The next morning, Imogen woke up stiff. Her neck felt like it had been fused into a permanent angle of tension. She put on her stiff, wrinkled jeans and the shirt that still had a faint gray stain on the hem. She tried to scrub it out with hand soap, but it was useless.
She had to walk twelve blocks to the coffee shop because she couldn't afford another Uber. The wind was biting, cutting through her thin jacket.
At 9:55 AM, she stood outside Bean & Leaf. She took a deep breath, trying to summon a persona she didn't possess: a compliant, eager-to-please girl who wanted to marry a middle-aged dentist.
She pushed open the door. The bell chimed.
The cafe was busy. The smell of roasted coffee made her stomach cramp with hunger. She hadn't eaten since yesterday lunch.
She scanned the room. Linda had said: He'll be wearing a grey sweater and glasses.
Imogen looked around. Businessmen in suits. Students with laptops.
Then she saw him.
In the back corner booth, a man sat alone. He was wearing a grey hoodie-close enough to a sweater-and thick-rimmed black glasses. He was looking at a tablet.
He looked younger than the photo. Much younger. And... better. His jawline was sharp enough to cut glass. His hair was dark and slightly messy, in a way that suggested he had run his hands through it in frustration.
Maybe the photo was old? Or just unflattering?
Imogen straightened her spine. This was it. The performance of her life.
She walked over to the booth. The man didn't look up until she was standing right next to the table.
"Hi," she said, forcing a bright, brittle smile. "I'm Imogen. Sorry I'm exactly on time, I usually like to be early."
The man looked up.
Imogen felt a jolt of recognition. Those eyes. Dark. Intelligent. Cold.
A prickle of unease ran down her spine. The sterile, silent interior of that luxury car flashed in her mind for a split second before she pushed it away. It couldn't be. That was a man in a different universe. This was just some guy in a coffee shop.
The man stared at her. His gaze dropped to her stained shirt, then back to her bruised cheek. His expression didn't change, but his fingers paused on the screen of his tablet.
"Imogen," he repeated. He tested the name, rolling it around in his mouth like a sip of wine he wasn't sure he liked.
"Yes. Linda sent me?" She sat down opposite him without waiting to be invited. She needed to sit. Her legs were shaking. "Look, can we just... cut to the chase? I know why I'm here. I know what you're looking for."
The man raised an eyebrow. A slow, amused smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. The biceps under the grey hoodie bulged slightly.
"Do you?" he asked. "And what am I looking for?"
"A wife," Imogen said bluntly. "Someone to... settle down with. Someone presentable." She gestured vaguely to herself, flushing. "I know I don't look like much right now. I had a rough night. But I clean up well. I can cook. I'm quiet. I won't get in your way."
The man was silent for a long beat. He took off his glasses and set them on the table. Without the lenses, his gaze was even more piercing.
"You're proposing a business arrangement," he stated. It wasn't a question.
"Isn't that what this is?" Imogen leaned forward, lowering her voice. "Linda said you needed someone reliable. I need... stability. I need to get away from my parents. If we do this, I can be whatever you need me to be."
Gael Fuller looked at the girl. He recognized her instantly, of course. The girl from the rain. The architect genius with the broken suitcase.
She thought he was her date. She thought he was some dentist Linda had dug up.
He should tell her. He should tell her that he was the CEO of the company she wanted to work for, and that her sketchbook was currently sitting on his mahogany desk in the penthouse.
But then he looked at the bruise on her cheek. He saw the desperation vibrating off her like heat waves.
"Stability," Gael said softly. "That's a valuable commodity."
"I'm a hard worker," Imogen pressed. "I'm not looking for love. I just need... an out."
Gael tapped his finger on the table. Tap. Tap. Tap.
"Okay," he said.
Imogen blinked. "Okay? You mean... you're interested?"
"I'm listening."
