My family was about to buy me a wife, and I was trying to figure out if my soul was worth the market price.

Across the mahogany desk, the ice in my glass had long since melted into a dead film over fifty-year-old scotch, but nobody was drinking. We were just waiting for the hammer to fall.

Thirty-four, Richard," my father said from the window, his fingers twitching nervously against his gold cufflinks, a tell he’d picked up the day my mother died. "The board is asking questions. The press is having a field day with Saint-Tropez. Either you sign the trust agreements with a ring on your finger, or we restructure the voting shares without you."

I leaned back into the leather sofa, stretching my legs with a casual indifference I didn't entirely feel. Go ahead and restructure them. Let's see how the market reacts on Monday morning when the press finds out I’m off the board."

Don't test me, boy," my grandfather interjected. His voice was thin, dry as ancient parchment, but it carried the terrifying weight of a man who built an empire from nothing. "You enjoy the money. You enjoy the control. You like that the Sterling name opens every closed door in this city. You want the permanent CEO title? You take the contract."

I stared down at my watered-down liquor. "And who did you pick out? The daughter with the house in Aspen, or the one who won't mind if I don't come home three nights a week?"

Women, in my experience, were highly predictable. Give them an unlimited line of credit, a sprawling penthouse, and enough distance, and they stopped asking questions about two in the morning. I’d never met a boundary that couldn't be bought off.

She's in the drawing room," my father said, checking his watch with clinical precision. Waiting.

I stood up, pulling my jacket straight, adjusting the lapels. "Tell her I had a prior commitment.

You walk out that door," my grandfather said softly, his ancient eyes locking onto mine, "and I sign the voting transfer to your cousin by midnight. I won't ask twice.

My hand froze an inch from the brass door handle. The old man wasn't bluffing. He was the type to burn his own house down just to prove he still held the matches.

Swallowing a bitter breath, I turned around and walked out without looking at either of them.

The corridor was suffocatingly quiet, lined with dark oil portraits of Sterling men who looked just like me men who had likely bought their wives the exact same way. Walking toward the drawing room, I was already calculating the buyout terms in my head. Two years. A strict non-disclosure agreement. Five million in trust upon the final decree. Simple. Transactional.

I pushed the heavy double doors open without knocking.

She was standing near the floor-to-ceiling windows, her back to me. Her dark hair was pinned up carelessly with a simple wooden clip, leaving a few loose strands falling against the curve of her neck. She wore a plain cream dress that hit below her knees. No designer labels. No jewelry. No flash.

"If you're here to pitch yourself," I said, letting the door swing shut with a heavy click, "save your breath. I've heard the speech."

She didn't flinch. She didn't turn around with the desperate, practiced smile I was used to.

Instead, she slowly looked over her shoulder. Her eyes were a pale, washed-out grey under the high ceilings, completely devoid of heavy makeup. She gave me a quiet, agonizingly slow look that traced from my expensive shoes up to my face, and then just stayed there.

"I was looking at the garden," she said. Her voice was lower than I expected, slightly raspy, like she hadn't spoken all day. "The hydrangeas are dying. Nobody's taking care of them."

I stopped a few feet away, thrown off balance. "What?"

Rosette turned around fully, crossing her arms tightly over her ribs. Up close, her face was all sharp angles high cheekbones, a wide mouth that refused to smile, and a slight tilt to her chin that looked like she was waiting for a blow to land.

The plants," she repeated, her voice deadpan. They're suffocating.

I stepped aggressively into her personal space, closing the distance to a point that usually made people step back or drop their gaze.

She didn't move an inch. She simply tilted her head back a fraction of a degree to keep her eyes locked onto mine.

You're Richard, she said.

And you're Rosette." I let my eyes slide down to her collarbone, then back up, trying to reassert dominance. "My family has high standards. I'm surprised they found someone who doesn't drown themselves in heavy perfume.

Her jaw tightened, a flash of fire crossing her features, but the pulse at the base of her neck stayed steady.

Your family bought my father's debt," she said flatly, cutting through the bullshit. "We don't need to do the small talk. You need a wife to keep your seat, and my father needs a wire transfer so he doesn't lose his farm. You can skip the charm. It won't work on me."

I let out a short, sharp sound that was too cynical to be a laugh. Honest.

It saves time.

Do you even know anything about me, Rosette?" I took one more half-step forward, looming over her. Do you read the papers?

"I know you have money," she said, her grey eyes as flat and hard as slate. "And I know you think that makes you hard to handle, or that everyone should bow at your feet. It doesn't."

The air in the room suddenly felt incredibly thin.

What did you say?

You heard me.

She uncrossed her arms, stepped sideways right past me toward the hallway, her shoulder intentionally brushing my jacket as she bypassed me. "I don't care about the apartment in the city, Richard. I don't care about your family, and I don't care who you spend your weekends with. Write whatever contract your lawyers want. Just make sure there are two bedrooms.

Before she could reach the handle, my hand shot out and caught her by the wrist.

My fingers clamped around her skin. She was small, her bones light and fragile, but the moment I touched her, she went completely rigid. She looked down at my hand like I had just stained her sleeve.

Let go," she said softly, dangerous undercurrents vibrating in her tone.

Nobody walks away while I'm talking.

"Then stop standing behind me," she snapped, looking straight up into my face. "If we're doing this, let's get one thing clear. You're buying my name on a piece of paper. You will never own me.

I held her wrist for a few seconds longer than necessary, testing her. Her pulse under my thumb was a frantic, rapid beat—but her face didn't betray a single ounce of fear.

We'll see, I murmured.

She pulled her arm back with a sharp, violent jerk, yanked the door open, and walked out. The rhythmic click of her heels faded down the runner in the hall until the heavy front doors finally shut.

I stood there in the dead center of the drawing room, staring at the empty doorway, my fingers still burning cold where she’d pulled away.