The Trillionaire's Bargain

The bass thumped through my chest as I pushed deeper into the crowded bar, the smell of cheap cologne and spilled beer making my stomach turn. My hands trembled—not from the alcohol I hadn't touched, but from the weight of the decision I'd made three hours ago.

Run away. Get married. Anyone but Harold Blackstone.

The thought of that seventy-year-old man's wrinkled hands on me made my skin crawl. My father's words echoed in my mind: "The merger depends on this marriage, Sophia. Don't be selfish."

Selfish. Right. Because wanting to marry someone who didn't smell like mothballs and have liver spots was selfish.

I scanned the bar desperately. I needed someone—anyone—who looked decent enough to convince a courthouse clerk we were a real couple. My eyes swept past the usual suspects: drunk college boys, middle-aged men with wedding rings, and—

There.

Sitting alone at the far end of the bar was possibly the most beautiful man I'd ever seen. Dark hair that looked like he'd run his fingers through it, sharp jawline, and eyes that seemed to see right through the chaos around him. He wore a simple black t-shirt and jeans that had definitely seen better days, but somehow he made it look effortless.

Perfect. He looked broke enough to need the money I was about to offer.

I smoothed down my designer dress—probably worth more than his monthly rent—and walked over, my heels clicking against the sticky floor.

"Excuse me," I said, sliding onto the stool next to him.

He turned, and I nearly lost my nerve. Up close, his eyes were an impossible shade of green, and there was something about the way he looked at me—like he was amused by some private joke.

"Can I help you?" His voice was smooth, with just a hint of roughness that made my pulse skip.

"Actually, yes." I took a deep breath. "This is going to sound crazy, but I need you to marry me."

He blinked once, slowly, then took a sip of what looked like expensive whiskey. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Marry me. Tonight. I'll pay you fifty thousand dollars."

The bartender, who'd been pretending not to listen, nearly dropped the glass he was cleaning.

The stranger—God, I didn't even know his name—set down his drink and turned to face me fully. "You're serious."

"Dead serious." I pulled out my phone and showed him my banking app. "Look, I know this is insane, but I'm desperate. My family is trying to force me into an arranged marriage with a man old enough to be my grandfather. If I'm already married, they can't make me do it."

He studied my face for a long moment, and I fought the urge to fidget under his gaze. There was something unsettling about how calm he was, like this kind of thing happened to him every day.

"Fifty thousand," he repeated.

"Cash. Tonight. All you have to do is sign some papers and pretend to be my husband for a few