The Proposition

The Torres Youth Foundation operated out of a converted warehouse in Bushwick that leaked when it rained, groaned when it was windy, and currently smelled like the pizza we'd ordered for the after-school tutoring program.

It was also about to close its doors in six weeks.

I stared at the budget spreadsheet on my ancient laptop, willing the numbers to change. They didn't. The Hartwell Foundation had pulled their funding last month,"shifting priorities," they'd called it, which was rich-person-speak for "we found a sexier cause." Our operating costs were $47,000 a month. We had $52,000 in the bank.

Math had never been my strongest subject, but even I could calculate that particular countdown.

"Mia." Jesse appeared in my office doorway, which was really just a corner of the warehouse sectioned off by bookshelves. "There's someone here to see you."

"Is it the bank? Because I already called them twice this week and I'm pretty sure the account manager is screening me."

"It's not the bank."

Something in his voice made me look up. Jesse had been with me for three years. He didn't get flustered. But right now, he looked like someone had dropped a live wire in his lap.

"Who is it?"

"Alexander Mercer."

The name hit me like a bucket of ice water. I pushed back from my desk so fast the chair squeaked against concrete.

"Tell him I'm not here."

"You're literally sitting right there."

"Tell him I died."

"Mia..."

"Tell him the building collapsed. Tell him there's a gas leak. Tell him..." I was already reaching for my bag, calculating the distance to the back exit. "Tell him whatever you want, just don't let him..."

"Ms. Torres."

The voice came from behind Jesse. Low, precise, irritatingly familiar.

Alexander Mercer stepped into my office like he owned it. Which, given the property values in this neighborhood, he probably could have.

Three months ago, I'd thrown champagne in his face at the Whitmore Gala. He'd made a comment about "charity cases" in that bored, dismissive tone of his, and something in me had snapped. Two hundred people had watched me call him entitled, emotionally stunted, and fundamentally incapable of human connection.

The photos had circulated for weeks.

Now he stood in my warehouse, in a charcoal Tom Ford that fit like it had been sewn onto him that morning, looking at me like I was a particularly interesting problem to solve.

"What do you want?" I didn't bother with pleasantries.

"Jesse, was it?" He glanced at my assistant without actually seeing him. "Would you mind giving us a moment?"

Jesse looked at me. I gave him the smallest nod. He retreated, leaving me alone with the last person in Manhattan I wanted to be alone with.

Mercer closed the distance between us, stopping just inside what a normal person would consider appropriate personal space. He smelled expensive. Cedar and something clean and probably made from the tears of endangered whales.

"I need a wife," he said.

I blinked. Then laughed. "You need a therapist."

"Probably." He didn't smile. "But what I need more immediately is a wife. You hate me. That's the best qualification."

"You came to my office, my underfunded, barely-surviving nonprofit, to propose marriage." I crossed my arms. "Have you considered that the champagne might have damaged something important? Like your brain?"

"I came to your office because you're the only woman in this city who would never be suspected of marrying me for my money." He watched me without blinking, the way people watch chess pieces. "Everyone knows you despise me."

"I do despise you."

"Excellent. Then this should be easy."

He pulled a folded paper from his jacket pocket and set it on my desk. I didn't touch it.

"My grandfather died two days ago," he said, and for a moment, just a moment, the controlled mask cracked, revealing exhaustion beneath."My grandfather died two days ago," he said, and for a moment, just a moment, the controlled mask cracked, revealing exhaustion beneath. Not grief exactly. Something more complicated. The look of someone who'd been bracing for an impact that had finally arrived. "His will contains a provision. I have to be married within thirty days and remain married for one year. If I don't, the entire Mercer fortune goes to charity."

"That sounds like a you problem."

"It could be a you solution." He tapped the paper. "Twenty million dollars."

Twenty million. The number sat between us like a grenade with the pin out.

Twenty million. Enough to fund the Torres Foundation for a decade. Enough to expand to a second location. Enough to never have to grovel to the Hartwells of the world again.

I hated that my palms went slick. Hated more that a number could do this to me, when I'd spent my entire life refusing to let money define me.

"You're serious."

"I don't waste time on jokes, Ms. Torres."

"You threw champagne in my face three months ago."

"You threw champagne in mine."

"Because you deserved it."

"Probably." That flicker again, a flicker of concession. "The point stands. We hate each other publicly. Visibly. No one will suspect a convenient arrangement when they see us together. They'll believe we simply..."

"Fell in love?" I laughed. The sound bounced off the warehouse walls. "No one will believe that."

"People believe what they want to believe. And what they'll want to believe is that the ice-cold billionaire was warmed by the passionate nonprofit director." He said it like he was reading from a script. Like the idea was distasteful but necessary. "Opposites attract. Redemption through love. The media will write the story for us."

"And if I say no?"

"Then you say no." He straightened his cuffs. "And your foundation closes in..." he glanced around the warehouse, "six weeks, I'd estimate. Maybe eight if you're creative."

"You did research."

"I do research on everything."

Of course he did. Of course Alexander Mercer had dug into my finances before showing up here. Probably knew my exact bank balance, my outstanding debts, the names of every kid in our program.

"Why me?" I demanded. "You could hire someone. There have to be a thousand women who'd marry you for that much money."

"Exactly. And my family's lawyers would find them in a week." He looked at me directly. "I need someone real. Someone who would never be suspected of participating in an arrangement because the idea of participating in an arrangement would be so antithetical to everything she stands for that no one would believe it."

"You want me because I have principles."

"I want you because everyone knows you have principles." His mouth curved, not quite a smile. "Your principles are your alibi."

I should have thrown him out. Should have called security, not that we had security, and made a scene. Should have done anything other than what I did next.

I picked up the paper.

The proposal was exactly what he'd described. One year. Public appearances. Cohabitation. Twenty million to the Torres Youth Foundation upon successful completion.

At the bottom, a signature line.

"This is insane," I said.

"Probably."

"I'd be lying to everyone. To the kids. To the donors. To..."

"You'd be ensuring they have a future." He didn't move, but the distance between us felt smaller. "You'd be guaranteeing that the foundation survives. That the programs continue. That everything you've built doesn't disappear because one rich family decided they had better things to fund."

The numbers floated in my head. Twenty million. A decade of operations. Fifty kids in the after-school program. Twelve in mentorship. Eight who'd gotten into colleges they couldn't have dreamed of before.

All of it, gone in six weeks.

Unless.

"I need to think about it."

"You have twenty-four hours." He produced a card from his pocket, set it on my desk. "Call this number when you've decided."

He turned to leave. Made it three steps before I spoke.

"Why do you even want the money? You're already rich."

He paused. Didn't look back.

"Everyone's rich until they're not, Ms. Torres. And some inheritances come with strings that outlast the money."

Then he was gone, leaving nothing but the weight of an impossible choice.

I looked at the paper in my hands. At the number that could save everything.

At the terms that could cost me something I hadn't yet calculated.

Twenty-four hours to decide whether to marry a man I despised for a cause I loved.

I'd made harder choices. Just never one that smelled like cedar and came with a signature line.