The contract bride

Emma Clarke pulled her fraying beige coat tightly round herself as she stood in the shadow of the approaching CrossTech Tower. The biting wintry gust gnawed at her cheeks, making them flushed pink. Her fingers, clutching a folder filled with rejections and incomplete story ideas, trembled at the cold and something more-the quiet desperation she would refuse to recognize.

At twenty-eight, Emma had fitted herself into a different mold. She had pictured herself basking in glossy bylines appearing in weighty magazines, but today she couldn't boast of that- running finish, writing fluff for an online tabloid while carrying most of her family's pressing financial burden.

Her father's voice rang in her ear from the night before. "Don't worry about us, sweetheart. You have done enough already."

But she hadn't done enough. Her father's medical bills spiraled out of hand; there were overdue tuition fees for her younger sister Sophia; and their family home was just a missed payment from foreclosure. Yet Emma fought with all her might, even though it felt like the battle was Lost on all fronts.

She adjusted her glasses and took in a deep breath. Staring up at the glass-and-steel goliath before her, cross-tech tower stood like a fortress, its glowing façade shimmering under the midday sun. Adrian Cross-the man at the very top of that empire was as untouchable as the tower itself.

Yet today, she had a meeting with him.

Inside the reception, it was signified by opulence. The marble floors shone, and great walls of glass overlooked a brilliant vista of the city's skyline. Emma felt slightly out of place in her scuffed boots and coat from the thrift store, but she straightened her back and walked confidently forward.

Emma stood before a statuesque receptionist with smooth blonde hair and an icy attitude, who looked at Emma and said nothing for judging Emma's condition. Then, after a brief phone call, she said, "Mr. Cross will see you now."

The elder woman's heart thudded when she followed the lady down a corridor and reached an elevator, which took her to the top floor. When the doors opened, she took a step into Adrian Cross's office-a sprawling space that was equal parts intimidating and impressive.

The man himself stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, silhouetted against the cityscape. Adrian Cross was entirely the enigma she had imagined: tall, broad-shouldered, and impeccably dressed in a tailored charcoal suit. His dark hair was neatly combed back, and his angular features could have been carved from stone. But it was his eyes that caught her off guard-piercing gray, sharp and calculating, as if he could see straight through her.

He turned, his gaze locking onto hers with an intensity that made her breath catch. "Ms. Clarke," he said, his voice smooth and measured, with a faint undertone of amusement. "You're punctual. I appreciate that."

Emma had to will herself to cross the remaining distance to the desk, almost feeling as though her knees would buckle beneath her at that moment. "Mr. Cross," she managed, her voice steady despite the nervous flutter in her chest.

Adrian gestured to a chair across from his sleek glass desk. "Please, sit." She obeyed, clutching her folder like a lifeline. He lowered himself into the chair opposite her, his movements controlled and deliberate. They sat in silence for a moment, feeling the tension stretch taut between them.

"You probably wondered why I called you here," advanced Adrian at last leaning back in his chair. His tone sounded very casual but his eyes contradicted it by being anything but casual.

Emma swallowed once before saying, "Well, yes, I was surprised. We don't run in the same circles, so to speak."

His lips twitched, the ghost of a smile which never reached his eyes. "No, we don't. But I've read your work, Ms. Clarke. You have a talent for getting to the heart of a story. And while your current position is... let's say, less than ideal, I believe you're capable of much more."

She blinked, startled. The idea that someone like Adrian Cross had read her articles let alone found value in them was almost absurd. "Thanks for the compliment, but I don't think you brought me here just to flatter me."

"Perceptive," he nodded. "I have a proposition for you."

Emma's brow furrowed. "What kind of proposition?"