IVY GALANIS' POV
It has been exactly one week, three days, and twelve hours since the night at White Bunny.
But who is counting? I am.
His words still loop in my mind like a song I can't turn off. They haunt me in my waking and sleeping hours. At work. Through bus rides. During coffee breaks. In the middle of conversations. Because ever since that man leaned close enough for his breath to fan against my neck, something in me has not gone quiet.
Nowhere feels safe enough to protect me from his voice — not even inside my own thoughts. Not even in the way I forget to breathe at red lights. Not when I still hear it, low and deliberate: "Don't tempt me next time with this little black dress of yours, schatz. I would not mind tearing it off you."
My thoughts hijack themselves and drag me back to the feel of his breath against my cheek, the rich scent of him — a musky blend of black vanilla and something darker. Something wicked.
I have replayed every detail of our encounter like it is my favourite forbidden movie — the heat of his gaze, the way the music seemed to dim around us, the press of his card into my palm. My body remembers before my mind can interfere. And now I am here, teetering between curiosity and self-preservation, knowing full well which one usually wins.
And surely, curiosity wins.
Before I can talk myself out of it again, I open the drawer of my vanity and pull out the card — black with gold lettering that catches the light like temptation itself.
Julian Grant.
Sometimes I wonder if I imagined him, if the whole night was just my brain's twisted way of coping with loneliness. But the card is real. The weight of it presses against my palm like proof, reassuring me that it was all real.
I dial.
It rings once. Then twice.
On the third ring, a voice slides through the line — smooth, calm, unmistakably him. "Julian Grant speaking."
My mouth goes dry. "Th-This is Ivy. Ivy Galanis."
A pause. Just long enough to make my stomach twist. Then —
"I have been expecting your call."
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The car arrives exactly twenty minutes later. Of course it does — punctual, sleek, black as midnight. The kind of car that looks like it does not know what traffic means. Inside, the leather smells faintly of cedar and something colder, like expensive secrecy.
I sink into the back seat, anxiety bouncing around my chest and tying knots in my stomach. The city glides by outside — glass towers, neon reflections, people with somewhere to be. All I can think is, what the hell am I doing?
We stop in front of a building that looks too perfect to exist. The Grant Real Estate Empire sign glints silver across the front of it. Taking a deep breath to steady my nerves, I adjust the little cross-body bag I have on and step out before I can change my mind.
Inside, the lobby looks like something that belongs on the cover of Architectural Digest. A receptionist with a voice smoother than silk directs me to the elevator. The penthouse level already glows on the panel when the doors shut. The ride feels endless and quiet — the kind of silence that amplifies your heartbeat. My reflection in the mirrored walls looks small and nervous, yet still standing.
When the doors open, a man is waiting.
He is a tall, dark-skinned man, and calm in a way that immediately steadies the space.
His warm brown eyes regard me gently. He has a clean air of professionalism about him, even though he is dressed in black slacks and a charcoal shirt that fits just right, unlike everyone I passed by in this company who seems to only own tailored suits. He just looks like he is good at being trusted.
"You must be Miss Ivy," he says, smiling politely. "I'm Matthew."
His voice is soft but sure, the kind that could make a storm quiet down. There is something curious in the way he studies me — as if he has seen a ghost and can't decide if it is real.
"Hi," I say, instantly wishing I sounded less awkward.
"This way, please."
We walk through a hallway so pristine it could blind you. The walls are all smooth slate and glass, no fingerprints, no flaws. At the end stands a sleek door without a handle, just a dark panel that hisses open when he scans his card.
"Please, make yourself comfortable. Mr. Julian will be with you shortly."
He bows slightly and disappears, leaving me alone with my heartbeat.
The office could swallow me whole. Every single thing in here gleams — the stone walls, the floor-to-ceiling windows, the skyline framed like a moving painting. Even the silence has money stitched into it.
I perch on the edge of a velvet armchair that looks too rich to touch. It could buy my left kidney and have enough spare to pay my rent for a year. My hands twist the strap of my bag.
Then I hear it.
"I am glad you came."
His voice cuts clean through the room, low and deliberate.
I stand up too quickly.
Julian Grant.
In the flesh. Again.
He stands a few feet away, dressed in all black. The watch on his wrist glints. His expression? Impossible to read. He walks forward with the same calm authority he had at the club, only now, there is something even more magnetic about it all in this setting — as if he is a king in his castle.
"Come," he says, gesturing toward the seat across his desk. "Let us talk."
My legs obey before my brain can protest.
He steeples his fingers, studying me like I am an equation he already knows the answer to.
"Ivy Galanis," he begins. "I don't like wasting time, so I will be direct. "
A folder slides across the table toward me.
"I want us to get married."
I stare. Surely, I misheard. But no, the way he says them — with such conviction, such calm, such audacity — does not leave room for imagination.
"Excuse me?" I ask, barely finding my voice.
"I have done my research," he continues evenly, standing now, perching on the edge of the desk —closer. "I know who you are, Ivy Galanis. You have no living parents. You live with an aunt who treats you like an obligation. You are working two jobs, and still one emergency away from losing everything."
My chest tightens. He says it so plainly, so precisely, it feels like exposure.
"You deserve more," he adds. "I can give you more. In return, I need a wife. Temporarily. One year."
He taps the folder once. "It is all in here. My inheritance clause demands a stable marriage front. You will be compensated accordingly."
"And this is. . ." I start, but the words trail off.
"A marriage contract," he says. "You play the role. I handle the rest."
My hands tremble slightly as I open the folder. It is dense with clauses and expectations. Paragraphs. Dates. One year. Appearances. Discretion. Confidentiality. Financial compensation. No emotional involvement. My pulse drums between each line.
"I don't understand," I whisper. "Why me?"
"Because you are ordinary," he says, without malice. Just honestly. "In my world, that makes you a rarity. You are not a headline or a scandal waiting to happen. You are . . . real."
His words land sharper than he probably intends.
I look back at the folder and notice a handwritten note tucked into the first page: Be with me for a year. Walk away with enough to never worry about a penny again.
I don't notice the black fountain pen until he sets it beside the folder.
"And you think I will agree to this?" I ask, my voice steadier than how I truly feel.
"I think you will consider it." His gaze locks onto mine — steady, unreadable. "People always do when the alternative is surviving instead of living."
He leans forward, voice dipping lower. "I do not expect you to decide now, mein Giftefeu."
My poison Ivy.
The name coils through me, dangerously gentle. It does not sound like a nickname. It feels like a promise.
"Take the contract," he says. "Think about it. But do not take too long. Time is not a luxury people like you and I can afford."
I can only nod, unable to form words.
He pulls back and rises smoothly. "Matthew will see you out."
I clutch the file tightly as I leave.
The moment I step back into the elevator, the air feels thinner. Matthew does not speak at first, and somehow, that helps. When we near the ground floor, he glances at me, calm and kind.
"You will be fine, Miss Ivy," he says softly.
And for some reason, I almost believe him.
Still, as I step into the night with a contract in my hands and a war in my chest, I know nothing about my life will ever be the same again.