Jasmine Lane had spent years dreaming of the moment she'd finally step into a world where her work mattered. Where it would be more than just sketches hidden in the corner of her small apartment, gathering dust. She had spent endless nights working on her portfolio, hoping for the opportunity that would change everything. But when the day came, it didn't come wrapped in the neat bow of expectation. It came with chaos.
She stood before the towering glass doors of Thorn Enterprises, her heart pounding in her chest. The modern building stood like a sentinel in the middle of the city, its sleek exterior reflecting the sunlight, making the whole structure gleam with power. To Jasmine, it was more than just a building; it was the pinnacle of everything she had worked for—the doorway to her future.
Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the door, the cool air of the lobby hitting her face like a gust of wind. The marble floors glistened, the polished reception desk standing like a sentinel, with the receptionist looking up at her in mild annoyance. Jasmine could feel the unease growing inside her, but she forced it down. This was her moment.
The receptionist raised an eyebrow as Jasmine approached. "Miss, you can't just walk in without an appointment," she said, her tone clipped, as if she had dealt with thousands of people just like Jasmine before.
Jasmine opened her mouth to speak, but words failed her for a moment. She couldn't afford to waste time, not now. "I only need five minutes," she finally said, her voice more steady than she felt. She clutched the worn leather folder to her chest like a lifeline, her fingers trembling but resolute. "Please. I just want to pitch my work."
The receptionist's eyes narrowed. "I'm sorry, but—"
Before she could finish, a voice cut through the air like thunder. Low, commanding, and filled with authority, it echoed through the marble walls. "Let her in."
Jasmine froze, her heart skipping a beat. She knew that voice. Every magazine, every news feed, every whispered conversation at art shows or gallery openings—Lucien Thorn. The CEO of Thorn Enterprises. The man whose name alone had the power to change careers, shape futures, and even destroy reputations.
Jasmine turned toward the elevator as it opened with a soft chime, revealing him—Lucien Thorn. He stood like a statue of perfection, tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in an immaculate black suit that seemed to be tailored to his very form. His presence filled the room, a magnetic force that made the air feel heavy, suffocating even. His sharp, angular features, framed by his jet-black hair, made him appear almost otherworldly.
His icy blue eyes locked onto her, and for a moment, the world seemed to pause. Her heart raced faster as she felt his gaze pierce through her, studying her with a detached interest, as though she were an equation waiting to be solved.
"You want to pitch something to me?" Lucien's voice was cold, calculated, as though this were all a game to him.
Jasmine swallowed, her throat dry. "I'm a freelance artist. I specialize in corporate lobby installations. I thought—"
"I'm not interested in paintings," Lucien interrupted, his voice cutting through her words like a blade.
Desperation flared inside Jasmine, but she couldn't let this moment slip away. Not when her brother's life was at stake. "Please, just five minutes," she begged, her voice faltering at the end, but she couldn't back down now.
Lucien's eyes flickered with something like interest—or maybe it was just annoyance. He stared at her for a long moment, as if weighing her worth in some silent calculation. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke again. "Follow me."
Without another word, he turned and walked toward a private hallway, his steps deliberate and firm. Jasmine hesitated for a moment before following him, her heart thundering in her chest. The receptionist gave her a nod, but Jasmine barely noticed, her focus entirely on Lucien.
The office was not what she had expected. She had imagined sleek, minimalist furniture, white walls, and a sterile, corporate atmosphere. Instead, Lucien's private office was like a penthouse—a sprawling space with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking view of the city below. The furniture was a blend of antique and modern, with rich wooden bookshelves lining the walls and a large leather chair behind the desk.
Lucien moved to the bar, pouring himself a glass of scotch without asking if she wanted one. The sound of the liquid filling the glass seemed to echo in the otherwise quiet room.
"Well?" Lucien said, his tone almost bored as he sipped the drink. "Impress me."
Jasmine's stomach churned as she set down her leather folder on the glass desk, her hands shaking slightly as she opened it. Inside were her best concept sketches—each one more intricate and detailed than the last, showcasing her ability to create not just art, but a story. A living, breathing experience through art. She laid them out one by one, explaining each piece, describing her vision for the installations that could transform any corporate space into something more than just an office.
But Lucien wasn't listening. His eyes were focused on his drink, swirling the scotch with disinterest. Her words seemed to fall flat in the face of his cold indifference.
"I don't just make pretty pictures," Jasmine said, trying to push through the growing sense of failure. "I create pieces that tell a story. That reflect the company's identity. These are more than installations. They're immersive experiences that will speak to your clients and your employees."
Lucien's gaze flickered briefly to the sketches before turning back to his drink. He seemed unmoved.
"How much do you need?" he asked, cutting straight to the point.
Jasmine blinked, thrown off by the sudden shift. "Excuse me?"
"You didn't come here to sell art. Not really," he said, his voice cool and dismissive. "So, how much do you need?"
Her breath hitched as she realized what he meant. This wasn't about her art at all. It wasn't about her talent or vision. It was about something else entirely. Something far more personal.
"My brother…" Her voice wavered, the words barely leaving her lips. "He's sick. He needs surgery. The hospital requires a deposit. I've tried everything—loans, selling commissions, even my apartment, but…"
Lucien put his glass down and looked at her for the first time with something approaching genuine attention. He tilted his head slightly, as if considering her words.
"How much?" he asked again, his voice low.
"Two hundred thousand," she whispered, her voice breaking as she spoke the amount she had never imagined asking for.
The silence between them felt like it could stretch on forever. The weight of her need hung in the air, and Jasmine felt herself trembling, waiting for him to respond.
Lucien's gaze remained steady, his expression unreadable as he stared at her. Then, without warning, he spoke again.
"I'll give you one million."
Jasmine's eyes widened in disbelief, her heart stopping in her chest. "What—?"
"One week," he said, his voice chillingly calm. "We get married, in name only. You act like my loving wife in public. We attend events together, play the perfect couple."
Jasmine shook her head, confusion and disbelief washing over her. "Is this… a joke?"
Lucien's eyes narrowed, and a cold smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "No. This is business. You get your money. I get my performance. You'll be my wife for one week. Nothing more."
Jasmine felt like the room was spinning. This was insane. It had to be. But the desperation for her brother's life was greater than anything else. The millions. The deal. It all seemed surreal, but the chance to save her brother was one she couldn't ignore.
"And when the week ends?" she asked, her voice small.
"We annul the marriage," Lucien said simply. "You go back to your life, two hundred thousand richer. Or one million, if you're convincing enough."
Jasmine stared at him, her mind racing. She had no idea what she was about to get into. But her brother needed her. He always had. And now, she was faced with a decision that would change everything.
"Deal," she whispered, though she wasn't sure she even understood what she had agreed to.
Lucien's smile deepened. "Good."
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