polite curiosity.

"Expansion strategy?. Could you elaborate, please?". Mr Westwood folds his hands together.

"We're targeting emerging markets across Africa and parts of Europe. Your distribution networks offer a significant advantage."

I nod slowly.

"Hmm. So you're looking to use our infrastructure to gain access to territories you haven't been able to penetrate on your own? "

His brow lifts. "Leverage is the word-collaborate... semantics."

I chuckle softly. "Semantics are important in business, Mr Westwood. Words shape deals."

Then, a flicker of something in his eyes. Irritation? Or admiration? I can't tell. Yet. Desmond shoots me a curious glance from across the table. He's probably confused at what was going on.

Courtney makes a smirk. The rest of the executing team are surprised that I'm taking the wheel. I usually leave it to them. Asking questions occasionally. Mr Westwood's team look equally bewildered but maintain calm expressions on their faces. I press on.

"And what exactly are you offering in return for this... collaboration? "

"Technology integration. Joint marketing campaigns. Cross-brand promotions-"

I hold up a hand. "Joint marketing with a company known for hostile takeovers?"

A faint murmur ripples through the room. Mr Westwood's eyes narrow.

"That was a strategic acquisition, not a hostile takeover," he replies coolly while fumbling with his pen and lightly tapping his feet on the floor. I have him where I want him. Discomfort.

"Of course," I say, leaning back in my chair, studying him.

"Let's talk numbers then. Your last quarterly growth report – care to explain the sudden dip? "

Desmond's eyes widened slightly. Courtney's pen paused mid-scribble. Mr Westwood didn't flinch. "Market fluctuations. We're diversifying investments to counterbalance."

"Market fluctuations? " I echo. "Or investor confidence?". A muscle twitched in his jaw. I smirk inwardly.

For the next thirty minutes, I hammer him with question after question - client retention strategies, internal management turnover, scalability concerns and revenue growth.

Every answer he gives, I twist, reframe, challenge, and poke holes in. And every time, I saw him tighten up just a bit more. By the time I finally leaned back, crossing my legs elegantly, Mr Westwood's carefully maintained mask had cracks.

"Well, Mr Westwood," I say with a gracious smile, gathering my notes, "thank you for your time. We'll be in touch."

I know I'm going to accept the proposal. I'm just playing around. His lips pressed into a thin line.

"Of course."As I rise, one of his associates approaches, offering a polite bow. "If you don't mind, ma'am, we'd love to treat you to lunch." I offer him a warm, professional smile.

"Oh, no, thank you very much. Perhaps another time."

He nods respectfully before walking off. My gaze lingers on him for a moment. They really do have polite people in this company. Why's Damian Westwood such an exception? . I start heading out with Desmond and Courtney.

"My, that was intense," Desmond comments."Really?" Courtney interjects,

"I enjoyed it." I laugh.

"Me too."And that's when I heard it.

"Rachel." I freeze. I recognise that voice quite alright. But "Rachel" with no formality?. I turn, a slow smirk curving my lips.

"Yes, Mr Westwood?"

He doesn't reply. Instead, he closes the distance between us, grasps my hand firmly, yet not roughly, and pulls me toward a side hallway.

"We need to talk." Courtney opens her mouth, but I give her a subtle wave. Desmond looks alarmed, and I signal him to stay put.

"I'll be back. You guys head on. Tell everyone I'll be right there." They nod. Apprehensively. I let him lead me, his grip firm but not painful. Oddly enough, it's... warm. Almost protective. Like he doesn't want to hurt me. Well, he shouldn't. His company's reputation could be on the line. He pulls me into a quiet corridor, away from the bustling conference rooms.

Once we're alone, he spins around, pushing me lightly against the wall. His hands shoot up, pinning me gently but firmly over my head.

"Excuse me? " I gasp. He leans in, his face inches from mine. His eyes lock onto mine, hard and unyielding. And I feel a stupid shiver run through me.

"Just so we're clear," he says, his voice low, "I'm not desperate for this deal. Hell, I could close down your company within the twinkle of an eye if I wanted. I'm only doing this because our fathers were friends. Mine asked me to help, so see this as me honouring his wishes. I won't have you play games with me or tease me when I most definitely don't have anything to lose." He leans even closer, my insides tingling at the close proximity.

"I still don't care about you."

His words hit like a slap. His father?. What's his father got to do with this?. Then it hits me. Westwood. The name. Dad's friend. At the funeral. Oh my goodness. I stare back at Damian, stunned. I'd read him wrong. Totally wrong. How come I didn't know about this? Dad didn't mention anything about Arclight. Mr Westwood certainly didn't mention it. But then, pride is a stubborn thing. I square my shoulders, lift my chin, and meet his stare head-on. And that's when I really saw him.

He stands at least 6'2, a towering figure of handsomeness. His dark, sleek hair framed a symmetrical face - cheekbones sharp enough to cut, a strong jawline, and full lips pressed into a frown. His fitted suit barely contains the muscles beneath: broad shoulders and toned arms. A hint of ink peeked from under his collar, a tattoo snaking along his neck. He looks...raw, dominating. Masculinity personified. And for a moment... I forget how to breathe.

"Rachel," his deep voice snaps me back to the present. Without thinking, the words blurt from my lips.

"Marry me." Wait, what? The silence that followed was deafening. Then his brows shoot up.

"What did you just say? " I swallow, straightening.

"Marry me. A contract marriage. Business only." Am I seriously proposing to this man?. I'm such a mess. He looks genuinely amused now. "You're serious? " I draw in a breath. In one fast, breathless sentence, I tell him everything: my father's will, the insane marriage condition, and the looming deadline. His expression slowly shifts from amused to contemplative. When I finish, I hold his gaze.

"So basically... we get married, I get my company, and you honour your father's wish. A win-win situation." He nods slowly.

"Interesting." I brace myself for a flat-out rejection. Instead...A slow, unamused smile spreads across his face, the kind that could make a sane woman run. The kind that made me want to place a slap across that smug face of his.

"I like it," he says. I blink.

"You... do? " He does?. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a sleek black business card and hands it to me.

"Call me. Or text. Whichever, so we can discuss the details."

Yes. He's definitely insane. Before I can process it, he turns on his heel and walks off, his confident stride unhurried. I just stand where he left me, heart thundering in my chest, clutching the card like a lifeline. Did that really just happen? Could this day get any more chaotic?. When I finally returned to my team, they were all waiting with curious glances. I force a neutral expression, sliding the business card into my purse.

"Everything alright? " Courtney asks quietly."That was more intense," Desmond comments. I give a short laugh before I respond.

"Everything's perfect. How about we get pizza on the way? "

"Sounds great. I haven't had lunch," Desmond says, placing his hand on his stomach. Courtney rolls her eyes. I laugh again, but my insides are a whirlwind of emotions. I'm not sure if I'd just made the smartest business move of my life...or the most dangerous mistake of my life.