Updated Dec 11, 2025 • ~9 min read
OLIVER
I transferred the money that night.
Sixty-five thousand dollars. Cleared Hannah’s debt to Harlan Pembroke by Monday morning. She fought me on it, said she couldn’t accept that much money, that it made her feel like she was being bought.
“You’re not being bought,” I told her over coffee in my office, door locked, blinds drawn. “You’re being helped. There’s a difference.”
“A sixty-five-thousand-dollar difference.”
“Would you rather work it off for Harlan?” I kept my voice even, but the thought made me want to put my fist through a wall. “Because that’s the alternative.”
She was quiet. Then: “What do I owe you?”
“Nothing.”
“Oliver—”
“Nothing, Hannah. You don’t owe me anything.” I pulled her close. “Except maybe dinner. When this is all over. Somewhere nice. Where I can tell everyone you’re mine.”
She smiled against my chest. “That sounds like a date.”
“It is a date.”
“You’re still engaged.”
“Not for long.” I’d already called my lawyers. Asked them to find any loophole, any clause, any way out of my father’s ironclad will. They were searching. “I’m fixing this.”
“And if you can’t? If there’s no way out without losing the company?”
I pulled back, met her eyes. “Then I lose the company.”
“Oliver—”
“I mean it. I’ve thought about this. The company versus you. And it’s not even close.” I kissed her forehead. “My father built an empire. But he died alone, Hannah. Divorced three times. No real relationships. Just work. Just success. And I’m realizing that’s not a legacy I want to inherit.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “You’re sure?”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
She kissed me. Soft. Sweet. Full of promise.
“I love you,” she whispered.
“I love you too.”
A knock on the door made us spring apart.
“Mr. King?” Clarissa’s voice. “Your nine o’clock is here.”
Right. The nine o’clock. Reality crashing back in.
“Be right there.”
Hannah straightened her clothes, wiped her eyes, rebuilt the professional mask. “I should go.”
“Hannah.”
She turned back.
“We’re going to figure this out,” I said. “All of it. Connor, Vivian, the company. We’re going to get through this.”
“Together?”
“Together.”
She left. And I sat at my desk, staring at my father’s photo on the wall, and wondered if he’d be proud of me for following his rules or disappointed that I was finally breaking them for something real.
HANNAH
Tuesday afternoon, Vivian showed up unannounced.
I saw her step off the elevator, all cool elegance in cream and gold, and my stomach dropped.
“Is Oliver available?” she asked. Not hostile. Just matter-of-fact.
“He’s on a call with Shanghai. Should be done in ten minutes.”
“I’ll wait.”
She settled into the chair outside his office. Crossed her legs. Pulled out her phone.
We sat in silence. The kind that felt like a ticking bomb.
“He told me,” Vivian said suddenly. Not looking up from her phone. “About you.”
My heart stopped. “What?”
“He told me he’s in love with you. That he wants to call off the wedding.” Now she looked up. Those cold blue eyes assessed me. “So congratulations, I suppose. You won.”
“I didn’t—this isn’t a competition—”
“Everything’s a competition.” She stood, moved to the window. “I’m not angry. Just disappointed. I thought Oliver and I understood each other. That we could have a mutually beneficial arrangement without messy feelings getting in the way.”
“He tried. We both tried.”
“Clearly not hard enough.” She turned back. “Do you love him? Really love him? Or is this about the money? The lifestyle? The access?”
The accusation stung. “I love him.”
“Even though it might cost him everything? The company. His father’s legacy. His entire life?”
“He’s choosing that. Not me.”
“But you’re letting him.” Vivian moved closer. “That’s the thing about love, Hannah. If you really loved him, you’d walk away. You’d let him keep his life. Instead, you’re letting him destroy everything for you. That’s not love. That’s selfishness.”
The words hit like a slap.
“Vivian—”
Oliver’s door opened. He saw us both, his expression shifting from surprise to concern.
“Vivian. I didn’t know you were here.”
“Clearly.” She picked up her purse. “I was just chatting with Hannah. About consequences.”
“Vivian—”
“It’s fine, Oliver. I came to return this.” She pulled off her engagement ring. Set it on my desk with a soft click. “I meant what I said. I don’t want to marry a man who’s in love with someone else. So. You’re free. Congratulations.”
She walked to the elevator. Pressed the button.
Oliver started after her. “Vivian, wait—”
“Don’t.” She held up a hand. “You made your choice. I’m making mine. I hope she’s worth it.”
The elevator arrived. She stepped in. The doors closed.
And Oliver turned to me, holding the ring Vivian had returned, looking shell-shocked.
“What did she say to you?” he asked.
“Nothing. Just… she asked if I loved you.”
“What did you tell her?”
“The truth.” I picked up the ring. Expensive. Beautiful. A promise broken. “She said if I really loved you, I’d walk away. Let you keep your life.”
Oliver took the ring from me. Set it in his pocket. “Do you believe that?”
“I don’t know.” My voice broke. “What if she’s right? What if loving you means destroying you?”
“Hannah—”
“You’re going to lose everything, Oliver. Your company. Your father’s legacy. Everything you’ve worked for. Because of me.”
“Not because of you. Because of a will that forced me to make an impossible choice.” He pulled me close. “And I’m choosing you. Not because you’re making me. Because I want to.”
“What if you regret it?”
“I won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know I’ll regret losing you more than I’ll regret losing the company.” He kissed my forehead. “Trust me. Please. Just trust that I know what I want.”
I wanted to believe him. Wanted to trust that this wasn’t a mistake we’d both pay for.
But Vivian’s words echoed in my head.
If you really loved him, you’d walk away.
Maybe she was right.
Maybe loving Oliver meant setting him free.
OLIVER
The lawyers called Wednesday morning.
“We found something.”
I gripped the phone. “Tell me.”
“Your father’s will requires marriage by thirty-five. But it doesn’t specify who you marry. Only that you be legally married.”
“I know that. That’s why I proposed to Vivian.”
“Right. But here’s the interesting part. There’s no requirement that the marriage last. Technically, you could marry, satisfy the will’s requirements, then divorce. The company would be legally yours.”
My mind raced. “Are you saying—”
“We’re saying if you marry before your birthday, you fulfill the terms. What happens after is up to you.”
A loophole. An actual, legal loophole.
“How fast can we make this happen?”
“How fast can you find someone willing to marry you?”
I looked through the glass wall of my office. At Hannah, taking calls, managing chaos, being brilliant.
At the woman I loved.
“Give me twenty-four hours,” I said.
“We’ll have the paperwork ready.”
I hung up. Walked out to her desk.
“Hannah. My office. Now.”
She followed, concern on her face. “What’s wrong?”
I closed the door. Locked it.
“Marry me.”
She stared. “What?”
“Marry me. Not someday. Now. This week.” I pulled her close. “My lawyers found a loophole. The will says I have to be married by thirty-five. Doesn’t say the marriage has to last. We get married, I keep the company, we figure out the rest later.”
“Oliver, that’s insane—”
“Is it? We love each other. We want to be together. This solves the problem.”
“This isn’t how you’re supposed to propose! There’s supposed to be romance and planning and—”
“I don’t care about romance. I care about you.” I cupped her face. “Say yes. Take a chance on me. On us.”
“We’ve known each other for three weeks—”
“I don’t need more time to know I want to spend my life with you.”
Tears spilled down her cheeks. “You’re serious.”
“Completely.”
“You want to marry me. This week.”
“Yes.”
“For a loophole.”
“For us. The loophole just makes it possible.”
She laughed. It sounded wet. “This is the craziest thing you’ve ever said.”
“Is that a yes?”
“I—” She stopped. Looked at me. Really looked. “Ask me properly.”
I dropped to one knee. Right there in my office, no ring, no plan, just me and her and a desperate hope.
“Hannah Whitman. You got into my car by mistake and changed my entire life. You made me believe in something more than success and legacy and living up to my father’s expectations. You made me want to be better. To choose love over obligation. To take risks.” I took her hands. “I know this is fast. I know it’s crazy. But I’m asking anyway. Will you marry me?”
She was crying now. Full tears streaming down her face.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”
I stood. Kissed her. Poured three weeks of wanting and waiting into that kiss.
“We’re getting married,” I said against her mouth.
“We’re insane.”
“Completely.”
“Your family will hate me.”
“They’ll get over it.”
“Connor will—” She stopped. Paled. “Oh God. Connor. He still has those photos.”
Right. Connor. The blackmailer who’d promised to come back.
“We’ll deal with Connor,” I said. “But first, we’re getting married. Friday. Courthouse. Just us.”
“Friday is in two days.”
“I know.”
“Oliver—”
“Unless you’re getting cold feet?”
“No. I just—” She laughed. “I don’t even have a dress.”
“Wear anything. Wear your work clothes. I don’t care. I just want to marry you before something else goes wrong.”
Famous last words.
Because Thursday morning, Connor sent a text that changed everything.
Heard you’re calling off the wedding with Vivian. Interesting timing. Let’s talk. I have a proposition. – C
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