Darcy
I'm standing in the lobby of Holt Industries at 8:55 AM, which is approximately 8:55 AM earlier than I've been awake in the past three weeks.
My stomach is making sounds that could be mistaken for a dying whale, and I'm pretty sure my left eye is twitching from caffeine withdrawal.
The lobby looks like what would happen if minimalism and intimidation had a baby and raised it on a diet of pure anxiety.
Everything is white marble and sharp angles, like they hired a team of architects whose only instructions were "make people feel small and inadequate."
Mission accomplished.
The receptionist behind the desk has the kind of perfection that makes you wonder if she's actually human or just a very advanced android programmed to make mortals feel like peasants.
Her smile is so flawless it should come with a warning label.
"Ms. Quinn," she says, and even my name sounds sophisticated in her voice. "Mr. Holt is expecting you."
She gestures toward an elevator that looks less like transportation and more like a portal to another dimension.
Specifically, the dimension where billionaires keep their egos.
The elevator has no buttons. Just a sleek panel with a single glowing 'P' that probably stands for Penthouse, or Purgatory, or Please-God-Let-Me-Survive-This.
As we ascend, I catch my reflection in the shinning doors and immediately regret every life choice that led to this moment.
My brown hair looks like I stuck my finger in an electrical socket, my hoodie has a mysterious stain, and my jeans have seen better days.
I'm about to meet the man who could buy and sell small countries, and I look like I just crawled out of a dumpster behind a GameStop.
The doors slide open with a soft whoosh, and I'm suddenly standing in what can only be described as a villain's lair from a Bond movie.
Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the entire city, spread out below like Lucien Holt's personal kingdom.
The office is bigger than my entire apartment building, and probably costs more than my college education.
Which, considering my college education cost me my soul and my credit score, is saying something.
Henderson stands by the door like a well-dressed statue, nodding me toward a chair that looks like it was carved from a single piece of obsidian.
And behind a desk that could double as a landing strip sits the man himself.
Lucien Holt.
Holy. Crap.
I've seen his picture in business magazines, but photos don't capture the mere presence of him. He's not conventionally handsome—more like someone took "dangerous" and "powerful" and sculpted them into human form.
Dark hair, darker eyes, and a jawline that could cut glass. He's wearing a suit that definitely costs more than my car, and he makes it look effortless.
I suddenly understand why people write romance novels about billionaires. Though I bet those heroines never showed up looking like they just lost a fight with a blender.
"Ms. Quinn." His voice is deep, smooth, and has the kind of authority that makes you want to apologize for breathing too loudly. "Punctual. How refreshing."
I sit down, trying not to fidget. "Yeah, well, when someone threatens to make you disappear, punctuality becomes a survival skill."
Something flickers across his face —surprise? Amusement? Indigestion? It's gone before I can analyze it.
He slides a tablet across the desk, and there it is: the marriage contract in all its terrifying glory. The words seem to pulse on the screen like a neon sign advertising my doom.
"I trust you've absorbed the terms," he says, watching me with the intensity of a hawk eyeing a particularly stupid mouse.
"Oh, I absorbed them all right. Like a sponge absorbs water. Or like my dignity absorbs humiliation." I tap the screen. "One year of fake marriage, complete with public appearances and conjugal... wait, no conjugal rights. Thank God for small mercies."
His eyebrow twitches. Actual human emotion!
Mark this day on the calendar.
"This is a business arrangement, Ms. Quinn. Nothing more. You provide legitimacy to certain... social expectations. I provide your brother's freedom and your continued existence outside of federal prison."
"Such a romantic proposal," I mutter. "Really, you're making my heart flutter. And by flutter, I mean stop completely from terror."
Now I'm sure I see amusement in those dark eyes. "Your irreverence is noted."
"Is that going to be a problem? Because I should warn you, I have a tendency to mouth off when I'm nervous. And right now, I'm so nervous I could power the city."
He leans back in his chair, studying me like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve.
"Your brother will be released this evening, pending your signature. The engagement announcement will be made within forty-eight hours."
Leo. Right.
The whole reason I'm sitting here preparing to sell my soul to Corporate Satan.
"And if I refuse?" I ask, even though we both know I won't.
The temperature in the room drops about ten degrees.
"Then you can explain to your brother why you chose pride over his freedom. From whatever remote location I decide to relocate you to. I hear Siberia is lovely this time of year."
"Okay, okay, point taken. No need to get all villain on me." I hold up my hands. "But I want to talk to Leo first. I need to know he's okay."
I have no idea why I'm trusting this man so much.
Lucien nods to Henderson, who's already pulling out a phone like he anticipated this request. Either the man is psychic, or billionaires are really good at reading people.
Henderson hands me the phone, and I dial the number he whispers to me. Leo picks up on the second ring.
"Darcy?" His voice is small, scared, and it breaks my heart into approximately seven million pieces.
"Hey. How are you holding up?"
"I'm scared, Darcy. They keep saying I'm going to prison. Did you... did you find anything that could help?"
I glance at Lucien, who's pretending not to listen while obviously hanging on every word.
"I found something better," I tell Leo. "You're getting out today. This evening. I promise."
The sob of relief that comes through the phone makes my chest tight. "Really? How? What did you do?"
I look at the screen, then at Lucien, who's watching me with an expression I can't read.
"Let's just say I made a deal with the devil. But it's worth it. You're going to be fine, Leo. Better than fine. This whole nightmare is over."
After I hang up, Lucien pushes a stylus across the desk. It's heavier than it looks, like the weight of my impending doom is built right into the metal.
I stare at the signature line.
Once I sign this, I become Mrs. Lucien Holt. At least on paper.
In reality, I become his employee, his business partner, his... whatever this arrangement actually makes me.
"Having second thoughts?" he asks, and there's something almost gentle in his voice. Almost.
"Third and fourth thoughts, actually. But Leo's worth it."
I press the stylus to the screen and sign my name with a flourish that's way more confident than I feel.
The contract chimes softly, like a death knell for my old life.
Lucien's expression shifts, just slightly. The mask slips for half a second, and I catch a glimpse of something underneath.
Curiosity? Respect? Hunger?
"Welcome to the family, Mrs. Holt," he says, and my new name sounds strange in his voice.
I stand up, legs wobbling slightly. "So, what now? Do we shake hands? Exchange rings? Plan the fake honeymoon?"
For the first time since I walked in, Lucien Holt smiles.
It's small, barely there, but it transforms his entire face.
"Now, we begin."