Darcy
Twenty minutes after laughing in the face of digital death, I'm sitting in complete darkness wondering if my life insurance covers "death by billionaire's revenge."
My apartment is colder than my ex-boyfriend's heart, and about as welcoming.
The power's been out long enough that I can actually hear my neighbor's questionable life choices through the paper-thin walls. Mrs. Katia is apparently having a heated argument with her soap opera again.
"You absolute moron, don't trust him!" she shouts, and I can't help but think she's talking directly to me.
Mr. Orange emerges from his cable fortress, fur standing on end like he's been electrocuted. He gives me a look that clearly says, "This is why I don't pay rent here," before stalking off toward his empty food bowl.
"Yeah, well, join the club, buddy. We're all disappointed in my life."
I pull my ancient laptop closer, squinting at the screen in the darkness.
The file I risked everything for sits there like a digital time bomb. Sixty-seven pages of encrypted data that could either save Leo or land us both in matching orange jumpsuits.
And not the fashionable kind.
My stomach chooses this moment to remind me that energy drinks aren't actually a food group.
When did I last eat? Tuesday? What day is it now?
Time has become this weird, fluid concept ever since Leo got arrested two weeks ago.
Two weeks of watching my baby brother sit in a cell for something he didn't do. Two weeks of lawyers who charge more per hour than I make in a month, all telling me the same thing: Leo's screwed.
The evidence against him is "comprehensive" and "damning" and a bunch of other words that basically mean "your brother's going to prison for twenty years."
Except I know Leo. The kid can barely figure out how to update his iPhone, let alone orchestrate corporate espionage. He's about as dangerous as a golden retriever with anxiety issues.
A sharp knock echoes through my apartment, and I nearly jump out of my skin. Mr. Orange hisses and disappears back into his cable cave.
It's 11:47 PM. Nobody knocks at 11:47 PM unless they're bringing very bad news or very good pizza. And I didn't order pizza.
Three more knocks, perfectly spaced, like someone's following a manual on "How to Be Ominous 101."
I creep to the peephole, and my heart does that thing where it forgets how to beat properly.
There's a man in my hallway wearing a suit that probably costs more than my car. Which isn't saying much since my car is held together with duct tape and prayers, but still.
He's holding a briefcase and an envelope with the Holt Industries logo. Because apparently, when you digitally break into a billionaire's company, he sends you a gift basket.
"Ms. Quinn," the man says, and his voice is so smooth it should come with a warning label. "My name is Henderson. I represent Mr. Lucien Holt."
I press my forehead against the door. Damn.
"If this is about the hacking thing, I plead temporary insanity. And hunger. Mostly hunger."
I have no idea how I'm keeping up the humor with my skipping heart beat.
"Mr. Holt has a proposition for you."
A proposition? That's not terrifying at all. When billionaires have "propositions," people tend to disappear or end up married to their third cousin in witness protection.
"Does it involve keeping all my organs?" I ask.
There's a pause. "Mr. Holt is prepared to assist with your brother's legal situation."
And there it is. The hook. The one thing guaranteed to make me do something incredibly stupid.
"Why? And what's the catch?" Because there's always a catch. Especially when it involves men who can afford to have their own zip code.
"The terms are outlined in this envelope. Mr. Holt expects you at his office tomorrow morning at nine AM. Sharp."
I open the door just wide enough to snatch the envelope, then slam it shut again.
Henderson doesn't seem offended by my lack of hospitality.
"And Ms. Quinn?" His voice carries that special kind of authority that makes you want to apologize for things you haven't even done yet. "Do not attempt to access Holt Industries' systems again. The consequences would be... unpleasant."
He doesn't even give me a chance to respond.
His footsteps fade down the hallway, leaving me alone with an envelope that feels heavier than it should and a growing sense that I'm about to make the second-worst decision of my life.
The first being that time I tried to bleach my own hair and ended up looking like a scarecrow's cousin.
I stare at the envelope. Heavy paper, the kind that whispers "I have more money than your entire bloodline."
The Holt Industries logo is embossed in silver, catching what little light filters through my blinds.
Mr. Orange returns, probably lured by the promise of drama. He sits and stares at me with those judgmental orange eyes.
"Don't look at me like that," I tell him. "It's not like I have a choice here."
He meows once, which clearly translates to "You always have a choice, you just consistently make the wrong one."
Fair point.
I think about Leo, probably lying awake in his cell right now, scared and confused and wondering why his sister and only family can't just fix this like she fixes his computer problems.
I think about the lawyers who've basically given up on him, the evidence that's too clean and too convenient, and the way the whole thing smells like a setup.
And I think about Lucien Holt, who somehow knew I was in his system the entire time and chose to let me take the file anyway. Who's now offering to help the very person who just robbed him.
Either he's the most forgiving billionaire in history, or I'm walking into a trap so elaborate it should come with its own theme music.
I tear open the envelope.
The contract inside is thick, official, and full of legal language that makes my eyes cross.
But three things jump out at me: a ridiculous amount of money, a one-year term, and the words "marriage contract" in bold letters at the top.
I read it again, sure I'm hallucinating from caffeine withdrawal.
Nope. Still says marriage contract.
"Well," I say to Mr. Orange, who's now grooming himself with complete indifference to my crisis. "This is either the best worst idea I've ever had, or I'm about to become the world's most reluctant billionaire's wife."
He doesn't look up from his paw.
Tomorrow at nine AM, I'm walking into Lucien Holt's of
fice. And apparently, I might be walking out as his fiancée or death.
Either way, Leo better appreciate this.