"Reject them all."
Leonardo Cross didn't look up from his laptop as he spoke. His voice cut through the early morning silence of the executive boardroom like a scalpel.
Cassandra Hale blinked from across the sleek black conference table. Her dark red blouse was crisp, her hair twisted into a neat bun, tablet in hand. "All twenty-two?"
"Yes," Leo said, eyes still scanning financial projections. "Every last one."
She sat back in her chair, unimpressed. "That includes an Olympic gymnast, a Victoria's Secret model, and the daughter of a U.S. senator."
"I'm not marrying a tabloid headline."
"You don't need to marry them for love, Leo. You just need to marry."
He glanced up then, gray eyes flat and unreadable. "You think that makes it better?"
She pressed her lips together and swiped through the list on her screen. "You gave me parameters: clean background, presentable, willing to sign an NDA, and preferably able to speak in full sentences. Do you know how narrow that field gets when it has to happen within five days?"
Leo stood and moved toward the wall of windows that framed Lower Manhattan. The sky was gray, heavy with spring rain, and the city moved below in endless motion. Impersonal. Calculated.
He liked that.
"Start over," he said. "No public figures. No one famous, adjacent to fame, or with a verified Instagram account."
"You're narrowing this down to ghosts again."
"I want someone with nothing to lose," he said.
Cassandra arched a brow. "Or someone with no voice to fight back?"
He didn't flinch.
"You're not trying to find a woman," she said quietly. "You're trying to find a loophole."
Leo turned, hands in his pockets. "Exactly."
There was a beat of silence.
Cassandra leaned forward. "Then I need to know what you're not telling me. Because you've shut down every viable option like they're poison."
Leo's jaw ticked.
He considered brushing her off, but Cassandra had been with him long enough to read through silence. Her loyalty was absolute—but earned, not assumed.
"Some things aren't repeatable," he said finally. "And some mistakes cost more than money."
She understood instantly.
It wasn't just business driving this. It was personal. It always was.
"All right," she said after a moment. "Let me revise the profile. Keep it discreet, run it through private databases only. I'll flag low-risk candidates from professional sectors. No socialites. No actresses. Maybe someone practical. Invisible, almost."
"Find me someone who doesn't want love," Leo said. "Someone with their own reasons to walk into something this cold."
Cassandra rose, collecting her files. "And if no one fits?"
"Then I'll make her fit."
As she exited the room, Leo returned to his seat and pulled up the Virexion merger timeline. Five days. That was it.
The clause couldn't be amended. The board was leveraging it because they didn't trust outsiders. Virexion had been family-run for forty years, and Leo—outsider, invader, trillionaire or not—needed to prove he could play nice in the sandbox.
He didn't play nice.
But he could pretend.
He picked up his phone and hit speed dial.
"Ronan," he said, when the voice answered. "Pull me full social, credit, and legal background checks on every applicant Cassandra forwards. I want zero red flags. And anyone with even a whiff of scandal gets cut."
"Yes, Mr. Cross."
He hung up.
Leo wasn't worried. He never was. But somewhere beneath the layers of strategy and control, an old bitterness stirred—quiet and sharp.
Marriage was never supposed to be part of his story.
And yet here he was.
---
Cassandra's new list arrived by nightfall.
She forwarded five potential profiles—anonymous identities marked by case numbers, not names. The files were lean but detailed: age, profession, income, criminal and civil records, personality assessments. All flagged clean.
Leo skimmed the first.
Subject 302: Boutique event planner. Creative, extroverted. Large online presence.
Deleted.
Subject 303: Corporate lawyer. Ivy League educated. Recent high-profile breakup.
Too risky.
Subject 304: Freelance interior designer. Female, 28. Clean legal history. No family ties. Credit instability. Multiple part-time jobs.
Leo paused.
He clicked open her portfolio—modest, elegant designs, clever space use, strong eye for detail. Her résumé listed a BFA from NYU, internships at reputable firms, and three years of inconsistent freelance work.
No photos. No media mentions. No affiliations.
Anonymous.
Interesting.
He scrolled to the personal section. Handwritten responses to character questions:
Q: What do you believe about love?
A: Love is earned, not owed. And I don't owe anyone anything anymore.
His brow lifted.
He clicked deeper. A sample sketch appeared—pen on paper, fluid and precise. Below it, her signature: A. Blake.
Leo closed the file slowly, fingers drumming the glass surface of his desk.
Low profile. Smart. Struggling. No entanglements.
She could work.
Now he just had to find her.
---
Meanwhile, in Brooklyn, Ariana Blake was juggling two things she hated equally: budgeting and bad takeout.
The pad thai on her table was lukewarm and bland. The spreadsheet on her laptop was worse—numbers in red, totals that didn't make sense no matter how long she stared.
Her tiny apartment felt more claustrophobic than usual. The overhead light buzzed faintly. A draft slipped through the cracked window by the sink.
She glanced at the final rent notice taped to the wall. 72 hours until the deadline. After that, eviction.
"You're running out of rope, Blake," she muttered to herself.
She pushed her food away and leaned back in her chair, rubbing her temples.
Maybe she should call Maya and crash on their couch. Maybe she should go home to Ohio and pretend her dream hadn't imploded. But every time she thought about giving up, something in her snapped back.
She wasn't done yet. She couldn't be.
A ping interrupted her spiral.
Email: Subject: Design Inquiry – Immediate Need
Her eyebrows rose. She clicked.
From: contact@crossintl.com
To: arianablake.design@gmail.com
Subject: Potential Contract Opportunity
Ms. Blake,
We've reviewed your design work and would like to meet regarding a confidential project. Please arrive at the Cross International building, 63rd floor, at 9:00 a.m. sharp tomorrow. Ask for Mr. Leonardo Cross.
Professional attire recommended. NDA to be signed upon arrival.
— Cassandra Hale, Chief Counsel, Cross International
Ariana blinked.
This had to be a mistake.
She reread the email twice. The Leonardo Cross? Trillionaire tech mogul and Wall Street warlord? Why would he need an unknown interior designer from Brooklyn?
Was this spam? A prank?
She clicked the sender's domain. Verified. CrossIntl.com.
Legit.
Her heart thudded.
This didn't happen to people like her. Ever.
She stood too quickly, knocking over her chair. She barely noticed. Her mind was racing.
Had someone recommended her? Was this a real job? Or—
She stared down at her half-finished sketchbook. The hotel project. She'd sent it out cold to five firms last week, including an architecture subsidiary rumored to be owned by Cross.
Her throat went dry.
She didn't know what this was. But she was going.
And if this was her one chance, she wasn't going to blow it.
---
The next morning, Ariana stood at the entrance of Cross International in a navy blazer that barely counted as "professional" and heels she hadn't worn since her last failed interview. Her curls were tamed, her makeup minimal. She clutched her portfolio like a lifeline.
The lobby was glass and chrome, staffed by a marble-faced receptionist who barely looked up as Ariana gave her name. Seconds later, she was ushered into a private elevator. Sixty-three floors up. Her stomach dipped with every number.
When the doors slid open, a tall, glacially elegant woman greeted her.
"Ms. Blake. I'm Cassandra Hale. This way."
They entered an office larger than her entire apartment. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A single dark desk. Minimalist décor. And behind it—
Leonardo Maddox Cross.
Ariana stopped cold.
He was taller than she'd imagined. More intense, too—sharp cheekbones, tailored perfection, that unreadable Wall Street gaze. And yet… familiar.
Her mouth parted slightly. "Wait… You're the guy I ran into outside the Fairmont last week."
His brow lifted.
"You dumped coffee on me."
Her eyes widened. "Oh god. That was you?"
Cassandra coughed into her fist.
Leo stood. "You dropped your portfolio," he said, voice even. "I had it returned."
So that's how this happened.
She felt herself blush. "I'm so sorry. I didn't recognize you. I was distracted."
"Clearly."
She bristled at the edge in his voice.
"So," she said, straightening, "you brought me here for a job? What exactly needs designing?"
Leo didn't smile.
"No design work," he said. "This is… a different kind of contract."
Ariana blinked. "What do you mean?"
He reached into a drawer and slid a file across the desk.
"Read it."
She opened it. Legal jargon. NDA. Compensation. Timelines. Then the title hit her:
Proposed Contractual Marriage Agreement
Her heart stuttered.
She looked up slowly. "Is this some kind of joke?"
"I don't joke."
Her throat was dry. "You want to marry me?"
"For one year," Leo said. "Strictly legal. Purely strategic. You'll be compensated, housed, and protected. All terms are negotiable, within reason."
Ariana stared at him, stunned.
"What the hell kind of job interview is this?"
---