Bound to Mr. Blackwood — A contract broken by blood

I was running late, which wasn't a new thing. What was unusual was realizing halfway down the block that my purse was still sitting on the kitchen counter where I'd left it like an idiot. I almost turned back, but my phone said 8:47 and Mrs. Johnson had the memory of an elephant and the forgiveness of a loan shark, so I just kept walking.

New York was busy in the morning, the weather was cold and everything looked cleaner than it actually was. I pulled my jacket tighter and walked faster, heels clicking against pavement in a rhythm that said I was one inconvenience away from a breakdown.

I didn't hear the car until it stopped beside me.

The black sleek beauty looked slightly familiar but a lot of cars in New York look familiar. The window lowered and I slowed without meaning to, because apparently my survival instincts had clocked out early.

I recognized him immediately.

John Alexander Blackwood didn't need an introduction. You can't work at Blackwood Enterprises for three years without knowing exactly who he was. Tall, sharp-jawed, dark eyes that looked at you like they were calculating your net worth in real time. He was rarely seen outside the executive floor before ten and he was certainly never seen on quiet residential streets picking up HR managers like stray packages.

Yet here he was and it terrified me.

"Miss Hartwell."

He knew my name. He actually knew my name.

"Get in."

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

"The car," he said with the faint irritation of someone who didn't repeat himself often. "Get in."

Every sensible part of me screamed no. CEOs do not show up unannounced offering rides like this was normal. But the clock said 8:49, my purse was still on the counter, and I had never heard a single story of someone disobeying John Blackwood and walking away fine.

So I got in.

The inside smelled very expensive and controlled in a way that made me suddenly aware of my two-year-old blazer. The driver didn't so much as acknowledge me but that was the least of my worries.

Why was Blackwood on my street? Why was I in the back seat of his car?

Blackwood didn't so much as glance in my direction. He sat with one arm against the window, eyes ahead, like he hadn't just pulled me off the street.

I waited for him to speak but he didn't.

"Mr. Blackwood," I started.

"We'll talk in the office."

Four words and every question I had instantly died in my throat. I pressed my lips together, looked out the window, and spent the rest of the ride pretending this was fine.

By the time we pulled up to the building, I almost believed it was.

But then he didn't take me to HR, he took me to the top floor.

I'd been in that elevator exactly twice in three years, both times surrounded by thirty other people for executive briefings. But this time it was just us. He stood close enough that I could feel the authority coming off him like heat and the place instantly felt smaller than it should have. I watched the floor numbers climb and said nothing, tension palpable in the air.

His office was exactly what I expected. Monochrome, all dark wood and cold steel, not a single thing out of place. It was a space designed to remind you who held the power before anyone sat down.

He closed the door, turned, and held my gaze for a whole minute. And then he said the most unhinged thing I had ever heard in my life.

"Marry me."

The room suddenly felt stuffy even though the blinds were up and the air conditioner on.

"I'm sorry," I said, because apparently that was my line today. "What?"

"A contract marriage." He moved to his desk with the calmness of someone discussing quarterly projections. "I need you to appear at public functions, maintain complete discretion, and outside of agreed terms your personal life stays untouched. And in exchange, your family's situation is handled completely."

I stared at him. "My family's situation…"

"Yes."

"What situation are we talking about?"

"Are you managing multiple crises at the moment?" Something shifted briefly in his expression but it was gone before I could process it. "I'm not here to negotiate, Elene. Are you in or not?"

"How long?"

"Three years."

"Three what?" I shouted but instantly composed myself when he threw me a disgusted look.

"Erm… I meant I'm an employee, sir," I said carefully. "Not a... I don't even know what this is. Whatever you think you know about my family, this isn't something I can just..."

"It isn't a discussion," he said sternly which somehow made it worse. "It's an offer. You have until the close of business today."

"I don't want time, I want to know how you even..."

"Miss Hartwell." He met my eyes and there was something in his gaze, something that looked like weight I didn't understand. "You are dismissed."

I left his office with my hands shaking and my jaw tight and absolutely no idea my life had just split cleanly into before and after.

Mark was at his desk when I walked in. He took one look at my face and pulled out my chair without a word.

"Sit."

"I'm fine."

"Elene, sit."

I sat. He slid coffee across without asking, covered my morning stack and didn't ask a single question until I was ready, which was one of the things I genuinely loved about him.

"I'll take the afternoon," I said finally.

I picked up the coffee and stared at nothing and thought about a man on the top floor who knew things about my family he had no business knowing.

Marry me.

Those two words shouldn't have meant anything.

But when I pulled out my phone to text my father, my hands were still shaking.