Ethan’s POV
The Ellison estate smelled like old money and modern expectations—cedar polish, rare whiskey, and the faint hum of an air conditioning unit that never dared go off. The study, a fortress of mahogany and glass, was where empires were decided, where silence had a pulse, and where Ethan Ellison currently stood—jaw tight, heart ticking like a detonator.
His father, Grey Ellison, leaned against the marble desk with the posture of a man who’d built cities with his bare will. “You think legacy is built on solitude, Ethan?” His tone was smooth, but beneath it simmered years of disappointment. “You’re thirty next year, and yet you have no partner, no heir, no family to carry this name. What exactly are you building for?”
Ethan’s jaw flexed. “A company that doesn’t depend on forced sentimentality,” he said evenly, but his pulse betrayed him. He could handle hostile investors, market crashes, and media scrutiny—but this? This quiet, personal warfare? He hated it.
Grey’s voice hardened. “You’ve been working on that Global Estate Merger for two years. Two. Do you think the board will respect a man who can’t keep a personal life stable? You’re not a machine, son.”
Ethan’s reply came colder than the winter light leaking through the curtains. “I never asked to be an heir. I built my own branch—my properties, my investments, my brand. Everything I’ve done—”
“Everything you’ve done,” Grey interrupted, “exists because you carry my name.”
The words hit like a slap. Ethan’s fingers twitched, but his composure stayed marble-smooth. “If my name wasn’t enough,” he said, “maybe my work would be.”
Silence. A sharp one.
From the garden beyond the glass walls, laughter floated faintly—his mother Amy’s soft, bell-like voice, and his younger sister Chantel’s warm giggle. They were having lunch under the umbrella trees, safe in the sunny peace that never reached this side of the house.
Amy had always been his compass—the quiet warmth in a cold dynasty. But right now, she wasn’t here to intervene. She never did when father and son locked horns; she’d learned that Grey’s pride and Ethan’s stubbornness could burn down everything if touched.
Grey stepped forward, lowering his tone, the calm before a storm. “Ethan. You either settle down—get married, show stability, have a future—or I will not support the merger. And if you want brutal honesty, you will also not be in my will.”
Ethan blinked once. No reaction. No curse. Just the stillness of someone recalculating his entire world in one breath.
“So that’s it,” he said quietly. “Marriage as leverage.”
Grey didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His silence was an answer.
Ethan turned sharply, buttoning his suit jacket like armor. “Then I guess love’s just another business deal in this family.”
And he walked out.
The echo of his footsteps down the marble hallway was a mix of rage and restraint. The scent of jasmine hit him as he passed the garden—Amy looked up, concern in her eyes. Chantel tilted her head.
“Ethan?” she called, but he didn’t stop.
He left.
The valet barely had time to open the door before Ethan’s black Maserati roared to life, peeling away from the estate like anger on wheels.
By the time he reached his penthouse apartment in the Ellison Heights estate, the city had changed shades—afternoon gold melting into a haze of silver and steel.
He tossed his keys on the marble counter, undid his cufflinks, and grabbed the remote. The floor-to-ceiling windows darkened automatically, leaving him in shadow. The skyline stretched wide—a crown of light and ambition, everything he’d built and everything he might lose.
His phone buzzed.
Bruce Fargo.
Of course. His best friend, his lawyer, his occasional devil’s advocate.
“Talk to me,” Bruce said as soon as the call connected. His tone was lazy but alert, the kind that belonged to someone who’d been through all Ethan’s storms.
Ethan didn’t waste words. “He’s cutting me off from the will. And the merger. Unless I get married.”
There was a beat of silence, then Bruce chuckled. “Classic Grey Ellison. Nothing says paternal love like a legal ultimatum.”
Ethan didn’t laugh. “I don’t have time for this nonsense. I’ve got meetings stacked, investors waiting, and now my father’s trying to turn my life into a soap opera.”
“Maybe he just wants to see you happy,” Bruce offered.
Ethan snorted. “Happiness isn’t scalable. Stability is.”
Bruce laughed again, softer this time. “You’re quoting spreadsheets now. That’s unhealthy, even for you.”
Ethan sank onto the black leather couch, rubbing his temples. The city below pulsed—cars moving like veins of light. He’d built everything through discipline. Through walls. And now those walls were cracking because of something as simple—and as complicated—as marriage.
Bruce’s voice softened. “You could just fake it, you know. A contract marriage. Temporary stability, permanent solution.”
Ethan looked up, expression unreadable. “I don’t do lies.”
“Who said anything about lies?” Bruce said casually. “Contracts are just… structured truths.”
The words lingered. Structured truths.
---
A sharp knock at the door.
Bruce walked in a few minutes later, suit jacket open, tie loosened, holding two beers like peace offerings. He dropped onto the couch beside Ethan. “You look like a man auditioning for a villain role.”
Ethan smirked slightly. “I’m considering it.”
Bruce popped the caps off. “So what’s the plan?”
Ethan exhaled. “No idea. Find someone, apparently.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow. “You, date? You barely have time for breakfast.”
“Then I’ll make time for a deal,” Ethan said flatly. “Someone who needs something. Someone discreet.”
Bruce leaned back, studying him. “You’re serious.”
“Deadly.”
For a moment, neither spoke. The tension thickened—the kind that hummed right before a storm breaks.
Then Bruce said, quietly, “If you’re gonna pull this off, you need someone who won’t fall in love with you.”
Ethan turned his head slowly, a ghost of a smirk forming. “That shouldn’t be difficult.”
The city lightning flashed through the glass, slicing shadows across his face—half light, half dark. He looked every bit the man people whispered about: ruthless, brilliant, untouchable. But deep down, something unspoken stirred—something he couldn’t quite name.
Bruce stood and headed toward the kitchen. “I’ll start drafting the parameters for a temporary marital agreement,” he said, almost jokingly. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll meet someone desperate enough to sign.”
Ethan didn’t respond. His gaze had drifted back to the city, to the streets glowing like liquid fire.
And then, faintly, from his window, he caught sight of a small café on the corner below—a new one, humble but alive. A flickering neon sign read: “Noor’s Latte & Brew.”
Steam curled from its roof vent, disappearing into the dusk.
Ethan’s fingers tightened around the bottle. Something in that small, unassuming glow tugged at him—like a whisper through the noise.
Bruce’s voice came from behind him. “You good, man?”
Ethan didn’t turn. His eyes stayed fixed on the café. “Yeah,” he said quietly, though his tone betrayed him. “Just thinking.”
About what, he didn’t say.
About who, he didn’t even know yet.
But something in the air—the quiet hum of fate, maybe—shifted, as if destiny had just set its timer.
