Married by Midnight: A billionaire's deal

The skyline of Manhattan bled into gold and shadow as the sun dipped behind the jagged outline of the city. From the top floor of Sinclair Tower, the view was breathtaking-but Damien Sinclair didn't see it. His eyes were fixed on the document in his hand, its language sharp as a dagger.

He read the line again, voice low, bitter.

"Marry by midnight on your thirty-second birthday, or forfeit your position as CEO and all voting rights to the Sinclair estate."

The paper crackled under his grip.

"Tell me you're joking," he muttered, though the voice beside him had said the same thing hours ago.

"I wish I were," said Lucas Hayes, leaning against the edge of Damien's obsidian desk. His tie was loosened, his tone weary. "But the will is airtight. Your grandfather had a flair for the dramatic."

"This isn't drama," Damien snapped. "It's sabotage. Blackmail from beyond the grave."

Lucas offered a dry chuckle. "Henry always did say he wanted you to 'find balance.' Guess this was his way of forcing your hand."

Damien turned away from the desk, running a hand through his dark hair. The city stretched beneath him, glittering and cold. He'd built Sinclair Tech from a shaky inheritance and sleepless nights. Now, in less than twenty-four hours, it could be taken from him-unless he said two words he'd never imagined uttering.

"I do."

Lucas cleared his throat. "You know Charles is waiting for you to fail. If you don't find a bride by midnight tomorrow, he inherits everything. He's practically measuring the curtains already."

"Not if I stop him first," Damien said.

Lucas raised an eyebrow. "You're actually going to find someone and-what? Propose with a prenup and a ticking clock?"

"No," Damien said, a cold determination settling in his chest. "I'm going to make an offer. One no one desperate enough will refuse."

Across the East River in Brooklyn, the once-vibrant walls of Monroe Art Studio had lost their luster. Aria Monroe crouched on the floor, sorting through canvases her mother painted years ago. The space smelled of turpentine, old dreams, and quiet panic.

She checked her phone for the third time that hour.

Another text. No name.

You're running out of time, Aria. You belong to me.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she deleted it.

She tried to refocus, brushing off her jeans and standing to face the large oil painting by the window. It was one of her mother's final pieces, a swirling vision of fire and hope. Aria had promised herself she'd protect this place. But between rent notices, a declining client list, and whatever stalker was blowing up her phone, hope was wearing thin.

The gallery door chimed.

"I'm closed," she called out automatically, without turning around.

"I won't take much of your time."

The voice was calm, masculine, rich with command. Aria turned-and froze.

The man in her gallery looked like he'd walked straight out of a billionaire feature in Forbes: tall, impeccably dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, his features chiseled and his eyes... ice.

She knew that face. Everyone did.

"Damien Sinclair?" she asked, stunned.

"Good. Saves me the introduction," he said, stepping further inside.

"I'm serious-we're not open."

"I didn't come here for art," he said coolly. "I came here for you."

Aria blinked. "Excuse me?"

He reached into his coat and produced a folder, placing it on the counter like a dealer laying down his final card. "I'm offering you a deal."

She crossed her arms. "Let me guess-you want me to sell my gallery to make room for another Sinclair tower?"

"Quite the opposite," he said. "I want to save it."

That made her hesitate.

He opened the folder. Inside were financial documents, account statements-enough zeros to make her dizzy.

"I'll pay off your debts, cover rent for the next five years, and provide monthly support," Damien said. "In exchange, you marry me. By midnight tomorrow."

Aria burst into incredulous laughter. "You're insane."

"Possibly," he said. "But I'm also very serious."

Her smile vanished. "Why me?"

"Because you're desperate enough not to ask questions," he said simply. "And I need someone who won't mistake this for a love story."

She stared at him. "So this is just... a business transaction?"

He nodded. "A one-year contract. Public appearances, private distance. No intimacy required."

Her mind reeled. She needed money. The gallery was days from being shut down. And this man-this stranger-was offering a way out. But marriage?

"I don't even know you," she whispered.

"You don't need to. I'm not offering forever. Just twelve months."

"And after that?"

"We part ways. Quietly."

Aria looked around the gallery. The cracked paint. The fading lights. The bills piling behind the desk.

And then she looked at Damien.

He was cold. Calculated. But underneath the armor, she saw something else-desperation. Maybe not for love. But for control.

"Why midnight?" she asked quietly.

He hesitated. "Let's just say the deadline matters."

She considered that. "What if I say no?"

He shrugged. "Then I find someone else."

"And if I say yes?"

"You get everything you need," he said. "No strings. No risks."

Aria swallowed the lump in her throat. She had until midnight tonight to make a choice.

Her pride screamed no. But her reality whispered something else.

Maybe... just maybe... this deal could save them both.