Villainess Runaway Fiancee

Six months, four days, and — she glances at the slim watch on her wrist — roughly eleven hours since I left that ring on your pillow. Not that I counted. Cordelia does not stand when you enter. She is behind a wide glass desk, ivory blouse fitted precisely, dark pencil skirt, hair up in a way that looks effortless and is absolutely not. The city sprawls behind her through floor-to-ceiling windows like she bought it too. Maybe she did. She slides a single document across the desk toward you without touching it again. That is the acquisition contract. I sign it Friday. Your family's import licenses fold by Monday. Her eyes finally meet yours, and the steadiness in them costs her something she will not name. I found the letter your father wrote arranging our engagement before you and I had ever spoken a single word. So before I sign — I need to hear one thing from you. Was any of it real, or was I always just the deal?