The Proposal
The smell of old paper, leather bindings, and cheap espresso usually grounds me. It’s the scent of history, predictable, quiet, and safely dead. But today, the comforting aroma of the university archives is entirely cut by the sharp, metallic stench of synthetic cologne, damp leather, and impending doom.
I sit at my scuffed oak desk in the basement office, my fingers hovering over a stack of nineteenth-century ledger books. Across from me, leaning against a steel filing cabinet like he owns the square footage, is a guy named Sal. He’s wearing a cheap jacket that squeaks every time he shifts his weight, and his knuckle tattoos spell out PAIN across his left hand in faded blue ink.
“You’re three days late, Daisy,” Sal says. His voice sounds like gravel being chewed in a cement mixer. “And three days late in our line of work means the interest compounds. That’s just basic math, sweetheart.”
“I know how interest works, Sal,” I say, keeping my voice steady, bright, and deliberate. I sit up straighter, pulling my yellow cardigan tightly around myself like armor. “I also know that my dad paid your associates six grand last November. I have the bank records right here in this folder.”
“Your dad’s dead,” Sal snaps, taking a heavy step forward. The floorboards groan under his scuffed work boots. “And the men who lent him that money don’t care about bank records or dead academics. They care about balance sheets. You owe one-point-two million dollars. Today, you give me fifty grand as a down payment, or we start taking equity out of your skin.”
My throat tightens, the air suddenly feeling thin and hot, but I force a tight, polite smile onto my face. In the short, terrifying months since my father’s funeral, I’ve learned one universal rule about men like Sal: if you show them you’re sweating, they start biting.
“I don’t have fifty grand sitting in a filing cabinet, Sal,” I reply, my tone practically dripping with customer-service cheerfulness. “I’m an archivist. I make forty-two thousand dollars a year cataloging historical manuscripts. I don’t even have fifty grand in my 401(k).”
Sal leans down, slamming both palms onto my desk. The force rattles my pencil cup and sends a flutter of loose catalog cards scattering across the blotter. “Then you better find a rich relative fast. Because The Architect is done waiting on you. He wants his cash, or he wants you off the board entirely.”
The Architect.
The secret alias makes my stomach plummet into a cold, bottomless pit. That’s the third time this week I’ve heard that name dropped by different collectors. Nobody in the city’s underbelly ever uses the guy’s real name—he’s a ghost, a shadow figure who systematically bought up all of my father’s predatory, off-market debts the week after his funeral. He isn’t just a garden-variety loan shark; he’s an apex predator playing a long game I don’t understand, squeezing me until I pop.
“Give me till Friday,” I bargain, gripping the wooden edge of my desk under the blotter so hard my knuckles turn chalk-white. “I’m appraising a private estate collection downtown this week. I’ll have a lump sum payment for you by—”
“Friday was yesterday,” Sal cuts in, reaching a beefy, calloused hand across the wood to grab my collar.
Before his fingers can catch the fabric of my sweater, my phone vibrates violently against the desk. A sharp, high-pitched alarm chime fills the quiet basement office.
Sal pauses, his eyes darting down to the glowing screen. A text message lights up the screen from my best friend:
Chloe Summers: EMERGENCY CODE RED. IF I GO MISSING, CHECK THE PORT DOCKS. ALSO DID YOU BUY OAT MILK?
Even in the middle of a life-threatening crisis, Chloe’s brain runs on a completely different frequency.
Sal lets out a dry, barking laugh. “Cute friend. You’ve got five minutes to clear out your personal stuff, Daisy. We’re taking a ride to see the man himself.”
He lunges forward, his fingers clamping onto my upper arm like a vice. Panic flares bright and hot behind my ribs. I open my mouth to scream—or at least hurl a twenty-pound, brass-bound eighteenth-century atlas directly at his nose—when the heavy, reinforced oak door to the archive room swings open with a sharp, echoing crack.
The ambient noise of the basement dies instantly.
A man stands in the doorway, framed by the harsh, humming fluorescent lights of the hallway.
He doesn’t just enter the room; he occupies it, swallowing up the space until the air feels pressurized, heavy, and thick with electricity. He is massive, at least six-foot, built like a brick fortress, with broad, squared-off shoulders that completely obscure the doorframe behind him. He wears a charcoal-grey, bespoke three-piece suit cut so impeccably it looks like body armor tailored for a modern warlord.
My brain stumbles as I register him. I know this man. Or, rather, I know of him.
Everyone in the city who reads the news or glances at a business tabloid knows who he is. He’s Leopold Clement though the press, his board of directors, his security detail, and even his corrupt family members simply call him Leo.
He’s the infamous, notoriously reclusive CEO of Clement Defense Solutions, a multi-billion-dollar global private intelligence and defense contractor. I’ve seen his face on the cover of Forbes and heard rumors about his past: eight years in high-threat military intelligence before taking over his late father’s corporate empire. The tabloids call him the “Gargoyle of Wall Street” because he never smiles, never does soft-ball interviews, and looks like he was carved out of pure, unyielding granite.
Seeing him in person, standing in my cramped, dusty basement office, is like watching a stealth bomber park inside a studio apartment.
His dark hair is neatly styled, trimmed short at the sides, emphasizing a sharp, terrifyingly symmetrical jawline that looks like it could cut glass. A faint, pale scar cuts through the outer edge of his left eyebrow, trailing down toward a high cheekbone as a tiny, lethal flaw on an otherwise impossibly stern face. But it’s his eyes that hit me like a physical blow. They are a dark, storm-cloud grey, terrifyingly intelligent and completely devoid of warmth.
When those eyes lock onto mine, my entire body physically rebels.
My breath hitches in my chest. A violent wave of heat shoots straight down my spine, settling in the pit of my stomach, followed immediately by an icy shiver that makes the tiny hairs on my arms stand up. It isn’t just fear; it’s a visceral, biological reaction to an absolute apex predator entering the room. My pulse hammers violently against my ribs echoing in my ears.
Leo doesn’t look at Sal. He doesn’t even acknowledge the man holding my arm. His dark eyes scan my face with terrifying, military efficiency.
“Daisy Miller?” his voice rolls through the small room in a deep, low, gravelly baritone that vibrates right through the floorboards and rattles the fillings in my teeth.
“Yeah?” I manage to say. My voice comes out a little too high, a little too breathy. I quickly snap my posture straight, smoothing down my yellow cardigan and shoving the wave of physical shock down into my boots. “Who’s asking?”
“My name is Leopold Clement,” he says smoothly, taking one long, slow step into the room.
He moves with a quiet, lethal grace that is entirely unnatural for a man his size. There is no wasted motion in his stride, no hesitation. The faint scent of expensive sandalwood, crisp rain, and faint gun oil drifts toward me, utterly erasing Sal’s cheap cologne.
“Your late father owed a significant financial debt to my family’s firm,” Leo continues, his voice completely flat, like he’s reading a weather report during an apocalypse. “More specifically, to my uncle.”
My brain short-circuits. Clement?
I stare at him, my mind spinning violently as I try to connect the dots. The pieces crash together with sickening speed. Leo Clement. James Clement.
My father didn’t just owe money to random mobsters on the docks. The men harassing me, the calls at two in the morning, the shadowy figure buying up my family’s liabilities... The Architect isn’t a mob boss. He’s James Clement, Leo’s notorious, cutthroat uncle and the senior vice-president of Clement Defense.
“Wait,” Sal stammers, his grip on my arm loosening as he stares at Leo’s shoulders. “Clement? You’re... you’re Leo Clement? From the main tower?”
Leo finally turns his head. He doesn’t look angry; he looks bored, giving Sal a look of cold, effortless contempt that could wither a field of crops.
“Take your hand off my future wife,” Leo says quietly. He doesn’t raise his voice, but the threat carrying in those words is so heavy, so absolute, that the temperature in the room drops five degrees. “And get out of this building before my security team removes you through the window.”
Sal looks at Leo’s terrifying breadth, glances at the scar on his eyebrow, and instantly decides his hourly wage isn’t high enough to die in a university basement. He drops my arm like it’s made of white-hot iron, grabbing his leather jacket and backing toward the hallway.
“This isn’t over, Daisy,” Sal spits, trying to save face as he edges toward the door. “The Architect is still—”
“It’s over,” Leo interrupts, his tone stone-cold. “She doesn’t owe James Clement a single cent anymore. Tell my uncle that if he wants to collect on these notes, he can speak directly to my legal counsel.”
Sal doesn’t wait for a second invitation. He turns on his heel and scurries out into the hallway like a startled alley rat, his heavy boots squeaking frantically against the linoleum until the double doors at the end of the hall slam shut.
Silence descends on the archives. Heavy, suffocating silence.
I stand behind my desk, my heart hammering against my sternum like a trapped bird. I can still feel the lingering heat where Sal was grabbing me, but every single cell in my body is hyper-focused on the six-foot-three billionaire standing six feet away.
He is an imposing monolith. A human fortress in a charcoal suit.
“Are you unharmed?” Leo asks, his storm-grey eyes sweeping over me again.
I take a deep breath, forcing my shoulders back, squaring my chin, and deploying my ultimate defense mechanism: bright, stubborn, aggressive cheerfulness. I refuse to let this walking gargoyle see how badly my knees are shaking. Unbelievable how he called me his future wife. How does he think he can do that?
“I’m completely fine, thanks,” I say, my tone dripping with sweet, breezy sarcasm as I adjust my glasses. “Though if you were aiming for a heroic, white-knight entrance, Captain Grump, you’re about ten minutes late and a little light on the armor. You look less like a savior and more like a high-level corporate auditor who lost his way to the boardroom.”
Leo doesn’t blink. He doesn’t crack a smile. He doesn’t even react to the nickname. He just stares at me with that unyielding, unreadable expression, like he’s watching a golden retriever bark at a tank.
“You have thirty seconds to make a decision,” Leo says flatly.
“I’m sorry, what?” I cross my arms over my chest, tilting my head up to glare at him. “I don’t know you, Mr. Clement. I know your company’s stock price, and I know you look like a stone statue someone dragged out of a gothic cathedral, but you don’t get to walk into my office, scare off my extortionist, and start giving me orders.”
Leo reaches into the breast pocket of his jacket. He pulls out a thick, black leather-bound folder and drops it onto my desk. It hits the wood with a heavy, authoritative thud, right over my scattered catalog cards.
“My uncle James uses the alias The Architect when he conducts off-the-books financial operations,” Leo explains, leaning his hands on the edge of my desk.
Up close, the sheer physical presence of him is terrifyingly overwhelming. I can see the faint weave of his expensive silk tie, the shadow of dark stubble along his jawline, and the sheer breadth of his chest. My pulse spikes again, a hot, dizzying rush that makes my cheeks flush.
“James systematically purchased your father’s outstanding debts to build leverage against your family,” Leo continues smoothly. “He is also currently attempting to execute a hostile takeover of my company, Clement Defense Solutions.”
I stare down at the black folder, then drag my eyes back up to his stern face. My mind is racing, trying to process the absurd avalanche of information being thrown at me. “And what, exactly, does your uncle’s corporate treason have to do with me? I catalog nineteenth-century diaries, Leo. I don’t play corporate politics.”
“My father’s trust agreement contains a strict civilian clause,” Leo states, presenting the information with the cold efficiency of a prosecutor laying out evidence. “Control of the voting shares reverts to my uncle on my thirty-third birthday unless I am legally married to a civilian with an immaculate public record.”
He pauses, those dark grey eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that burns through my sarcastic armor.
“Marry me for one year, Daisy,” Leo says softly, his deep voice filling every corner of the small room. “I clear your father’s $1.2 million debt before midnight tonight. I provide you with round-the-clock personal security from my firm. And my uncle loses his shot at taking my empire.”
I stare at him, my brain completely stalling out. My mouth opens, closes, and opens again.
“You’re asking me...” I whisper, the bright sarcasm completely draining from my voice, replaced by sheer, unadulterated shock. “You want me to... fake marry you? Right now? In real life?”
“It is not a request,” Leo corrects, taking one slow, deliberate step around my desk until he is standing directly in front of me. He leans down, bringing his stern, impossibly handsome face level with mine, close enough that I can feel the subtle warmth radiating off his skin. “It’s an operational rescue.”
I narrow my eyes, stepping right into his personal space, refusing to back down even as my heart does backflips in my chest.
“Well, Leo,” I say, my voice sharp, sweet, and laced with absolute steel. “You might be a multi-billion-dollar warlord outside this basement, but in here? You’re just a guy making a very bad first impression. So take a step back, Gargoyle, before I show you what an archivist can do with a heavy book.”
