The Contract Scheme
To inherit her late father's company, Rachel Hartley must get married. She proposes a contract to Damian Westwood-wealthy, devastatingly handsome, and dangerously persuasive. But Damian has secrets, an ambition of his own. Their marriage is not about love, definitely, but about wealth. To him, she's a pawn, a key to unlocking his own ambitions.
Yet the closer they become, the more blurred the lines get between lies and truth, desire and betrayal. Rachel must decide if she can love a man who might ruin her or save her.
In a marriage built on secrets, one truth could destroy everything.
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Chapter 3
Just after our eyes locked and formal introductions were made, I noticed something, an almost imperceptible expression in Mr Westwood's eyes and a light twitch at the corner of his mouth, a flicker of nerves masked beneath that polished calm.
Was he... flustered?. He disguised it quickly, slipping on his armour of nonchalance and polished professionalism, but I caught it. This could be good. For the first time since my father's will had thrown my world into chaos and a feeling of emptiness, I find myself enjoying a moment. I have the upper hand in this situation. And it feels delicious and intoxicating. Normally, I would have just played the passive role, nodding here, offering a courteous question there, and letting the executives iron out the messy details. But not today. I wanted him cornered. I wanted him to fumble. Leaning forward, I lace my fingers together atop the table.
"So, Mr Westwood," I begin, my voice smooth, "tell me, why exactly does Arclight want a partnership with Hartley Holdings?"
His jaw tenses ever so slightly.
"We're convinced that your company's market presence complements our expansion strategy." I tilt my head, feigning polite curiosity.
"Expansion strategy?. Could you elaborate, please?". Mr Westwood folds his hands together.
"We're targeting emerging markets across Africa and parts of Europe. Your distribution networks offer a significant advantage."
I nod slowly.
"Hmm. So you're looking to use our infrastructure to gain access to territories you haven't been able to penetrate on your own? "
His brow lifts. "Leverage is the word-collaborate... semantics."
I chuckle softly. "Semantics are important in business, Mr Westwood. Words shape deals."
Then, a flicker of something in his eyes. Irritation? Or admiration? I can't tell. Yet. Desmond shoots me a curious glance from across the table. He's probably confused at what was going on.
Courtney makes a smirk. The rest of the executing team are surprised that I'm taking the wheel. I usually leave it to them. Asking questions occasionally. Mr Westwood's team look equally bewildered but maintain calm expressions on their faces. I press on.
"And what exactly are you offering in return for this... collaboration? "
"Technology integration. Joint marketing campaigns. Cross-brand promotions-"
I hold up a hand. "Joint marketing with a company known for hostile takeovers?"
A faint murmur ripples through the room. Mr Westwood's eyes narrow.
"That was a strategic acquisition, not a hostile takeover," he replies coolly while fumbling with his pen and lightly tapping his feet on the floor. I have him where I want him. Discomfort.
"Of course," I say, leaning back in my chair, studying him.
"Let's talk numbers then. Your last quarterly growth report – care to explain the sudden dip? "
Desmond's eyes widened slightly. Courtney's pen paused mid-scribble. Mr Westwood didn't flinch. "Market fluctuations. We're diversifying investments to counterbalance."
"Market fluctuations? " I echo. "Or investor confidence?". A muscle twitched in his jaw. I smirk inwardly.
For the next thirty minutes, I hammer him with question after question - client retention strategies, internal management turnover, scalability concerns and revenue growth.
Every answer he gives, I twist, reframe, challenge, and poke holes in. And every time, I saw him tighten up just a bit more. By the time I finally leaned back, crossing my legs elegantly, Mr Westwood's carefully maintained mask had cracks.
"Well, Mr Westwood," I say with a gracious smile, gathering my notes, "thank you for your time. We'll be in touch."
I know I'm going to accept the proposal. I'm just playing around. His lips pressed into a thin line.
"Of course."As I rise, one of his associates approaches, offering a polite bow. "If you don't mind, ma'am, we'd love to treat you to lunch." I offer him a warm, professional smile.
"Oh, no, thank you very much. Perhaps another time."
He nods respectfully before walking off. My gaze lingers on him for a moment. They really do have polite people in this company. Why's Damian Westwood such an exception? . I start heading out with Desmond and Courtney.
"My, that was intense," Desmond comments."Really?" Courtney interjects,
"I enjoyed it." I laugh.
"Me too."And that's when I heard it.
"Rachel." I freeze. I recognise that voice quite alright. But "Rachel" with no formality?. I turn, a slow smirk curving my lips.
"Yes, Mr Westwood?"
He doesn't reply. Instead, he closes the distance between us, grasps my hand firmly, yet not roughly, and pulls me toward a side hallway.
"We need to talk." Courtney opens her mouth, but I give her a subtle wave. Desmond looks alarmed, and I signal him to stay put.
"I'll be back. You guys head on. Tell everyone I'll be right there." They nod. Apprehensively. I let him lead me, his grip firm but not painful. Oddly enough, it's... warm. Almost protective. Like he doesn't want to hurt me. Well, he shouldn't. His company's reputation could be on the line. He pulls me into a quiet corridor, away from the bustling conference rooms.
Once we're alone, he spins around, pushing me lightly against the wall. His hands shoot up, pinning me gently but firmly over my head.
"Excuse me? " I gasp. He leans in, his face inches from mine. His eyes lock onto mine, hard and unyielding. And I feel a stupid shiver run through me.
"Just so we're clear," he says, his voice low, "I'm not desperate for this deal. Hell, I could close down your company within the twinkle of an eye if I wanted. I'm only doing this because our fathers were friends. Mine asked me to help, so see this as me honouring his wishes. I won't have you play games with me or tease me when I most definitely don't have anything to lose." He leans even closer, my insides tingling at the close proximity.
"I still don't care about you."
His words hit like a slap. His father?. What's his father got to do with this?. Then it hits me. Westwood. The name. Dad's friend. At the funeral. Oh my goodness. I stare back at Damian, stunned. I'd read him wrong. Totally wrong. How come I didn't know about this? Dad didn't mention anything about Arclight. Mr Westwood certainly didn't mention it. But then, pride is a stubborn thing. I square my shoulders, lift my chin, and meet his stare head-on. And that's when I really saw him.
He stands at least 6'2, a towering figure of handsomeness. His dark, sleek hair framed a symmetrical face - cheekbones sharp enough to cut, a strong jawline, and full lips pressed into a frown. His fitted suit barely contains the muscles beneath: broad shoulders and toned arms. A hint of ink peeked from under his collar, a tattoo snaking along his neck. He looks...raw, dominating. Masculinity personified. And for a moment... I forget how to breathe.
"Rachel," his deep voice snaps me back to the present. Without thinking, the words blurt from my lips.
"Marry me." Wait, what? The silence that followed was deafening. Then his brows shoot up.
"What did you just say? " I swallow, straightening.
"Marry me. A contract marriage. Business only." Am I seriously proposing to this man?. I'm such a mess. He looks genuinely amused now. "You're serious? " I draw in a breath. In one fast, breathless sentence, I tell him everything: my father's will, the insane marriage condition, and the looming deadline. His expression slowly shifts from amused to contemplative. When I finish, I hold his gaze.
"So basically... we get married, I get my company, and you honour your father's wish. A win-win situation." He nods slowly.
"Interesting." I brace myself for a flat-out rejection. Instead...A slow, unamused smile spreads across his face, the kind that could make a sane woman run. The kind that made me want to place a slap across that smug face of his.
"I like it," he says. I blink.
"You... do? " He does?. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a sleek black business card and hands it to me.
"Call me. Or text. Whichever, so we can discuss the details."
Yes. He's definitely insane. Before I can process it, he turns on his heel and walks off, his confident stride unhurried. I just stand where he left me, heart thundering in my chest, clutching the card like a lifeline. Did that really just happen? Could this day get any more chaotic?. When I finally returned to my team, they were all waiting with curious glances. I force a neutral expression, sliding the business card into my purse.
"Everything alright? " Courtney asks quietly."That was more intense," Desmond comments. I give a short laugh before I respond.
"Everything's perfect. How about we get pizza on the way? "
"Sounds great. I haven't had lunch," Desmond says, placing his hand on his stomach. Courtney rolls her eyes. I laugh again, but my insides are a whirlwind of emotions. I'm not sure if I'd just made the smartest business move of my life...or the most dangerous mistake of my life.
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7.9
Allyson was the most hated actress in Hollywood, forced to wear a cheap, tearing gown after America's sweetheart, Joanne, stole her S-tier role.
During a red carpet disaster, Allyson tripped and fell—straight into the arms of the untouchable megastar, Byron Estes.
The internet exploded, accusing Allyson of faking the fall to seduce him. Drowning in bad press and desperate to pay her agency's termination fee, she signed a reality TV contract. She was forced to play the desperate, clingy villain, acting as a pathetic stepping stone for Joanne and Byron's highly anticipated on-screen romance.
"You could throw yourself at Byron a hundred times, and you'd still never make it into his bed," Joanne mocked.
What Joanne and the furious public didn't know was that three years ago, when Byron was in a horrific crash, Joanne had abandoned him. It was Allyson who stayed.
Even more absurd? Allyson and Byron were actually secretly married, bound by a multi-million dollar NDA.
Determined to play her villainous role and get paid, Allyson memorized a book of cringe-inducing pickup lines, ready to disgust her secret husband on live television.
"The stars are in the sky. But you... are in my heart."
She expected the ice-cold superstar to push her away in disgust. Instead, when another male guest got too close to her, Byron completely shattered his untouchable facade, his eyes burning with a lethal, undeniable possessiveness that sent the internet into absolute chaos.
9.3
They say you can't have it all. I'm about to prove them wrong-or destroy myself trying.
When my struggling mother married billionaire Richard Stone, I thought I was gaining a family. Instead, I found three stepbrothers who became my obsession, my downfall, and my salvation.
Dominic, the eldest, cold and commanding, who kisses me like he's claiming his kingdom and looks at me like I'm the only thing he can't control.
Julian, the charming playboy who hides a vulnerable soul beneath his perfect smile, making me feel like I'm the only woman he's ever truly seen.
Asher, the brooding artist who paints me like I'm his muse and touches me like I'm his masterpiece, seeing parts of my soul I didn't know existed.
They're forbidden. They're dangerous. They're everything I shouldn't want.
But when I discover my father didn't die by suicide that he was murdered by the very man who now calls himself my stepfather, these three powerful men becomes my unlikely allies.
First it was a forbidden attraction, now it's an arrangement that defies every rule.
The rules are simple:
I'll give each of them a chance.
I'll take everything they offer.
And in the end, I'll have to make the hardest decision of my life:
Choose one of them. Choose all of them. Or choose myself.
8.2
I went to a private clinic for a routine physical, only to find out I was pregnant.
It was impossible. I took my birth control every single day. But when the doctor tested my pills, they turned out to be high-purity vitamin placebos. My billionaire husband, Denton, had been systematically replacing my medication.
Yet, on our anniversary, he brought my sister Beverly home, demanding a divorce so he could marry her. When I refused to sign a settlement that left me with nothing, he froze my accounts and blacklisted me across New York.
My own father disowned me. When an old friend offered me a job just so I could afford prenatal care, Denton launched a ruthless financial attack to bankrupt his firm.
Then, Beverly got into a car crash. Denton's bodyguards dragged me off the street and forced me into a hospital trauma room. Beverly was hemorrhaging, and I was the only blood match.
I cried and begged Denton to stop, desperately trying to protect my fragile pregnancy without exposing my baby to the monster who controlled my life.
"Please, my body can't handle this. Don't do this to me!"
But he just looked at me with pure disgust and ordered his men to strap me to the chair, forcing the needle into my vein while threatening to kill me if his mistress died.
As I dragged my bleeding, cramping body out of the hospital into the freezing snow, my last shred of hope died.
I touched my stomach and made a vow: I would disappear, and I would make them all pay.
8.7
Five years ago, I was the invisible scholarship charity case at an elite Manhattan prep school, trying to survive in a sea of trust-fund babies.
Arlo Hammond, the untouchable billionaire heir, made sure to completely dismantle my soul.
When his wealthy friends asked if he noticed me, his mocking laughter echoed down the hallway.
"Are you out of your mind? You seriously think I'd be interested in a boring little nerd like her?"
But the moment we were alone, he would corner me in dark alleys, pinning my wrists against brick walls with terrifying, possessive jealousy if my phone even buzzed. He played his twisted games until I was left standing in the rain with my shattered dignity.
Now, I am an Assistant District Attorney. I spent years burying those memories under mountains of legal files.
But tonight, he returned.
When we crossed paths at an exclusive club, he looked at me with the cool detachment he'd give a piece of furniture. In front of a crowd of elites, he coldly declared:
"We have absolutely nothing to do with each other anymore."
Then he walked away to pick up a supermodel, leaving me trembling from the sheer humiliation.
I didn't understand. If I was so worthless to him, why did he still have my birthday tattooed in dark ink on his wrist? Why did he look at me with such raw, painful vulnerability in the shadows?
I stared at my pale reflection in the mirror and made a silent vow.
I am not that pathetic seventeen-year-old anymore, and I will prove to him that I am completely, entirely over him.
8.8
Elizbeth married the wealthy heir Carlton Wilkinson to save her grandfather's life's work.
But on their wedding night, instead of a loving husband, she faced a cold tyrant. He forced her to sign a brutal prenup, stripped her of all family rights, and banished her to a dingy guest room.
He was convinced she was just a pathetic, gold-digging liar.
When a catastrophic pain attack drove Carlton to smash his own head against the wall, Elizbeth rushed in to save him using her specialized acupuncture. She risked her life to calm his spasming nerves.
But the moment he woke up, he nearly choked her to death. He threw her against the wall, bleeding and bruised, accusing her of using cheap parlor tricks to poison him.
The next morning, his greedy relatives openly mocked her cheap clothes, waiting like vultures for Carlton to drop dead so they could steal his fortune.
Elizbeth was humiliated and terrified, but she soon discovered a classified secret.
Carlton was a former Delta Force operator slowly going mad from an undetectable weaponized biotoxin. The poison made him paranoid and violent. He would rather die in agony than accept help from a woman he despised.
Begged by his desperate grandfather, Elizbeth knew she had to cure him in the shadows.
At 1:00 AM, she slipped a heavy, odorless sedative into his water and sneaked into his pitch-black bedroom to begin the detox.
But as her silver needle hovered over his skin, a massive hand shot out and pinned her violently to the mattress.
"How much did they pay you to poison me?" he hissed in the dark, his eyes wide awake and blazing with murderous fury.
8.2
Trapped in a deadly fire at my own engagement party, my lungs burned as I reached a shaking hand out to my fiancé for help.
He stopped and looked right at me through the thick smoke. But instead of saving me, he wrapped his jacket tightly around my stepsister and ran, leaving me to burn.
I barely survived. But when I woke up in the hospital, my father and stepmother didn't even ask about my injuries.
They threw a stack of legal documents right onto my bed.
"Sign the papers, Avah. Step aside. Jaclyn is far better suited to be Kain's wife."
My fiancé then stormed into the room, publicly humiliating me with false rumors of an illegitimate child and threatening to bankrupt my company.
Four years of swallowing my pride to be the perfect, obedient pawn for our family business, all for nothing.
They threw me to the wolves without a single second of hesitation, expecting me to just lower my head and cry like I always did.
But the fire had burned that pathetic version of me away.
I ripped out my IV, letting the blood drip onto the sheets, and tore their contracts straight down the middle.
"The engagement is over."
I threw my million-dollar ring right at my ex's chest, then picked up the phone to call my trust lawyer. They wanted to take everything from me, so I was going to make them bleed.