DAISY'S POV
I don't sleep.
I lie in my bed—if you can call a mattress on the floor a bed—and stare at the water-stained ceiling while my mind spins in circles. The card sits on the table across the room, but I can feel it there like it's burning a hole through the air.
Three hundred thousand dollars.
Six months.
A business arrangement.
I've heard those words before. Different context, same promise. Men don't offer women like me that kind of money without expecting something in return, something more than just playing pretend at fancy parties.
But Sebastian Kindre didn't look at me the way most men do. He didn't undress me with his eyes or leer or make some comment about how I'd "clean up nice." He looked at me like I was a solution to a problem. A piece on a chess board.
I'm not sure if that's better or worse.
By the time the sun comes up, I still haven't decided what to do. I drag myself out of bed and get ready for my morning shift at the diner, moving through my routine on autopilot. Shower in the tiny bathroom with water that never quite gets hot enough. Pull my blonde hair back into a ponytail. Cover the dark circles under my eyes with the cheap concealer I've been stretching for three months.
In the mirror, my green eyes stare back at me. They're the only thing about me that anyone ever notices—too bright, too unusual. My aunt used to say they made me look like I was from somewhere else, somewhere better. She didn't mean it as a compliment.
I grab my coat and head out, tucking the business card into my pocket at the last second.
Just in case.
The morning shift is brutal.
We're short-staffed because Tommy called in sick again, which means I'm covering twice as many tables as usual. By noon, my feet are screaming and I've barely had time to catch my breath between orders.
"Daisy, table six needs a refill," Maria calls from behind the counter.
I nod and grab the coffee pot, making my way across the diner. Table six is occupied by a middle-aged man in a rumpled business suit who barely looks up from his phone when I approach.
"More coffee?" I ask.
He grunts and pushes his cup toward me.
I'm pouring when the bell over the door chimes. I don't look up—I've learned not to make eye contact with customers unless necessary—but I hear Maria's sharp intake of breath.
"Well, well," she says. "Fancy seeing you again."
My hand jerks, and coffee splashes over the rim of the cup onto the table.
"Damn it," I mutter, grabbing napkins to clean up the mess.
"It's fine," the man at table six says irritably, waving me off. "Just go."
I straighten up and turn around.
Sebastian Kindre stands just inside the doorway, looking completely out of place in his perfectly tailored navy suit. His eyes find mine immediately, and something in his expression makes my stomach flip.
"You didn't call," he says.
It's not a question.
"I still have—" I glance at the clock on the wall. "—four hours."
"I know." He moves deeper into the diner, ignoring the stares from the other customers. "But I thought we should talk again."
"I'm working."
"So you said yesterday." He glances around the diner with barely concealed distaste. "How much do you make here? Hourly plus tips?"
Heat floods my cheeks. "That's none of your business."
"It is if I'm offering you a better option."
Maria leans across the counter, not even pretending to hide her interest anymore. "Daisy, you want me to call Jerry?"
Jerry's in the back, probably smoking and scrolling through his phone. He won't care about some guy harassing his waitress unless it affects business.
"It's fine," I say quickly. Then, to Sebastian: "Can we talk outside?"
He nods and turns to leave. I follow him out into the cold November air, wrapping my arms around myself. I forgot my coat inside.
"You can't just show up at my work," I say once we're on the sidewalk.
"You weren't answering my calls."
"Because I haven't called you yet."
"Exactly." He studies me with those calculating brown eyes. "Which tells me you're either not interested, or you're afraid."
"Maybe both."
"Are you?" he asks. "Interested?"
I should say no. I should tell him to leave me alone and go back inside and finish my shift. But the words stick in my throat because the truth is, I am interested. I'm desperate. And desperation makes people do stupid things.
"Why me?" I ask again. "There have to be hundreds of women in this city who'd jump at your offer. Women who actually know how to act like they belong in your world."
"I don't need someone who belongs in my world," Sebastian says. "I need someone who won't ask questions. Someone who'll follow the terms of the contract and then walk away when it's done."
"And you think that's me."
"I know it is." He takes a step closer, and I resist the urge to back away. "I had you investigated, Daisy. I know you work two jobs. I know you live in a studio apartment in one of the worst neighborhoods in the city. I know your rent is three months overdue and your landlord is threatening eviction. I know you have no family, no close friends, no one who'd miss you if you disappeared for six months."
The words hit me like physical blows. Each one true. Each one a reminder of how small my life is, how invisible I am.
"That's creepy," I manage.
"That's due diligence." His voice softens slightly. "I'm not trying to insult you. I'm trying to offer you a way out."
"Of what?"
"This." He gestures at the diner behind me, at the street, at everything. "You're drowning, Daisy. I'm throwing you a lifeline. All I'm asking is that you hold on for six months."
I want to be angry. I want to tell him he has no right to judge my life or make assumptions about what I need. But he's not wrong. I am drowning. I've been drowning for as long as I can remember, and I'm so tired of fighting to keep my head above water.
"What's the catch?" I ask.
"No catch."
"There's always a catch."
Sebastian's jaw tightens. "The arrangement is exactly what I said. You move into my home. You attend events with me when necessary. You act like my wife in public. That's it."
"And in private?"
"In private, we maintain separate lives. Separate rooms. No expectations beyond what's outlined in the contract."
It sounds too good to be true. Which means it probably is.
"Why do you need a wife?" I press. "For six months specifically?"
"That's not relevant to—"
"It is if you want me to say yes."
For the first time, something flickers across his face. Frustration, maybe. Or resignation. He's not used to people pushing back, I realize. Not used to anyone questioning him.
"There's a clause in my father's will," he says finally. "I inherit full control of his company when I turn thirty-five, but only if I'm married. If I'm not, controlling interest goes to my uncle, who'll run the business into the ground within a year."
"When do you turn thirty-five?"
"In six months."
The pieces click into place. This isn't about romance or companionship or even convenience. This is about money. Power. Control.
"So you need a wife just long enough to satisfy the terms of the will," I say.
"Yes."
"And then what? We get divorced?"
"The marriage is annulled. Clean break. You walk away with your money, and I keep my company."
I should ask more questions. I should demand to see this contract he keeps mentioning. But standing here in the cold, looking at this stranger who somehow knows more about my life than I wish he did, I realize something.
It doesn't matter.
Whatever Sebastian Kindre's real motives are, whatever he's not telling me, it can't be worse than what I'm already living. I'm twenty-three years old, and I have nothing. No education beyond high school. No prospects. No future except more shifts at the diner and more nights in my falling-apart apartment.
Three hundred thousand dollars could change that. It could give me options. A chance to start over somewhere new, somewhere no one knows me.
"I want to see the contract," I say.
Sebastian's expression shifts—not quite a smile, but close. "Does that mean you're saying yes?"
"It means I want to see what I'm agreeing to before I sign my life away."
"Fair enough." He pulls out his phone and types something quickly. "I'll have my lawyer send over the documents this afternoon. Read through them. If you have questions, call me."
"And if I don't like the terms?"
"Then we negotiate." He pockets his phone and meets my eyes. "But, Daisy? You're going to say yes. We both know you don't have any other choice."
The truth of it stings, but I don't argue.
He's right.
I watch him walk back to his car and drive away, and then I stand there on the sidewalk for a long moment, trying to figure out what I've just agreed to.
A way out, or a trap.
I guess I'll find out.