Natalie's POV
The eviction notice felt like ice in my hands.
FINAL NOTICE: Pay $50,000 within 30 days or premises will be seized.
I read it three times, hoping the words would change. They didn't.
My mother's restaurant, the place where I'd learned to walk, where Dad taught me to fold dumplings, where every table held twenty years of family memories—would be gone in thirty days.
My phone buzzed. Another bill collector. I let it go to voicemail, the seventh one today.
This was Lily's fault. My cousin, who I'd loved like a sister. Who I'd helped pay for college. Who'd begged me to co-sign her loan because she just needed a little help.
Turned out that little help meant covering her gambling debts. Fifty thousand dollars I didn't have. Money I'd borrowed to save her, which destroyed my credit and buried me so deep I couldn't breathe.
Now the loan sharks were circling both of us.
I crumpled the notice and threw it across my tiny apartment. It bounced off the wall covered in peeling paint and landed near the stack of unpaid bills I'd been ignoring.
Rent: overdue.
Credit cards: maxed out.
Business account: nearly empty.
My event planning company was barely surviving. I'd lost three clients this month because I couldn't afford the deposits for venues anymore. Word was spreading that Natalie Chen was unreliable. Broke. Desperate.
They weren't wrong.
My phone rang again. Mom this time. I almost didn't answer.
Natalie? Her voice was tired. Did you get the notice from the bank?
Yes, Mom.
They say we have thirty days. I don't understand. We've been paying
The interest, Mom. We've only been paying the interest. Because that's all I could afford while drowning in Lily's debt. The principal is due now.
Silence stretched between us. I heard Dad's voice in the background asking what was wrong.
We'll figure it out, I lied, my voice bright and fake. I have some clients who owe me money. I'll collect this week.
Another lie. My clients had already paid. I'd spent it all keeping my business alive.
Natalie, if you need help
I'm fine, Mom. Don't worry. I'll handle it.
I hung up before she could hear me cry.
But I didn't have time for tears. I had exactly four hours to transform myself into the successful, confident event planner the Blackwell family had hired for tonight's charity gala.
I couldn't afford to lose this job too.
The Metropolitan Museum's Great Hall glittered with New York's wealthiest elite. Diamond necklaces that cost more than my entire year's rent. Designer gowns I'd never afford. Conversations about summer homes and yacht clubs while they sipped champagne that probably cost a hundred dollars per glass.
I smiled at them all, clipboard in hand, making sure their perfect evening ran smoothly.
The shrimp are too small, one woman complained, wrinkling her nose at the catering display.
I'll speak to the chef immediately, Mrs. Whitmore, I said pleasantly, even though the shrimp were exactly the size she'd approved last week.
In the kitchen, chaos had erupted.
The ovens aren't working! the head chef shouted. Half the main courses aren't cooked!
My stomach dropped. Two hundred guests expecting a five-course meal in thirty minutes, and half the food was raw.
This couldn't be happening. Not tonight. The Blackwells were my biggest client. If I failed them, my reputation was finished.
Okay, I said, forcing my voice to stay calm. What can we serve cold? What's already prepared?
We scrambled together a solution—converting appetizers into small plates, rearranging the menu, turning disaster into an exciting tapas-style experience. I personally delivered the explanation to Eleanor Blackwell herself, the terrifying family matriarch who could destroy my career with one word.
She studied me with cold eyes. Handle it, she said simply.
I handled it.
For the next two hours, I ran between kitchen and ballroom, solving problems, smiling at complaints, making sure nobody realized how close everything had come to collapse.
My feet ached in heels I'd bought at a thrift store. My dress—the nicest one I owned—was three years old and slightly too tight because I couldn't afford to eat regularly anymore, just cheap ramen and coffee.
But I smiled. I performed. I made their perfect evening happen while my own life was falling apart.
You're good at this.
The voice came from behind me. Deep, smooth, expensive-sounding.
I turned and found myself looking up at a man who clearly belonged in this world of wealth and power. Tall, perfectly tailored suit, dark hair styled with careless precision. Handsome in that sharp, dangerous way that usually meant trouble.
Thank you, I said professionally. Are you enjoying the evening, Mr...?
Blackwell. Adrian Blackwell.
My heart stuttered. The eldest son. The CEO. Eleanor's grandson and the heir to the pharmaceutical empire that basically owned half of Manhattan.
I'd planned events for his family before, but never met him personally.
Is there something you need, Mr. Blackwell? I asked, suddenly aware that my hair was falling out of its clip and I probably had champagne stains on my dress.
Actually, yes. His eyes—ice blue and far too observant—studied me with uncomfortable intensity. I'd like to speak with you. Privately. After the event.
About the catering issue? I assure you
Not about the catering. His voice dropped lower, serious in a way that made my skin prickle with warning. About a business proposition.
I'm an event planner, Mr. Blackwell. If you need
I need a wife.
The words hit me like a slap.
I stared at him, certain I'd misheard. Excuse me?
Temporarily, he clarified, as if that made it less insane. One year. Contract marriage. I'll pay you two million dollars.
My brain stopped working. Two million dollars. Enough to save the restaurant, pay off Lily's debts, rebuild my business, and still have money left over.
Enough to save everything.
You're joking, I whispered.
I never joke about business, Miss Chen. He pulled a business card from his pocket, pressed it into my trembling hand. My attorney will contact you tomorrow with details. Think about it.
He walked away, leaving me standing in the middle of a ballroom full of Manhattan's elite, holding a business card that might be my salvation or my destruction.
I looked down at the elegant printing: Adrian Blackwell, CEO, Blackwell Pharmaceuticals.
And underneath, handwritten in dark ink: This offer expires in 48 hours.