Bought By My First Love

Harper's POV

I'm staring at the email on my phone for the tenth time.

"Dear Ms. Quinn, after careful consideration, we have decided to terminate our partnership with Quinn Events."

Terminated.

That was my biggest client. Forty percent of my annual revenue.

Gone.

I flip my phone face-down on the bar and signal the bartender for another round.

"Tough day?"

I turn to see a blonde man settling onto the stool next to mine. Crisp suit, the kind that screams fresh-out-of-a-boardroom.

"Something like that." I pick up my fresh martini. "You?"

"Me? I'm having a pretty good day, actually." He extends his hand with a smile. "Damian Blackwell."

"Harper Quinn." I shake it.

His eyes linger on my face for a second, like he's confirming something. Then he pulls a business card from his jacket and slides it across the bar.

Blackwell Enterprises. Vice President.

I let out a low whistle. "Big league."

"It pays the bills." He sips his whiskey. "Actually, Harper, I didn't run into you by accident. I have a job opportunity for you."

I laugh. "Let me guess. You pick up women in bars by offering them jobs?"

"I'm serious. One million dollars. Twelve months."

The martini nearly slips from my hand.

"What kind of job pays a million?"

"My cousin needs a fake girlfriend." He says it like he's discussing the weather. "You're perfect for it. Event planner background, great social skills, and..." He pauses. "You've got that sweet but non-threatening look. Exactly what his grandfather would approve of."

I blink at him. "You're messing with me."

"Not at all." He slides another card across the bar. A check this time. One hundred thousand dollars. "That's the deposit. If you're interested, come to Blackwell headquarters tomorrow. The contract's ready."

He stands, drops a "Think about it," and walks out.

I'm staring at the check now, and my hands won't stop shaking.

One hundred thousand dollars.

That's half my debt, right there.

The next morning, I wake up with my temples pounding.

How many martinis was that last night? Four? Five?

I roll over and my hand hits something on the nightstand.

The check.

And a thick stack of papers.

The contract.

I sit up, my head still fuzzy. Last night's conversation is coming back in pieces.

Fake girlfriend. One million dollars. One year.

It sounds insane.

But the check is real.

I flip open the contract and scan the terms.

"Party A: Adrian Blackwell. Party B: Harper Quinn. Contract Duration: Twelve months. Compensation: One million dollars, paid in installments..."

My phone buzzes. Unknown number.

"Ms. Quinn? This is Mr. Blackwell's assistant. He's expecting you at the office. Can you make it at ten this morning?"

I glance at the clock. Nine fifteen.

"I need some time to think about this."

"Mr. Blackwell said if you're not interested, he'll find someone else. But the deposit needs to be returned today."

One hundred thousand dollars.

I bite my lip.

"Tell him I'll be there at ten."

Blackwell headquarters sits in the most expensive part of downtown. All glass, thirty-two floors of it.

Standing in the lobby, I suddenly feel like my dress is too cheap.

The elevator delivers me to the top floor. An assistant, efficient-looking woman in her thirties, guides me through the open office space to a corner office.

The door opens.

First thing I see is the city sprawling beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Second thing is the man standing in front of them.

He turns around.

Dark hair, gray-blue eyes, features so sharp they're almost unreal. The suit fits him like it was born on his body, showing off broad shoulders and a narrow waist.

He looks cold.

Not unfriendly. Just distant. Like there's an invisible wall around him.

"You came." His voice is low, with a hint of surprise. "You read the contract?"

I nod, trying to keep my voice steady. "I did. But is this actually real?"

"Very real." He moves behind his desk and sits, gesturing for me to do the same. "My grandfather gave me an ultimatum. Get married before I turn thirty or the inheritance goes to my cousin Damian."

"So you need a fake wife."

"Girlfriend," he corrects. "We need to fake date for a year, make my grandfather believe it's real. Once the inheritance is settled, we can have a peaceful breakup."

"Why me?"

His gaze holds mine for a beat. "Damian recommended you. Said you needed money, I needed a convincing girlfriend. Win-win."

I open the contract and start reading more carefully.

The first sections are standard. Confidentiality agreement, timeline, payment schedule.

Then I get to Section Seven.

"Party B will cohabitate with Party A at Blackwell Manor, sharing the master bedroom (Party A's grandfather will conduct random inspections). Minimum three public appearances per week. Must cooperate with intimate behaviors as needed to maintain credibility, including but not limited to kissing, embracing, bed sharing..."

I look up. "This sounds like I'm being hired as an escort."

His expression doesn't change. "You can refuse. Door's right there."

I'm biting my lower lip now.

One million dollars.

It could save my company. Clear all my debts. Give me a fresh start.

"I have one condition." The words come out before I can stop them.

He raises an eyebrow.

I pull out my phone and find a photo. A handmade friendship bracelet, blue and silver threads woven together.

"Ten years ago. Summer camp. A boy gave me this bracelet. His name was Ash. I've been trying to find him ever since." I meet Adrian's eyes. "If you help me find him, I'll sign."

His pupils contract, just for a second.

Before I can decide if I imagined it, his face goes blank again.

"Fine. Damian will help you." He pushes a pen across the desk. "Any other questions?"

I stare at the contract.

This is probably the craziest thing I've ever done.

But I'm out of options.

I pick up the pen and sign my name on the last page.

Adrian watches my signature, and the corner of his mouth lifts in something that's almost a smile.

"Welcome aboard, Ms. Quinn."