Chapter 3. The Offer

The city always felt wrong when you were walking toward something you didn’t want, as if every block conspired against you. The skyscrapers stretched upward, their glossy windows cold and unblinking like dark eyes, observing—and judging—your approach. A distant siren wailed, tires screeched, and the wind carried the faint tang of exhaust and grit underfoot.

Alyssa stopped at the corner, across from the glass tower that cleaved the sky like a drawn blade. Sunlight struck it with merciless precision, fracturing into a thousand glittering shards that stabbed at the horizon. It didn’t look like a place you could ever belong. It looked more like a warning: Do not enter.

She definitely did not belong.

Traffic blurred in her peripheral vision—horns honking with impatience, muffled conversations spilling out of taxi windows, the high-pitched squeal of buses braking against commuter impatience—but her eyes were locked on that tower: thirty-eight floors of immaculate wealth, monolithic power, and glass so spotless it felt unreal. Every reflective surface seemed to dare her: Why are you here?

Alyssa wrapped her thrift-store coat tighter around herself against an imaginary chill. Its worn wool smelled faintly of mothballs and lavender, a scent that once felt comforting but now only reminded her how small she was in a world built for the ruthless. She took a deep breath—heart pounding so hard she could taste it—then stepped off the curb. Each footfall felt like a betrayal, as if she were walking toward a trap set just for her.

Inside, the lobby was a different atmosphere altogether, as though she’d crossed an invisible threshold into someone else’s story. Polished marble stretched beneath her feet—pale gray with veins of white—that reflected every light fixture overhead and every hurried stranger passing.

She glanced down. The reflection staring back at her was a stranger: hollow-cheeked, restless eyes rimmed with fatigue, hair drawn back so tightly it left dents in her scalp. Like an unfinished sketch someone had abandoned halfway through, erasures visible, lines overlapping. Her boots squeaked once, a lone note in the cavernous space, then subsided into embarrassed silence.

Women in heels clicked across the marble as though each step were choreographed for an audience. Their silhouettes were sharp—nipped waists under tailored coats, stilettos glinting like small blades. They carried themselves with a confidence she could smell on them: a mix of subtle perfume and the steely certainty of being exactly where they belonged. Men in tailored suits drifted by, Bluetooth earpieces hugging their ears, expressions locked in practiced indifference. Not a single one met her gaze. She felt both invisible and hyper-exposed, as if every polished corridor whispered about her presence.

At the security desk, her name hung in the air before she even opened her mouth. The woman behind the counter, hair pulled into a severe bun, brows sharply angled, offered nothing but a cool nod. She placed a call on her headset, her fingertip tapping against the glossy black surface of the desk. No questions, no small talk—just an imperious motion toward a bank of private elevators segregated from the public ones. The chrome doors slid shut with a near-silent hiss. When they reopened, another woman stood inside, polished and precise, waiting.

She sized up Alyssa in a single sweep from head to toe. “Follow me,” she said, voice clipped, then stepped inside.

Alyssa did as she was told. The doors closed behind them, and they ascended in perfect silence. No hum of cables, no shuddering jolt—just a smooth upward motion, as though the elevator resented wasting time on mechanical noises. Thirty-eight floors passed without interruption. The only indication was the faint, almost affectionate hiss each time they drifted past a window.

When the doors opened, she stepped into a new world. The air smelled different—clean, filtered, almost sweet, like citrus and new leather. It teased her lungs, as if her body recognized that it was breathing something meant only for the privileged few. The floor was carpeted in a deep slate gray that swallowed sound, cushioning each footstep. Walls of brushed steel and floor-to-ceiling glass framed minimalist art—abstract shapes on canvases so expensive they might as well have been bars of gold. Each piece was a silent testament to a level of wealth so far beyond her own it made her throat constrict.

The receptionist behind the desk didn’t look up from her tablet. She didn’t smile or speak; she simply waved to one of two plush chairs placed for guests. When Alyssa sat, the cushion swallowed her like quicksand, and she folded her hands in her lap, trying not to tremble. Her coat suddenly felt too heavy, as though it carried every fear she’d ever had. Across the room, a frosted glass door obscured a space beyond: inside, silhouettes shifted slowly, deliberately—dark outlines of men in expensive suits, meeting behind veiled walls.

Alyssa swallowed. The moment stretched. Then the door slid open.

A tall man emerged, stepping into the soft light of the hallway as if on cue. He moved with the confidence of someone accustomed to courtrooms and tabloid spreads—a predator in a finely cut black suit, his tie a thin slash of crimson. Salt-and-pepper hair was styled with meticulous care, swept back from a high forehead. His smile was professional, flat, absolutely devoid of warmth. But his eyes were different: calculating, precise, lit from within by ambition.

“Miss Rein?” he asked, voice smooth and controlled.

She stood, every nerve on high alert. “Yes.”

“I’m Matthew Lennox, legal counsel for Mr. Wolfe. He sends his regards.”

A flicker of scorn passed through her mind—of course he wouldn’t come himself. A man like that never got his own hands dirty.

“Your message came through,” she said. The words sounded too loud in the hushed corridor.

Lennox inclined his head once and gestured for her to follow. He led her back onto the sleek gray carpet and into a conference room with walls of glass on three sides and one matte black pane at the far end. A single framed photograph hung there: a mist-shrouded mountain range rendered in stark black and white. The view behind them was of the city spread out like a living map, every building and street grid a reminder of how small and insignificant people could feel from this height.

She hesitated at the table—obsidian-smooth, monolithic. There was only one item on its surface: a slim leather folder and a glass of water, beads of condensation pooling around its base. The chair opposite his position seemed placed by design, the only seat that mattered. She moved to it, each step weighted by dread and necessity.

Lennox remained standing, hands clasped behind his back. His tone was direct: “You’ve been informed of the debt your father incurred.”

“Yes,” she said, voice steadying. She could taste tension on her tongue.

“And you understand that Mr. Wolfe is prepared to forgive that debt in full, should you accept his arrangement?”

She glanced down at the leather folder, fingers itching. “What’s the arrangement?”

With the precision of a surgeon opening a scalpel kit, he peeled the folder open. “A legal union—a marriage, on paper, between you and Mr. Wolfe. The contract would specify a fixed term: six months.”

Her heart lurched. She said nothing.

Lennox continued, unflinching. “You would reside at Mr. Wolfe’s primary residence. You would accompany him to events requiring public visibility, present as his wife. You would sign a non-disclosure agreement and avoid behaviors that compromise the illusion.”

“In return?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“You receive complete financial security, the full payment of your father’s debt, and protection from any potential retaliation. A post-marriage settlement, negotiable to your satisfaction.”

She felt her throat tighten. “Do I… have to sleep with him?”

He regarded her with the same clinical calm. “There is no clause obligating physical intimacy. Mr. Wolfe seeks not romance but a portrait of domestic stability.”

She let the word ‘portrait’ hang between them, cold and detached. “So I’m a prop.”

“You’re a solution,” he corrected. “A solution to a problem that demands optics of stability.”

Her mind flashed back to drawing hands in charcoal—lines that reached out but never touched, pages torn because nothing fit together. None of those sketches ever looked like marriages. She leaned back, the chair swallowing her weight. Silence stretched. The polished cityscape outside offered no escape.

“You make it sound clean,” she said at last.

“That’s because business is clean. Emotions complicate things.” He tapped the folder.

“And after six months?”

“The marriage dissolves. Quietly. You leave with a compensation package and a signed NDA. No one is the wiser.”

She stared at the water glass—the condensation forming rivulets that trickled down its side. The city beyond the windows looked toy-sized, a model she could almost shake with a single hand.

“This doesn’t feel real,” she murmured.

“It is very real.” Lennox slid the folder toward her, revealing a business card tucked inside, a number printed in silver ink. “You have until 9 a.m. tomorrow to decide.”

Her legs were heavy as lead when she rose. She clasped the folder to her chest and moved toward the glass door—but paused, fingertips resting on the cool surface.

“Why me?” she asked, voice quiet.

He hesitated for the first time. “You were the most suitable candidate.”

The word stung like acid against her skin. She turned, ready to walk away, but stopped again. “Has he done this before?”

Lennox’s lips parted as though to speak, then closed. “No,” he said carefully. “Mr. Wolfe doesn’t usually ask for help.”

***

Outside, the sky remained bright, but the light felt sterile, almost aggressive—unpitying. Alyssa stood on the curb, the folder heavy in her hand, as if infused with every choice she’d ever postponed. Taxis swerved past. Pedestrians wove around her in a blur of purpose. The city moved, as always, but she felt disconnected, as though she’d stepped into quicksand.

Her phone buzzed. Unknown number. She stared at it, pulse hammering, then pressed “Answer” on the third ring.

“Alyssa Rein?” The voice was low, controlled—him.

“This arrangement doesn’t work unless you stop hesitating,” he said, each word clipped to precision.

She swallowed hard. “Do you?”

He paused—just long enough for her to notice a flicker in his measured cool, something bordering on respect. He exhaled quietly. Then the mask dropped back into place.

“I’m not in the habit of being told no.”

The line went dead.

***

He set the phone down slowly, the city’s skyline reflected in the floor-to-ceiling glass behind his desk. Even in such silence, the city roared. She hadn’t begged. She hadn’t tried to negotiate. Most did. Alyssa Rein had paused for exactly four seconds before answering—just long enough to show she wasn’t entirely desperate, just short enough to reveal she wasn’t afraid of his offer, only afraid of what accepting it would make her.

Interesting.

Wolfe leaned back in his chair, fingers still resting where the handset had been. He didn’t believe in mistakes—but this girl made the word feel real again. His mouth tightened, a swift gesture more akin to respect than amusement.

“This might be a mistake,” he murmured into the empty room.

He didn’t truly believe it—but for the first time, the possibility existed.

***

Alyssa remained frozen on the sidewalk, the folder pulsing in her grip like a live wire. She realized, as the wind stirred dust at her feet, that she wasn’t sure anymore whether she was being rescued—or hunted.

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