The Proposal

Chapter One

I stand outside Mr. Noah's office, my hands clutching my bag, my knuckles white with tension. My heart seems to be pounding in my throat as I take a shaky breath, trying to calm myself. I know I have no business being here, no business asking him for this favor. But with my father lying in the hospital, his condition deteriorating with each passing day, I have no other choice. The thought sends shivers down my spine.

I lift my hand and knock, barely able to hold it steady.

“Enter.” Mr. Noah's voice is composed, almost bored, coming from the other side of the door.

I step inside, feeling the nerves twist in my stomach. Mr. Noah is sitting at his large, polished desk surrounded by neat stacks of paperwork. He doesn’t glance up right away, merely looks in my direction, almost as if I’m an interruption to his day.

“Mr. Noah,” I begin, my voice far quieter than it should be. I clear my throat, hoping to try again with a bit more bravado. “I need a minute of your time.”

He doesn’t even look up. “I assume this must be important if you’re interrupting me, Miss Rachel,” he says in that cold, even tone he always uses, one that’s impossible to read. It makes my stomach twist even tighter.

“It is,” I manage to say, swallowing the lump in my throat. “I… I need a loan. My father has been so ill lately, and he needs surgery. It costs a lot of money,” I stammer.

Finally, he looks up—eyes sharp, as if he’s sizing me up. His face doesn’t soften one bit. There’s no indication of sympathy or warmth in his expression. He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms, and stares at me.

“A loan?” he repeats, the word slow and testing on his tongue. “Can you tell me how exactly you plan on paying this back, Miss Rachel? I’m sure you are aware that we don’t loan to kitchen staff.”

The coolness in his words feels like a slap, but I press on. Pride is an emotion I just can’t afford right now. “I’ll work extra,” I say, attempting to keep the desperation from my voice. “I can take on more tasks, work weekends. I’ll do whatever you need me to do.”

He says nothing. He just keeps staring, his eyes making me feel smaller by the second. Then, as if on purpose, the corners of his lips begin to rise. Not a warm or reassuring smile, either—it’s a smile that makes my skin crawl, an invitation to a race rather than any offer of aid.

“Anything?” he says, his voice soft but sharp, almost tauntingly. “Do you think there’s anything you could do that would be worth the loan? Anything?”

My heart skips a beat, and I feel a glimmer of hope. “Yes, Mr. Noah, anything,” I say a little too fast, the urgency near choking.

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his desk as he watches me carefully, his eyes never leaving mine. “My family has been on my case; they are disturbing me to settle down. They want me to get married, to show some stability. Even when I don’t think I am ready, I just want them to stop disturbing me,” he says, his lips curving slightly, almost mockingly. “If I give you this loan, Miss Rachel, I want you to marry me.”

I feel the words strike me as if they were physically thrown at me. “Marry… you?”

“Yes. If you need me to pay off your father’s hospital bill, we have to get married,” he replies without hesitation. “This is a business arrangement; I want you to know nothing more. Remember, you must not fall in love with me; this is not a real marriage, but a business marriage.”

His words are so devoid of emotion that I feel a cold wave cascade down my body. It is not a proposal; it’s an inanimate contract with no feelings attached. But there is an edge in his gaze, a silent dare. He is testing me, waiting for me to back down.

I open my mouth to answer, but the words won’t come. My mind races, trying to make sense of his offer. Marriage? To Mr. Noah? My boss—a practical stranger—and he’s treating this whole thing as if it were just another business deal. I glance down at my hands, tightly clenched and fingers shaking. Is it possible?

“Miss Rachel,” he says—his voice slicing through my reverie—“I need an answer. Now!”

My eyes flick up, locking with his piercing stare. There’s no mercy there, no hint of empathy—just cold impatience. But in the back of my mind, I see my father lying weak and helpless in that hospital bed—with each passing moment of indecision on my part, he is further deteriorating, slipping away.

“Why me?” I whisper, the question escaping before I can stop it. I really have to know why he would pick me for this strange setup.

He leans back, his eyes unreadable. “Because you’re handy. Nobody will question it if I marry an employee. And I need someone who won’t make this complicated.” He stops, his eyes narrowing a fraction. “Besides, I know you’re desperate enough to agree.”

And it stings, but I can’t deny—there’s a certain amount of truth in that statement—I am desperate, stuck in circumstances beyond my control.

I nod slowly, my voice barely above a whisper. “Fine. I’ll marry you.”

A faint smile crosses his face, one that does not touch his eyes. He leans forward, dropping his voice down to a near whisper. “Good. We’ll have the papers ready by tomorrow. No one else will know about this—not your family, not my family. It’s just between us. Do you understand?”

I nod, feeling the full weight of my decision settle over me. This is now real. There’s no turning back.

He snaps back into his usual cold demeanor. “And another thing, Miss Rachel,” he cuts through the silence. “This is a business arrangement. Nothing more. You’re here to help me keep appearances. I don’t want any misunderstandings.”

His words are harsh, as if I’m nothing more to him than a pawn in some chess game he’s playing. I swallow hard, forcing myself to meet his gaze. “I understand.”

“Good.” He looks at his watch, as if this whole conversation has been nothing but a minor nuisance. “You may leave now. I’ll contact you with the details.”

I get up very slowly, sapped of all strength in my legs. I head for the door, reaching for the handle, but his voice stops me one last time.

All I can do is remember my main love, Elvis, who has always been there for me. I could have met him, but he’s not up to the standard of providing a lot of money.

As I make my way to the kitchen, a thousand questions course through my mind. What have I just agreed to? What does this marriage start with? But the biggest question looms heavy and unspoken:

I banish the thought, sensing danger, but the foreboding grips me like a bad omen—I have somehow signed away part of myself, and I will never get it back.