I'm standing in front of thirty executives when I realize I'm about to end my career. Alexander Thorne sits at the head of the conference table like a king on his throne. Dark suit. Darker eyes. That jaw that's launched a thousand thirst tweets. He's also the biggest bastard I've ever worked for. "Ms. Carter." His voice cuts through the room. "Perhaps you'd like to explain why your team missed the deadline?" Every head turns toward me. I should apologize. Grovel. That's what he expects. Instead, I smile. "Perhaps you'd like to explain why you approved a timeline that was impossible from the start, Mr. Thorne?" The room goes silent. His eyes narrow. "Excuse me?" "I sent three emails outlining why the project needed eight weeks, not six. You ignored all of them." I tap my tablet. "I can pull them up if your memory needs refreshing." Someone actually gasps. Alexander stands slowly. He's six-foot-three of pure intimidation. "My office. Now." I don't move. "We're in the middle of a meeting." "Now, Ms. Carter." The walk to his office feels like a death march. Everyone watches. Someone's probably already updating their LinkedIn because they don't want to be associated with the girl who just committed career suicide. I don't care. I'm so tired of his impossible standards and his cold dismissals and the way he looks through me like I'm nothing. He slams the door behind us. "What the hell was that?" "The truth," I say. "Something you apparently can't handle." He moves closer. Too close. I can smell his cologne—something expensive and woodsy that makes my traitorous body react. "You just embarrassed me in front of the entire executive team." "You embarrass me every day." My voice shakes but I hold my ground. "Every time you dismiss my input. Every time you give my ideas to Marcus and let him take credit. Every time you look at me like I'm an inconvenience instead of someone who's worked eighty-hour weeks for this company." Something flickers in his eyes. Surprise, maybe. "You're fired." The words hit like a slap. "Fine." I turn toward the door. "Where are you going?" "To clean out my desk. Isn't that what fired people do?" His hand catches my wrist. The touch sends electricity up my arm. "I didn't mean—" He stops. Takes a breath. "Don't leave yet." "Why? Want to humiliate me some more?" "Sit down, Olivia." He's never used my first name before. I should leave. Walk out with my dignity intact. Instead, I sit. He paces behind his desk. Runs a hand through his perfectly styled hair, messing it up. "You're right," he says finally. I blink. "What?" "The timeline was unrealistic. I knew it when I approved it." "Then why—" "Because I needed to see if you'd fight back." He stops pacing. Looks at me with an intensity that makes my stomach flip. "Everyone else in this company is terrified of me. They say yes to everything. It's made them useless." "So you've been testing me?" "Pushing you," he corrects. "You're the best analyst I have. The only one who actually challenges the data instead of just presenting it." My anger wavers. "You have a really messed up management style." "I know." He almost smiles. Almost. "You're not fired." "I don't want your pity." "It's not pity. I need you." The words hang between us. "For the company," he adds quickly. "I need you for the company." Before I can respond, his phone buzzes. He glances at it and his expression darkens. "What?" "Marcus just accepted a position at Hartley Corp." He looks up. "He's taking half the analytics team with him." My stomach drops. Hartley is our biggest competitor. "There's more." His jaw tightens. "They've made you an offer. Double your salary. Department head." "How do you—" "I have the email pulled up right here." He turns his computer screen toward me. "They sent it an hour ago." I stare at the message. It's real. "Are you going to take it?" His voice is carefully neutral. "I don't know." Honestly, I hadn't checked my personal email yet. "It's a good offer." "Don't." "Why shouldn't I? You just fired me five minutes ago." "I told you, I didn't mean—" He stops. "Name your price. I'll match whatever they're offering." "It's not about money." "Then what is it about?" "Respect," I say. "Being valued. Not feeling like I'm constantly fighting for scraps of recognition." He's quiet for a long moment. "I have a proposition." "I'm not interested in—" "Six months," he interrupts. "Give me six months. If I haven't proven your value to this company—to myself—then I'll personally write you a recommendation letter to anywhere you want to go." It's more than fair. "Okay," I say slowly. "Six months." "There's one condition." Of course there is. "You have to pretend to be my fiancée." I laugh. Actually laugh. "What?" "I'm serious." His expression says he is. "You've lost your mind." "Hartley Corp is targeting my employees because they think Thorne Industries is weak. That I'm weak." He leans against his desk. "My father just announced his retirement. The board is questioning whether I'm stable enough to take over. Apparently, a thirty-four-year-old bachelor is a 'liability.'" "So get a real fiancée." "I don't have time for dating. And everyone I know is either after my money or connected to business rivals." His eyes lock on mine. "But you—you're perfect. Smart. Professional. Someone who clearly can't stand me, which means it's not about my bank account." "This is insane." "It's a business arrangement. Six months. Public appearances only. You get a promotion, a raise, and guaranteed job security. I get the board off my back and show Hartley we're not vulnerable." "And when we 'break up'?" "We say it was mutual. You keep everything you've earned." I should say no. This is the worst idea I've ever heard. "I need an answer, Olivia." "Why me? Really?" He moves closer. So close I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "Because when you stood up to me in that meeting, I realized something." His voice drops. "You're the only person in my life who isn't afraid to tell me the truth. Even if it means risking everything." My heart hammers against my ribs. "Forty-eight hours," I say. "I'll give you my answer in forty-eight hours." "Twenty-four." "This is exactly what I'm talking about. You can't just—" "Fine. Forty-eight hours." He extends his hand. "Do we have a deal?" I look at his hand. At his face. At the intensity in those dark eyes. I'm going to regret this. I shake his hand. His fingers tighten around mine, holding on longer than necessary. "One more thing," he says softly. "When you're mine—even if it's pretend—I don't share."