Chapter 8

“We can start with making one thing clear: you will be my wife, not my employee.”

“What about love?”

He’s unflappable, the word not giving him even a moment of pause. ‘If I were marrying for love, there would be a contract drawn up for that woman as well.’ He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like love and contracts go hand in hand.

‘So are you saying feelings aren’t important to you?’ I can’t help but ask. It slips out, a genuine question amidst the absurdity of this whole situation.

‘I want an heir,’ he says matter-of-factly, as if discussing a business merger rather than a child. ‘I didn’t build this company to watch it die with me.’

“You’re worried about an heir? But why? I mean, I get why, but why now? You’re still young; you’ve got all the time in the world. Not like you’re a year away from retirement or something.”

He responds with a small, almost imperceptible shrug, a hint of amusement in his eyes. ‘I’m forty-five. Not exactly old, but I don’t have all the time in the world as you’ve stated.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize,” I say, genuinely surprised by his age. I assumed he was in his mid- to late thirties, forty at most.

He looks at me, his gaze assessing. ‘Does the age difference bother you?’ he asks, his voice neutral, giving nothing away.

‘No, age isn’t the problem. The problem is the ridiculousness of this whole situation.’

To my surprise, Ivan reaches out and takes my hand, his touch firm yet not overbearing. He guides me to the sofa in the corner of his office, a piece of furniture that’s always seemed more for show than actual use. We sit down, facing each other, and the unexpected intimacy is disarming. I’m close enough to see the subtle flecks of color in his dark eyes, the faint lines that speak of long hours and hard work.

Sitting on the couch so close to him, I feel like I’m on the verge of combusting. His touch, though simple and seemingly innocuous, feels intensely intimate. It’s different from last night.

‘I understand your hesitancy,’ he says, his voice low and soothing. His eyes hold mine, and I’m trapped in their depths, unable to look away. ‘But being my wife will open many doors for you.’

I listen, half-dazed, as he outlines the benefits of the arrangement. ‘Your nonprofit will be a success from the start with the connections I can provide. And beyond that, you’ll never have to worry about finances.’

It’s too much to try and process all at once. The practical side of me that’s always planning and preparing, can see the logic in his words. The connections, the financial security, they’re things I’ve dreamed of for my nonprofit, for the legacy I want to build in my mother’s memory.

But then he adds something that sends a jolt through me. ‘If you wish to divorce after our child is grown, I’ll ensure that you’re well taken care of.’ The words hang in the air like an unwanted promise, a future so different from anything I’ve ever envisioned for myself.

Divorce. The word echoes in my mind. He’s planning not only for our marriage and our child, but for the potential end of it all. It’s so like him to think ten steps ahead, to plan for every contingency.

I’m torn between admiration for his foresight and a pang of sadness at the clinical nature of it all. Marriage, in my mind, has always been about love, about finding someone to share my life with, not a strategic partnership with exit strategies.

Sitting there with his hand still holding mine, I feel a swirl of emotions. Excitement, fear, confusion, and a strange sense of intrigue. My enigmatic boss is offering me a life that’s both a dream and a challenge.

The practicalities, the benefits, they’re alluring. But the personal cost, the emotional investment, that’s a price I’m not sure I’m ready to pay. And yet as I sit with him, feeling the heat from his hand, listening to his well-reasoned proposal, I can’t help but wonder what if?

A realization hits me like a cold wave, washing away the warmth that his touch had brought. He’s not just asking for my hand in marriage; he’s asking for decades of my life. The intimacy of the moment, the connection I thought I felt, all evaporate under the harsh light of this understanding.

He sees this, us, me, as nothing more than a transaction, a means to an end. The romantic, the dreamer in me, recoils at the thought. I can’t just switch off my feelings and compartmentalize my life into neat, emotionless boxes like he does.

I’m a human, not a chess piece in his strategic game of life.

Gently, but with a firm resolve, I withdraw my hand from his. I need space, time to think and to process this proposition that’s anything but romantic.

I open my mouth, ready to tell him that I’m taking the day off, that I need time to consider his offer and what it means for my future. But before the words can leave my lips, there’s a knock on the office door.