Clara stared at him, bewildered. "A proposition?"
"Don't misunderstand," Julian said, turning his full attention to her. "This is not an act of charity. It is a transaction. I have a problem, and you, as it happens, are the solution."
He gestured to the comfortable but worn armchairs in the corner of the gallery. "Please."
It felt more like a command than an invitation. Numbly, she sat down. He remained standing, looming over her, a clear position of power.
"My grandfather," he began, "is the chairman of the board at Thorne Industries. He is also a passionate, and frankly, obsessive, art collector. He believes my life is... lacking in culture. In passion. He has made it clear that he will not approve the next phase of my company's global expansion—a project I have worked on for three years—until I demonstrate some personal stability. In his words, until I 'find a soul'."
Clara couldn't help a small, bitter laugh. "And you came here looking for one?"
His jaw tightened. "I came here for a performer. My grandfather wants me to get married. I require a fiancée for the next six months. Someone who can speak his language. Someone who can look at a painting and say more than 'that's nice.' Someone who can convince him that I have finally embraced the world he loves so much."
The pieces clicked into place, and the sheer, cold-blooded audacity of it stole her breath. "You can't be serious."
"I am never anything but serious," he stated. He reached into his jacket and produced a slim, leather-bound folder, placing it on the small table between them. "I am prepared to pay off every penny of this gallery's debt. I will transfer the deed into your name, free and clear. It will be yours, with no one to answer to. In exchange, you will play the part of my devoted fiancée. You will attend events with me. You will dine with my grandfather. You will, for all intents and purposes, be my masterpiece of deception."
She stared at the folder, then back at his unyielding face. He was offering her everything she wanted, but at an unthinkable cost. He wanted to use her passion, the very core of her being that he disdained, as a tool for his corporate games. It was the ultimate insult.
"No," she said, her voice trembling. "Absolutely not. My gallery is not for sale, and neither am I."
Julian didn't look surprised. He simply nodded. "A noble sentiment. But nobility doesn't stop an eviction. The bank will take this gallery in one week. They will sell off the 'art' in a warehouse auction for pennies on the dollar to pay your debts. This place, your parents' legacy, will become a coffee shop or a vape store. Your mother's paintings will end up in a stranger's hallway."
Every word was a calculated strike, and they all hit their mark. He was twisting the knife, showing her the ugly, brutal reality of her situation.
He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a low, persuasive murmur. "This is your only choice, Miss Hayes. Is your pride worth more than your family's dream?"
He had her trapped. He was offering her a lifeline with one hand while holding her head underwater with the other. To save her soul's work, she would have to make a deal with a man who had none