Chapter 3 The Slap I Didn't Know I Wanted

Lucien's POV

She walked in wearing the same jeans from the other day.

I noticed immediately.

Not because I cared about fashion. I didn't. But because people who wear the same clothes for days aren't doing it out of choice. And people who still bother to brush their hair and lift their chin anyway? Those are the dangerous ones. The ones who survive everything. Even themselves.

She followed the hostess into the private room-eyes darting everywhere like she expected someone to shout "gotcha." I could already tell she was scared. But not the usual, trembling kind of scared. No, this one was bitter. The kind of fear that had learned to speak in sarcasm and head tilts.

She spotted me and let out a small, nervous laugh like she wasn't sure if I was real. Or if she was.

"I came," she said, pushing her curls back with a hand that trembled just slightly.

"You did," I replied, keeping my voice level. No warmth. No emotion. Just what I knew she expected.

I gestured to the chair opposite mine. She sat without hesitation, crossing her arms. Her eyes were sharp and defiant. But behind all that fire, I saw it.

The exhaustion.

The grief.

The sadness she hadn't given herself permission to feel. It hung around her like a scent. Something pungent and ignored.

"I don't want to waste time," I said, sliding the folder toward her. "You're smart. And desperate. That's a dangerous combination."

She raised an eyebrow. "Okay... weird compliment, but go on."

Even now-broke, angry, scared-she still had bite. Still filled the room with a kind of stubborn brightness I hadn't expected. She was practically vibrating with nervous energy, talking too fast, trying to take control of something. Anything.

I leaned back. "I need a wife."

Her mouth opened and closed.

Then: "You need a what?"

"A wife. Temporarily."

And just like that, she laughed. Loud. Sharp. It startled even the staff peeking in from the hallway.

"I'm sorry," she said, holding her chest dramatically. "Did you say a temporary wife? Is this-like-some weird dating prank show? Am I being pranked? Where's the camera?"

She said it like a joke. But her eyes? Calculating. Scared. A little curious.

I didn't move. "You're broke. You have no family. No backup. You're clinging to a sister with a chronic illness and no health insurance. You need a miracle. I'm offering you one."

She flinched. Just for a second. Then covered it with a scowl.

I watched her scan the contract. Her fingers were hesitant at first, like the paper would burn her skin. Then sharper. Faster. She was genuinely reading it. Taking it in.

Seven million. One year. No intimacy. Public appearances. Lies.

"This is insane," she muttered.

"Yet you're still reading."

She looked up at me and narrowed her eyes. "What's your deal, huh? Who hurt you? Why not pick some rich girl with two last names and a useless art degree?"

I smiled inwardly. She wasn't wrong. I could find someone easier. Someone quieter. Someone with less to lose.

But she was different.

And I needed different.

"Because I don't want someone who wants me. I want someone who needs me. There's a difference."

I expected her to leave then. To scoff and toss the file in my face. But instead, she asked, "What do you get out of this?"

"A wife. A distraction. Protection."

Her brow creased. She wanted to ask what I meant. But she didn't. Smart girl.

"What's your name?"

"Lucien."

She stood up suddenly. "I'm not doing this. You're insane."

I didn't react. "Walk out, and your sister dies slowly in a public hospital ward."

That got her.

She turned so fast her hair slapped her face. Her eyes blazed, and I watched the exact moment she snapped.

"You disgusting, arrogant, emotionally constipated control freak!" she shouted. "You don't get to use my sister like that-"

Then came the slap.

I didn't see it coming.

Her palm cracked against my cheek with a sting that echoed in the air. The staff outside definitely heard. My head barely moved, but the contact was real. Firm. Honest.

And strangely satisfying.

I blinked once. Let the heat bloom on my skin.

She stood there, trembling. Not from fear. From fury. From guilt. From the storm of emotions she was clearly trying to drown in logic.

And all I could think was: Good. Let it out. Don't bottle it like the rest of us.

She stared at me like she was waiting for me to explode.

I didn't.

Instead, I said, "I'll double the amount."

Her mouth opened. Closed.

"Sign the contract," I said quietly. "And you'll have access to the best doctors, private care, and safety. For both of you."

I wasn't being kind. I wasn't being generous. I was just being strategic.

But something about her made it feel like more than that.

She sat down slowly. Almost in disbelief.

Her fingers hovered over the pen like it weighed a hundred kilos. Her eyes darted to mine. Then to the contract. Then back.

And then she signed.

One signature. Just her name. Simple. Uncomplicated.

Amara.

It looked beautiful on paper.

She closed the file, stood up, and gave me one last look. A mixture of shame and pride and raw, aching hope.

"Do I call you husband now, or just boss?" she muttered.

I didn't answer.

I watched her walk out of the room, her back straight, shoulders squared-like someone marching to war.

The door clicked shut behind her.

And I finally exhaled a breath I didn't know I was holding.

Not because I had won.

But because I had just opened a door I wouldn't be able to close.