TOXIC ASSET
The bar smells like stale beer and people who gave up arguing with their lives.
It sits between a closed laundromat and a pawn shop in Queens, the kind of place that exists because someone needs it to. The lights are dim enough to hide exhaustion but bright enough to expose loneliness. I like that about it. It feels honest.
My phone lies face down on the scarred table like an accusation.
I don't need to flip it over to know what's waiting,emails written in corporate kindness.
We've decided to move in a different direction.
We're pursuing other candidates.
At this time, we're unable to move forward.
Translation: Your name is risk.
The bartender slides a drink toward me without asking, like he can smell a woman who has stopped believing in polite conversation.
"Rough week?" he mutters.
I exhale like I've been holding my breath since the termination meeting. "Something like that."
I take a sip and let the burn do what it does best,reduce feeling to sensation. Numbers I can handle. Pain I can quantify. Emotion is messy. Emotion is the market crash you don't see coming.
The chair across from me scrapes the floor.
A shadow settles at my table like it belongs here.
I look up, irritation ready.
And freeze.
He doesn't ask permission to sit. He doesn't smile. He simply occupies the space with the ease of someone who has never had to earn it.
Expensive coat. Unhurried movements. A watch that could pay my rent for a year. Eyes the color of a coming storm.
"You look like hell, Elena Vance," he says.
Hearing my full name in his mouth spikes my pulse. I don't show it. Reactions are currency. I've spent too much already.
"You should see my bank account," I say.
His mouth curves,not humor. Recognition.
"Killian Blackwood," he says, as if the name doesn't need explanation.
It doesn't.
In my world, his name is what gets whispered when a company is dying and someone wants to profit from the corpse. He acquires failing firms, dismantles corruption, sells what's salvageable, and walks away richer while everyone else calls him ruthless as if it's an insult.
"What do you want?" I ask.
He leans forward slightly, lowering his voice like the air itself is listening.
"Marcus Thorne is a mediocre man with a stolen map."
My fingers tighten around my glass.
I don't deny it. Denial is for people who still think the world is fair.
Killian's gaze pins me,sharp and assessing. "He doesn't understand your work," he continues. "That's what he didn't steal properly. Your algorithm isn't just numbers. It's instinct."
My chest tightens. I hate that he's right. I hate it more that he sees it.
"And you're here to enjoy the collapse?" I ask.
"I'm here to buy it," he replies, calm as a contract. "But the board thinks I'm too aggressive. Too volatile. They want stability. Optics. They want a man with a family."
The words land, and I already know what comes next.
My stomach drops anyway.
"So you came to me because,"
"Because you're brilliant," he says simply, as if it's the most obvious fact in the room. "Because you hate Marcus Thorne. And because you've already lost enough to understand what a calculated risk looks like."
He pauses, then delivers the sentence like he's placing a weapon on the table.
"I want a wife."
My breath catches, but my face stays neutral. Neutral is survival.
"A wife," I repeat, buying time.
"One year," he says. "Public marriage. Separate bedrooms. Clear boundaries." His eyes don't soften. "In return, I give you five million dollars, a penthouse, and a legal team powerful enough to kill Marcus's narrative and restore your name."
A contract.
A merger.
A transaction.
Except my pulse doesn't treat it like business.
Because the offer isn't really money.
It's leverage.
And I haven't had leverage since Marcus shut the doors on me.
I stare at Killian Blackwood and realize something I don't like admitting even privately:
I'm considering it.
Not because I believe in romance.
Because I believe in outcomes.
I set my glass down carefully, the way I do when my hands want to shake.
"What's the catch?" I ask.
His gaze doesn't waver.
"The catch," he says, "is that you will be watched. Judged. Used." He leans closer, voice dropping. "And if you confuse this for rescue, you'll lose again."
I swallow hard.
"I'm not looking to be rescued," I say.
Something flickers behind his eyes,approval, maybe. Or relief.
"Good," he murmurs. "Because I'm not offering rescue. I'm offering structure."
I should laugh. I should walk out. I should protect the last scraps of my dignity.
But dignity didn't save me last week.
Evidence didn't save me last week.
Loyalty didn't save me last week.
I look at him, and for the first time since the banner congratulated Marcus Thorne, I feel the outline of a weapon in my own hands.
"Show me the contract," I say.
Killian's expression doesn't change, but the air does.
He reaches into his coat and slides a folder onto the table like he came prepared for the only answer that matters.
My gaze drops to the cover page.
BLACKWOOD FAMILY OFFICE
PRIVATE AGREEMENT , SPOUSAL ARRANGEMENT (TERM: 12 MONTHS)
The language is precise. Sharp. Designed to prevent ambiguity.
My eyes flick to the clauses.
Separate bedrooms.
Public appearances as requested.
Non-disclosure mutual.
A "morals" clause,worded broadly, which means it's a weapon unless I narrow it.
A termination clause triggered by "material breach."
An addendum titled REPUTATION MANAGEMENT PROTOCOL.
"This is… thorough," I say carefully.
"It has to be," he replies. "Anything less is theatre."
I glance up. "And why do you need theatre?"
He holds my gaze. "Because the market values stability even when it's fake. So does a board."
I absorb that. Not the words,the honesty.
He's not pretending this is romantic.
He's not even pretending it's kind.
He's saying: this is how power moves.
And I'm being offered a seat at the table.
I flip to the compensation section.
Five million, disbursed in tranches.
I'm not naïve. Tranches mean control.
I look up again. "I want the first tranche in escrow, not tied to performance."
Killian's eyes narrow slightly. "You're negotiating."
"I'm not signing another document that turns me into a liability," I say. "Not even yours."
Silence.
Then, a slow exhale from him,like I've passed a test I didn't know I was taking.
"Fine," he says. "Escrow."
My heart thuds. Not excitement.
Recognition.
This is real.
I flip to the legal support section. A named firm. A real one. Expensive enough that my stomach tightens again.
I tap the page. "I want an IP strategy. Not just defamation cleanup. I want my name cleared and my work traced."
Killian nods once. "You'll get it."
"And I want a clause that prevents your mother," I stop, because that's a guess.
Killian's expression tells me it's not a wild one.
"You'll meet her," he says evenly. "We'll address it."
I keep reading. My mind moves fast, grabbing the pressure points: where I could be trapped, where I could be protected, where I could be leveraged.
The longer I stare at the paper, the clearer the truth becomes:
This isn't about love.
This is about survival.
I look up.
"And if I say no?" I ask.
Killian's gaze is steady, his voice flat with certainty.
"Then Marcus wins," he says. "Quietly."
I hold his stare, my throat tight, my anger cold and organized.
Quietly is the part I can't tolerate.
Quietly is how women disappear in this industry,no scandal, no fight, just a slow suffocation under other people's narratives.
I reach across the table.
Not for his hand.
For the pen.
"I don't do romance," I say.
"Neither do I," Killian replies.
I signed.
The ink dries fast. Like the city is eager to lock me into my next mistake.
When I slide the folder back to him, his fingers brush mine,brief, accidental, electric in a way I refuse to analyze.
"Tomorrow," he says, standing, "you meet my legal team. Tonight, you go home and sleep."
I almost laughed. "Sleep?"
He pauses, then looks at me with something that feels dangerously close to understanding.
"Sleep," he repeats. "Because war requires rest."
He leaves without another word, and I'm left staring at my signature on a contract that could either rebuild me…
…or finish what Marcus started.