The door swung open from the inside, and there stood Balfour, clad in a sleek black tracksuit, the epitome of casual luxury.
"Your guy said you... you wanted to see me?"
Without a word, Balfour turned and sauntered deeper into the house, leaving Ivy no choice but to follow him inside.
The interior was a study in minimalist elegance, the kind of understated opulence that made her family's attempts at grandeur look like child's play.
Standing in the living room, Ivy maintained a careful distance. "So, what's up? Why'd you call me here?"
"Take a seat." Balfour slid a folder across the table toward her. "If there's anything you don't like, we've still got time to change it."
Ivy's face was a mask of confusion as she flipped the folder open. The bold letters on the first page left her speechless, "Marriage Agreement? What's this? Who's getting married?"
"You and me," Balfour said nonchalantly, taking a sip of his coffee as if proposing a business merger rather than a lifelong commitment.
Ivy scanned the document. It was pretty straightforward – marry Balfour, stick it out for a year, and walk away with a million-dollar annual compensation.
Was this some kind of arrangement? Did this man really see her as someone who'd sell herself for money?
"I'm sorry, when exactly did I agree to marry you?" Ivy scoffed at the absurdity of the contract, closing the folder with a snap and sliding it back across the table. "I'm not interested in what's written here. If there's nothing else, I'll be on my way."
With that, she rose to leave, but just then, her phone buzzed. It was her mother, Tessa, calling.
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