The rain came down in sheets, turning the curb into a river. I gripped my bike, legs burning from the hill, the delivery bag flapping against my hip. Then he stepped out—tall, sharp suit, umbrella held high like royalty. I swerved. Tires skidded. I crashed right into him.

Cold water soaked through my clothes. My bike lay twisted, cracked plastic oozing battery fluid. And there he was—Saul Kensington—staring at me like I’d fallen from another planet.

“You okay?” I stammered, scrambling up.

He didn’t answer. Just looked at the bike. “This thing still run?”

“Barely. I’ll pay for any damage—”

“I’ll buy it,” he said flatly. “Five thousand.”

I froze. That was more than double its worth. “Why?”

His eyes narrowed, almost amused. “Let’s just say I appreciate… bold moves.”

I needed the money. For Jamie’s research. For our future. But as I handed over the keys, his gaze lingered too long. Not anger. Not pity. Something colder. Calculated.

We walked away. I thought that was the end.

It was just the beginning.

Now, three weeks later, his lawyer stands in my apartment doorway, holding a document that changes everything.

“You’re engaged,” he says. “To Saul Kensington.”

My breath catches. “That’s impossible.”

“The will requires it. Marry him… or the fortune goes to charity.”

And then he adds, quiet, final: “You have 48 hours to decide.”