1| MARRY ME
Kellan Duvane
On any other day, I’d have enjoyed this place.
Peaceful environment, soft murmurs, the sharp glint of glass, steam rising from a rare tea I’d usually savor slowly. I like quiet. I like control.
But today? I’m here hunting for a bride. I am here, flipping through files and faces like I’m shopping for my next outfit. Except, in this case, a wrong choice can get me bankrupt.
One year. A trophy wife. My shares in. Bride out.
The plan is simple.
Unfortunately, women don’t come with quarterly reports. So, the plan has become a little complicated.
Marcus Burger, my lawyer, and my most consistent source of migraines, sat across from me, flipping through a file like he was shortlisting candidates for a personal assistant.
I’d have preferred that. An assistant only needed to organize my calendar and know how I take my coffee. A contractual wife? That was a different beast entirely.
Marcus didn’t look up. “She has a degree in art history. Speaks three languages. Family money.”
“Sounds expensive.” I sipped my coffee without tasting it.
“She’s elegant. Classy.”
“Does she come with a return policy?”
His sigh was long-suffering. “You’re not taking this seriously.”
“Oh, I am. I’m dead serious. I need someone willing to marry me for a year and not drain me dry in the divorce.” I leaned back, eyeing the next profile.
Marcus set the folder down and leveled me with a look. “You’re the one who wanted to meet in person. You said this was urgent.”
“It is urgent,” I said flatly. “If I don’t get married in the next two months, my inheritance goes straight into my brother’s greasy little hands. And I’d rather set fire to it than watch him win.”
I am a self made businessman with a decent bank account. Not to brag but it is not any less than the thirty three percent of the share I need. But I can’t lose anything to my brother, not anymore. I would rather give it up for charity. But not that name-sake brother.
“You know,” Noah said, tapping the file, “you could make this easier if you just married someone you trusted.”
“I don’t trust anyone.”
“Or someone who doesn’t need your money.”
“Mitchell, I’m surrounded by opportunists, not saints. I don’t believe such a person exists.”
He smirked. “Then marry someone who hates you. At least you’ll know where you stand.”
I arched a brow. “Who the hell would hate me—”
That’s when I heard it.
A voice that made my molars grind on instinct.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake… this is a disaster.”
I turned, glancing behind me over my shoulder and there she was. Wavy dyed hair, a black leather jacket over a white tank top, a black skirt which was way too short to qualify as decent clothing and the kind of mouth that could turn a priest atheist. She hadn’t even looked at me yet, but my blood pressure spiked on principle.
Livia Romanov.
The daughter of one of my business associate. Pavel Romanov.
Marcus followed my gaze, his brows pinching together. “You know Livia Romanov, personally?”
“Unfortunately.”
“She hates you?”
I drained the rest of my coffee and set the cup down.
“Oh, Marcus… you have no idea.”
I stood up, my chair scraping quietly against the floor. Marcus shot me a curious glance, but said nothing as I made my way over to the table where Livia Romanov was perched like she owned the damn place. Loud and obnoxious.
Her date- some unfortunate man who just realized what kind of hurricane he is dealing with- looked up when I stopped in front of them.
Without a word, I gesture to him to move over and make space for me. Confused, he scoots away probably relieved and lowkey thankful for my presence to save him from her foul mouth and spoiled attitude.
Sliding into the seat opposite Livia, I fixed her with a sharp look and she shot one fiery one back.
“For what do I owe this displeasure of fucking having you on my table after all the shit I’ve endured today, Mr. Duvane?” Her voice was low, laced with venom and a hint of amusement.
My lips twitched— not a smile, but close. Disgusted amusement.
“And why exactly do you think you deserve to even breathe the same air as me?” I countered, voice smooth, low, smirk teasing the corner of my lips like a dare.
She leaned back like I was a mosquito buzzing near her face. “I don’t think that. I was praying I wouldn’t have to deal with any more assholes. Figured I’d hit my mark today.”
My teeth clenched hard enough to make my jaw ache. Fingers curled into tight fists beneath the table, the urge to break something flickering at the edge of my control.
Marcus, who’d followed and is standing quietly to the side, muttering with a grin, “Seems like there was one left.”
I silenced him with a sharp glare.
“So,” I said, leaning back in my chair, crossing one leg over the other, “how’s your little date going?”
Livia rolled her eyes, gesturing at the man sitting awkwardly beside her. “What about this one looks little to you?”
I don’t spare the man a glance. I let the smirk spread over my face, slow and deliberate. “I was talking about you.”
A frustrated huff escaped her lips, and she shot Mitchell a look.
“That’s all I can handle today,” she muttered, voice dripping with exasperation.
Mitchell raised his hands, surrendering like a man who’d been through battle. “You did your best.”
Livia stood abruptly, snatching her purse from the chair, clearly done with the whole circus.
“Sit back down, Ms. Romanov,” I said, my tone flat but commanding.
She paused, and then pinned me with a look that was equal parts amusement and challenge. A sarcastic smile curled on her lips. “Try adding a please, and I might think about it.”
I let my lips twitch, a faint, dark smile.
As if.
I’d sooner walk through fire than ever give in to her demands.
“I have a proposal,” I said, leaning in, letting my words drip with danger, “that ends your parade of idiots, and saves you from your next nightmare blind date… permanently.”
Her brows lifted, lips curving in a way that told me she wasn’t buying a single word. “Oh, this should be good,” she said, pure sarcasm.
She turned to leave.
“Marry me,” I called after her, freezing her mid-tracks.
