The Offer
Serena’s POV:
If one more person snapped their fingers at me tonight, I was going to lose my job.
And possibly my mind.
"Excuse me?"
I turned toward table twelve with the kind of smile that deserved an award.
"Yes, sir?"
The man sitting in front of me glanced at his empty glass, then back at me as though I'd personally offended his entire bloodline.
"Do you think I could get some water?"
I stared at the pitcher sitting approximately four inches from his right hand.
"Of course."
I poured his water.
He didn't say thank you.
I smiled wider.
May your pillow be warm on both sides.
"Serena!"
I turned to see my manager, Daniel, motioning frantically toward the entrance.
"What?" I mouthed.
"VIP. Now."
Oh, wonderful.
Because my night clearly wasn't going badly enough.
I straightened my black uniform, tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear, and followed his gaze toward the entrance.
Three men had just walked into the restaurant.
The first two looked like they belonged in a business magazine. Expensive suits, polished shoes, watches that probably cost more than my apartment.
The third man, however, made the other two look like his assistants.
He was very tall, dressed in a black suit that fit him almost unfairly well. His dark hair was neatly styled, his jaw sharp, and his expression so unreadable that I genuinely couldn't tell whether he was bored or contemplating the destruction of an entire country.
His eyes swept across the restaurant.
Then he walked toward the private dining area.
I leaned toward Daniel.
"Who died?"
Daniel looked horrified.
"What?"
"Nobody looks that miserable unless someone died or they just received their electricity bill."
"Serena." He lowered his voice. "That's Damian Blackwood."
I blinked.
Then I blinked again.
"Oh."
Daniel stared at me. "You know who he is, right?"
"Should I?"
"He's one of the wealthiest men in New York."
"Congratulations to him."
"He's also one of the most powerful."
"Congratulations to him twice."
"Could you please behave yourself for one evening?"
I gave him my sweetest smile.
"I'll try my very hardest."
Daniel didn't look convinced.
Honestly, neither was I.
I'd heard of Damian Blackwood. Everyone had. His name appeared in business magazines, gossip columns, and occasionally in those ridiculous online articles about billionaires who apparently never slept.
He was private, intimidating, and rumored to be absolutely impossible to work for.
Wonderful.
Exactly the kind of man I wanted to deal with on a Thursday night.
"Take their order," Daniel instructed.
I looked at him.
"You want me to serve the terrifying billionaire?"
"I want you to do your job."
"Fine. But if he kills me, you're explaining it to my mother."
I picked up my notepad and headed toward the private dining area.
And that was when my evening officially went to hell.
Because Damian Blackwood looked up just as I approached his table.
His eyes met mine.
Dark. Sharp. Unsettlingly focused.
For one ridiculous second, I forgot what I was supposed to say.
Then he tilted his head slightly.
"Can I help you?"
I looked down at my notepad.
"Actually, I'm here to help you. That's generally how restaurants work."
One of the men beside him coughed into his fist.
I was pretty sure he was hiding a laugh.
Damian, however, didn't react.
He simply watched me.
"Your name?"
I glanced at my name tag.
"Serena."
"I can read."
"Then we're off to a fantastic start."
The man to Damian's left suddenly became very interested in his water glass.
I could practically hear Daniel screaming from across the restaurant.
Damian leaned back in his chair.
"Are you always this pleasant?"
"Only when I'm being interrogated before I've even taken an order."
His mouth twitched.
Barely.
But I saw it.
And, annoyingly, I noticed how much better his face looked when it almost smiled.
Almost.
"Bring us a bottle of your best red wine," he said, turning his attention to the menu. "And have the kitchen prepare the chef's tasting menu."
"Any allergies or dietary restrictions?"
"No."
"Excellent. I'll let the kitchen know."
I turned to leave.
"Serena."
I stopped.
The way he said my name was strange. Not soft, exactly. More like he was testing how it sounded.
I looked back at him.
"Yes?"
"Do you always have the last word?"
I smiled.
"Only when someone keeps giving me opportunities."
This time, I was certain I saw it.
A smile.
Small. Brief.
Gone before I could decide whether I'd imagined it.
"Interesting," he murmured.
I frowned.
"What is?"
But he'd already turned back to his associates.
Dismissed.
Just like that.
I walked away with my head held high.
I absolutely did not look back.
Not even once.
Okay, twice.
And I was furious with myself about it.
By ten thirty, the restaurant had finally started to quiet down.
I'd survived three demanding customers, a broken wineglass, and Daniel reminding me six separate times that I needed to be polite to the VIP table.
I was carrying a tray of empty glasses toward the kitchen when a voice stopped me.
"Serena."
I closed my eyes.
Please be somebody else.
I turned.
Damian Blackwood stood a few feet away, one hand tucked into his trouser pocket.
Up close, he was even more intimidating.
Not because he was particularly loud or physically threatening. He wasn't.
It was the opposite.
He seemed completely comfortable with silence. With letting people wait. With knowing that eventually, someone would feel compelled to fill the space.
Unfortunately for him, I wasn't someone.
"Mr. Blackwood."
"Your shift ends soon?"
I glanced at the clock.
"Why? Are you planning to complain about my service?"
"No."
"Request a refund?"
"No."
"Have me fired?"
His gaze held mine.
"Would you like me to?"
I stared at him.
He stared back.
Then I laughed once, without humor.
"Wow. You really are as charming as everyone says."
"Everyone says I'm charming?"
"Nobody said that."
There it was again.
That almost-smile.
He looked down briefly before returning his attention to me.
"I'd like to speak with you."
"You've been speaking with me."
"Somewhere quieter."
I glanced toward the dining room.
"Are you asking me out, Mr. Blackwood?"
The question slipped out before I could stop it.
For the first time that evening, his expression changed.
His eyes moved over my face, studying me with an intensity that made me suddenly aware of how close we were standing.
Then he stepped back.
"No."
I lifted my eyebrows.
"Good. That would've been embarrassing for both of us."
"Would it?"
"Well, you haven't even tipped me yet."
His gaze dropped briefly to the tray in my hands before returning to my face.
"I'll keep that in mind."
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a black business card.
No flashy design. No unnecessary details.
Just his name and a phone number.
He held it out.
I looked at it.
Then at him.
"What is this?"
"My number."
"I can see that."
"Then I assume we're both doing well."
I pressed my lips together to stop myself from smiling.
This man was insufferable.
"Why are you giving me your number?"
"Because I'd like to offer you something."
"A job?"
"No."
"A sponsorship?"
"No."
"A lecture on how to be a miserable billionaire?"
This time, he actually smiled.
It was quick, but it transformed his face so completely that I almost forgot what I'd been saying.
Almost.
"Call me tomorrow," he said.
I took the card between two fingers.
"And if I don't?"
His gaze settled on mine.
"Then I'll assume you're not interested."
That surprised me.
I don't know why. Maybe because I'd expected him to insist. To tell me when to call, where to meet him, what to do.
Instead, he simply waited.
I slid the card into my apron pocket.
"Fine. Goodnight, Mr. Blackwood."
"Goodnight, Serena."
I walked away.
This time, I didn't look back.
Not once.
Because I had a very strong feeling that Damian Blackwood was trouble.
And I had enough trouble of my own.
Unfortunately, I was going to call him tomorrow.
Not because he was handsome.
Not because his voice made my name sound different.
And definitely not because I'd caught him watching me leave.
I was going to call because my mother's bills weren't going to pay themselves.
That was all.
It had to be.
Damian’s POV:
I didn't give strangers my number.
I didn't approach women at restaurants.
And I certainly didn't spend an entire evening wondering why a woman earning an hourly wage had looked at me as though I were the most irritating person she'd ever encountered.
Yet here I was.
Sitting in the back of my car while Manhattan blurred past the window, thinking about Serena Hayes.
"You're quiet," Adrian observed from the seat beside me.
I looked at him.
"Am I supposed to be talking?"
He laughed.
"There he is."
I turned back toward the window.
Adrian had worked for me for six years. He'd seen me negotiate multimillion-dollar deals without blinking, dismantle business partnerships with a single phone call, and walk away from situations that would have sent other men into a panic.
He also had the unfortunate habit of believing he knew me.
"So," he continued, "the waitress."
I didn't respond.
"Interesting choice."
"Careful."
"She insulted you about six times."
"Seven."
Adrian turned toward me.
I realized my mistake a second too late.
His grin widened.
"Seven? You counted?"
I looked at him until his smile faltered.
"Do you have something useful to say?"
"Only that I've never seen you this interested in a woman you met less than two hours ago."
"I'm not interested in her."
"Of course not."
"Adrian."
"Not another word."
He held up both hands, still smiling.
I turned away.
The truth was simple.
My father had spent the past six months reminding me that my personal life had become a liability.
My competitors were speculating about my relationships. My family was arranging introductions with women whose last names carried as much influence as their bank accounts. Every business dinner had become an opportunity for someone to ask whether I intended to marry.
I was tired of it.
More importantly, I needed the questions to stop.
A public relationship would solve the problem.
Three months would be enough.
Someone who didn't belong to my social circle would be ideal. Someone without connections to my family. Someone who wouldn't confuse a temporary arrangement with a promise of forever.
Serena Hayes had seemed perfect.
Independent. Blunt. Unimpressed by money.
And, from what I'd observed, completely unaware that most people in New York would have done anything for the opportunity to sit at my table.
I'd already asked my assistant to make a few discreet inquiries. Nothing invasive. I wanted to know whether she had any conflicts of interest, whether she'd be comfortable in public, and whether the arrangement would put her in an impossible position.
The rest could be negotiated.
Including the payment.
Including the rules.
Including the fact that she would need to live in my penthouse.
It was a business arrangement.
Nothing more.
My phone vibrated.
A message from my assistant appeared on the screen.
I've prepared the initial proposal for your review. Three months, public appearances, exclusivity, and the residence arrangement. Let me know if you'd like any changes.
I read it twice.
Then I opened the photograph Adrian had taken of Serena's name tag while we'd been waiting for our food.
Serena Hayes.
I studied her face.
She had looked directly at me all evening without once trying to impress me.
She'd challenged me, questioned me, and made it perfectly clear that my money meant nothing to her.
I should have found that irritating.
Instead, I found myself wondering what she'd say when I told her how much I was prepared to pay.
And what she'd do when she realized that, for the next three months, the entire city would believe she belonged beside me.
My phone vibrated again.
Another message from my assistant.
One question, why her?
I stared at the screen.
Because she was suitable.
Because she was outside my world.
Because I needed a solution, and she happened to be standing in front of me.
Those were the answers I should have given.
Instead, I typed:
Because she won't be afraid to tell me no.
I sent it before I could reconsider.
Then I locked my phone and leaned back.
Three months.
That was all I needed.
Three months of convincing the world that Serena Hayes was mine.
I had no intention of making the mistake of believing it myself.
Not even for a second.
Serena’s POV:
At 9:07 a.m., I stood in my kitchen wearing an oversized T-shirt, one sock, and the expression of a woman who had slept approximately four hours.
The black business card sat on the counter beside my coffee.
I'd been staring at it for eleven minutes.
This was ridiculous.
I picked up my phone.
Put it down.
Picked it up again.
"Get a grip, Serena."
I dialed the number.
He answered on the second ring.
"Good morning, Serena."
I froze.
His voice was lower over the phone. Rougher around the edges.
Annoyingly pleasant.
"How do you know it's me?"
A pause.
"Because I was expecting your call."
My stomach did something stupid.
I ignored it.
"Right. Well, I have approximately five minutes before I start regretting this conversation, so what do you want?"
"I'd like you to have dinner with me tonight."
I stared at the wall.
"That's your offer?"
"No."
"Good. Because I was starting to think you were bad at this."
A quiet exhale came through the phone.
Almost a laugh.
"I want to offer you a three-month arrangement."
I frowned.
"What kind of arrangement?"
"A relationship."
Silence.
Then I burst out laughing.
Not a cute laugh.
Not a polite laugh.
An actual, slightly hysterical laugh.
"I'm sorry. What?"
"You're going to make me repeat myself?"
"You're asking me to be your girlfriend?"
"Yes."
I laughed again.
"Are you insane?"
"Not that I'm aware of."
"You don't know me!"
"Which is why I'm calling."
"That makes absolutely no sense."
"Have dinner with me tonight, Serena. I'll explain everything."
I pressed my fingers against my forehead.
"This is either a prank or the weirdest job interview in New York."
"It's neither."
"Then what is it?"
His voice changed slightly.
Became quieter.
More serious.
"A business arrangement. Three months. You'll be compensated for your time, and you'll have access to everything you need to fulfill the role."
I stopped laughing.
Compensated.
Everything you need.
My gaze drifted toward the stack of unopened envelopes beside the refrigerator.
Suddenly, the conversation wasn't quite as ridiculous as it had been thirty seconds ago.
"How much?" I asked.
He gave me a figure.
I stopped breathing for a second.
Then I sat down.
"You're joking."
"I'm not."
"That's more money than most people make in a year."
"I'm aware."
I hated that answer.
I hated that he could say it so casually.
I hated that a part of me was already calculating what I could pay off with that amount.
And I hated that I was considering it at all.
"What exactly would I have to do?"
"Appear with me at public events. Attend dinners. Accompany me to certain functions. Allow the public to believe we're in a genuine relationship."
"And?"
"And what?"
I narrowed my eyes, even though he couldn't see me.
"There's always an and."
This time, his silence lasted longer.
"You would need to move into my penthouse for the duration of the arrangement."
I stood up so quickly that my chair scraped against the floor.
"Absolutely not."
"Serena—"
"No. You don't get to call me out of nowhere, offer me a ridiculous amount of money to pretend to love you, and then tell me I'm moving into your house."
"I didn't tell you anything. I made an offer."
"Oh, forgive me. An offer that apparently comes with a relocation package."
"I can arrange separate bedrooms."
I stopped.
That wasn't the point.
It absolutely wasn't.
"Why do you need a fake girlfriend living with you?"
"Because people notice details. If we're convincing in public but never seen together outside of events, someone will question it."
I hated how reasonable that sounded.
I hated it even more because he was right.
I walked to the window and stared out at the street below.
Three months.
Money that could change things for my family.
A penthouse I couldn't afford to visit, let alone live in.
And a man who looked at me like he was trying to solve a problem that hadn't been written down yet.
"Why me?" I asked quietly.
He didn't answer immediately.
Then he said, "Because you don't seem particularly interested in pleasing me."
I blinked.
"That's your reason?"
"One of them."
"And the others?"
"You'll hear them tonight."
I closed my eyes.
Of course I would.
Because apparently, Damian Blackwood didn't believe in giving people all the information they needed before making life-changing decisions.
"Fine," I said. "Dinner. But I'm not agreeing to anything yet."
"I wouldn't expect you to."
"And I'm setting my own rules."
"Naturally."
"And if you try to control my life—"
"Serena."
"What?"
"I haven't even met you for dinner yet, and you're already threatening me."
I smiled despite myself.
"Get used to it, billionaire."
There was a pause.
Then, so quietly I almost missed it, he said, "I have a feeling I will."
My smile faded.
Because something about his voice made that sound less like a joke than it should have.
"Seven o'clock," he continued. "I'll send you the address."
The call ended.
I lowered my phone and stared at it.
Then I looked at the business card.
Then back at my phone.
"What the hell am I getting myself into?"
I had no idea.
But at seven o'clock that evening, I was going to sit across from Damian Blackwood and negotiate the terms of a relationship that wasn't real.
At least, that was what I believed.
And I had absolutely no idea that, somewhere across the city, Damian Blackwood was already preparing for the possibility that I might say no.
For the first time in years, he wasn't entirely sure what he would do if I did.
And that bothered him far more than it should have.
