Chapter 1 - The Neon Yellow Target
The silence in The Obsidian Club was absolute. It was the kind of heavy, suffocating quiet that usually precedes a car crash.
Julian Sterling did not blink. The scotch in his glass had stopped swirling. He stared at the woman dripping rainwater onto the century-old Persian rug. She looked like she had just survived a shipwreck. Her neon yellow courier jacket was completely at odds with the dim, mahogany-paneled room where memberships cost a quarter of a million dollars a year.
"Delivery for... Julian Sterling," the woman said, her voice shaking slightly. She wiped a wet strand of hair from her eyes, leaving a smudge of grease across her pale cheek. "Signature required."
The elite crowd held its collective breath. Julian’s reckless vow—I will marry the next woman who walks through those doors—was still echoing off the vaulted ceilings.
Julian slowly set his glass down on the mahogany bar. The soft clink sounded like a gunshot. He closed the distance between them with the predatory grace of a man who owned everything he surveyed. Up close, she smelled like rain, cheap coffee, and exhaustion.
"I am Julian Sterling," he said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that commanded the room.
She looked up at him, her brown eyes wide and defensive. "Sign here, please. I'm already late for my next shift."
He took the electronic clipboard from her shivering hands, but he didn't sign. Instead, his dark eyes scanned her face, taking in the dark circles under her eyes and the frayed cuffs of her jeans. She wasn't just tired; she was desperate. Julian recognized desperation. He traded in it.
"What is your name?" Julian asked.
"Harper," she said, frowning, trying to pull the clipboard back. "Harper Evans. Sir, please, I need to go."
"Harper," Julian tasted the name. It was simple. Unpretentious. The exact opposite of Victoria. "How much do you make in a year, Harper?"
The room gasped softly. Harper’s jaw tightened. The exhaustion in her eyes was suddenly eclipsed by a spark of pure, unadulterated anger. "That is none of your business. Give me the board."
"I will give you two million dollars," Julian stated, his voice carrying perfectly through the silent room. "Tax-free. Deposited into your account by tomorrow morning."
Harper froze. The clipboard slipped from her hands, clattering against the marble floor. "What?"
"Two million dollars," Julian repeated, stepping into her personal space. "In exchange for three hundred and sixty-five days of your life. You will live in my home, you will wear my ring, and you will pretend to be madly in love with me for the cameras. At the end of the year, we divorce quietly, and you keep the money."
Harper stared at him as if he were a lunatic. "You're out of your mind."
"I am out of time," Julian corrected sharply. "Do we have a deal, Miss Evans?"
"I'm not for sale," Harper snapped, turning on her squeaking heel and marching back out into the torrential rain, leaving the package—and the bewildered billionaire—behind.
May you like
Julian watched the heavy brass doors swing shut. A slow, dangerous smirk touched the corner of his mouth.
She hadn't said yes. But she had shown him she couldn't be bought easily. And Julian Sterling had never lost a negotiation in his life.
