6. The Proposition
SIX
THE PROPOSITION
Logan
I drum my fingers against my steering wheel, parked outside Bella’s apartment building. The board’s latest email shines on my phone screen: “Regarding the succession planning meeting...” Another suggestion about my personal life affecting company stability.
Last month, it was Harrison pointedly mentioning his daughter’s recent engagement during our quarterly review. The month before, Victoria’s comments about “settled leadership attracting long-term investors.” The message is always the same: A CEO with a stable personal life is a safer bet for investors.
Two years ago, I wouldn’t have cared. But Monarch Ventures is different. It’s not just another company in my portfolio—it’s my chance to build something meaningful, something that would have made my mother proud.
And now Victoria’s seen me with my hand up my assistant’s dress.
Bloody hell.
I check the time: ten forty-five p.m. It’s late, but the more I think about this, the more I realize that it can’t wait. The story about Edinburgh needs to be airtight before Monday’s meeting with Victoria before the board catches wind of this.
Bella’s apartment is on the fifth floor of a pre-war building in the West Village. Nice area, but the elevator’s ancient. As I ride up, I remember another elevator, just hours ago, and how soft her skin felt under my?—
No. Focus.
She opens the door wearing yoga pants and an oversized sweater, her hair damp from a shower. There is no trace of the red dress that started all this trouble.
“Logan?” Her eyes widen. “What are you?—”
“We need to talk.”
She hesitates for a second before stepping aside. As I pass her, the scent of her shampoo catches me off guard—clean, soft, familiar. I have no business knowing that it smells the same as it did the night we kissed all those years ago.
Her apartment is smaller than I expected. Intimate. Warm. Books overflow on every surface, like she couldn’t bear to put any away. A mug of tea sits abandoned on the coffee table, and a paused reality show glows on the TV. It looks warm, cozy, and bright. All the things that she is as well.
Bella takes a posture of defense, crossing her arms in front of her chest and tilting her chin slightly. “If this is about what happened with Victoria?—”
I can see that she’s about to panic, so I raise a hand and pause her mid-sentence so she can understand why I’m coming at this with all guns blazing.
“It is, and it can’t wait. The thing is, the board’s been pressuring me to settle down.”
She furrows her brows at me. “Yeah, you already mentioned that once. I don’t get why you can’t just tell them you need time. You’re not exactly… one to play by the book, are you?”
I’d be insulted if what she said wasn’t absolutely the truth. But what she doesn’t know is that I’m getting tired of the constant soft attacks on my image, the perpetual nudging that I need a “partner” to give off the image of a successful, fulfilled man. And the other truth is that up until Bella, I’ve never been interested enough to actually give the concept of dating, albeit fake dating, a try.
I start pacing, the tight circle of her living room suddenly feeling smaller than it should. “For the past year, they’ve been not-so-subtly suggesting that my... personal life... affects investor confidence. Especially now that we’re positioning for major expansion.”
She tilts her head. “Your personal life being…?”
“My apparent inability to maintain a stable relationship.” I stop pacing and turn to her. She’s watching me, perched on the arm of the couch now, one bare foot tucked under the other. Loose strands of damp hair frame her face. “The board, particularly the older members, they’re traditional and conservative. They want a CEO who projects reliability, stability?—”
“And instead, they got Edinburgh’s most eligible bachelor?” Her lips twitch.
I scowl back at her. “This isn’t funny, Bella.”
She watches me carefully. “It’s a little funny.” She curls up on her couch, looking maddeningly comfortable. “The great Logan Fraser, brought low by his own reputation.”
I should be annoyed. Instead, I find myself watching the way her fingers wrap around the edge of a throw pillow, the faint shimmer of moisture still clinging to her collarbone.
“A reputation you’re now part of, love.” My voice drops, and that wipes the smile from her face.
She knows what I mean. One elevator ride, one mistake, and she’s suddenly implicated in something far bigger than either of us planned.
“After Victoria’s discovery, we have two choices: either we admit to a tawdry office affair that could damage both our careers or...”
“Or we stick to your story about Edinburgh.” She’s quick. I’ve always admired that about her. “But why would that matter to the board?”
“Because a long-term relationship shows stability and maturity. If they believe we’ve been together for years, maintaining privacy while building our careers separately...” I trail off, waiting.
She puts the rest together in seconds. “Potential clients will see you differently.”
“Exactly.” I sit across from her, leaning forward. “Think about it. The brilliant executive assistant who earned her position through merit who just happened to be dating the CEO long before she applied. The power couple who kept things professional despite their history. It’s the perfect narrative.”
She hmms thoughtfully, drumming her fingers on the edge of the couch. “And what do I get out of this charade?”
I pull out my phone, bringing up the document I drafted in the car. “Audrey mentioned once that your dream was to own a marketing agency. Well, how about full funding for your marketing agency venture. Support for your independent projects. A guarantee of professional independence after our... relationship ends.”
She scans the contract, her expression shifting as her eyes move over each line. I watch her take it in—the fine print, the protections I built for her, the thought I poured into making this offer something she could say yes to. “You’ve thought this through.”
“I always do.”
“And the personal aspects?” She looks up, her eyes lit with mischief. “What are the terms there?”
I resist the impulse to smile. I’m not celebrating anything until she’s on board. “We maintain appearances. Attend events together. Show a believable progression of our relationship becoming public.”
“Of course.” She stands to her feet, setting my phone down. Then, she meets my eyes and launches a grenade in my face. “No sex.”
I stare back at her, completely stunned by what she just said. “What?”
She shrugs as if it’s the most natural thing, like she’s actually surprised I didn’t think of this myself. “It complicates things. We need to keep this professional. Everything that happened in the past… is in the past.”
No way she isn’t feeling the gut-wrenching ache I am at the thought of never sleeping together again? It’s Bella and me, for crying out loud. I scoff. “Says the woman who was moaning against a wall three hours ago?”
She maintains the same coolness as before, merely scrunching her features slightly as if the mere memory of that is distasteful to her now. “That was a mistake. One that won’t happen again.”
I ignore the flash of heat her words trigger, though in reality, I’m very close to punching a wall. “Really? So, if I came closer...” I take a step forward. “If I reminded you how good we are together...”
“Logan?” Her voice is light, deliciously slow. I watch the flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat.
“Yes?” I’m in front of her now.
She smiles sweetly. “Step back.”
“Make me.”
She gets up from the couch and walks toward the table, her back to me. “I don’t have the energy for that. So if you don’t, I’m good with stepping back myself. Onto other things—we should discuss terms.”
“Bella—”
“No, Logan.”
Before I can begin to argue, her phone rings. I recognize the caller immediately as Victoria’s assistant.
“Put it on speaker,” I say when Bella looks uncertain.
“Elise? Is everything okay?” Bella answers, her voice remarkably steady.
The voice on the other end is chirpy. “More than okay. I just got off the phone with Goldman Partners. They’re interested in a significant investment in Monarch—apparently, knowing Logan’s finally settled down with someone swayed their decision. Old money, old values, you understand.”
My eyes meet Bella’s across the phone. This is it; this is why the fake dating proposition has to work. All the more reason since news travels fast.
“That’s... great,” Bella manages.
“We’ll discuss more on Monday with Mr. Fraser. Goodnight.” Elise hangs up.
I sigh and drop down on the couch wearily. “So, Victoria has basically told everyone about this.”
Bella nods thoughtfully as she sets the phone down. “Seems likely.”
I look up at the ceiling. “What do you think, then?”
“I think,” Bella walks to her kitchen, “we’ll need something to drink.”
A minute later, I hear the familiar sound of a kettle being filled.
"Tea?" she calls out.
"You're making tea now?"
"I'm Scottish by proxy now, apparently. Might as well start practicing."
So that’s a yes on the contract. Despite everything, I find myself smiling. She returns with two mugs, settling back on her couch.
"So," she takes a sip, "Goldman Partners, huh? That's the old money firm that turned you down last quarter."
I take a sip myself and exhale. It’s good tea, full-bodied and sweet without being medicinal. “How did you know that?”
She snorts into her cup. “Well, Logan, I am your executive assistant. I know everything about you.”
Yes, Bella doesn’t do anything half-way. I run a finger along the engravings at the base of the cup. Seagulls, in flight. Unconventional and beautiful. "Of course. I nearly forgot. Anyway, they're conservative," I explain. "Traditional. Their CEO still thinks women shouldn't work after marriage."
"Charming."
I take another, long sip, letting the warmth wash over me. "And now they're interested because I'm 'settled down.'" The irony isn't lost on me. "One glimpse of a potential relationship, and suddenly, I'm trustworthy enough for their millions." It hurts, in some ways, that my merit isn’t enough.
"Must be nice," she says dryly, "having your entire professional worth judged by your personal life." She takes a glance at me and notices I’m not smiling. So she doesn’t push it. “Well, at least your fake relationship is already paying dividends.”
That earns her a gruff laugh. “Our fake relationship. If you agree.”
She motions for my phone, and I open the page of the contract and hand it to her. “I have conditions.”
The tea is now finished, so I set the cup down on the table beside the couch. “Of course you do.”
She doesn’t look at me, content with scrutinizing the contract instead. “I keep my job—my actual job, not just playing your girlfriend. But I want flexibility. Work from home when possible.”
I nod. “Reasonable.”
She offers me a small smile. “The marketing agency funding is non-negotiable. And I want autonomy over my projects.”
“Done.”
She eyes me suspiciously. “That’s it? No argument?”
I shrug. It’s been a long day, and I’d love to wrap this up. “You’ve proven your worth with the CyberMind deal. I trust your judgment.”
“And the personal stuff? How do we...” She gestures between us. “Handle this?”
It doesn’t fail me that she wants to put some distance between us now, for the sake of both of our mental peace. I can respect that, even if I don’t like it. So, I speak the next words begrudgingly.
“We maintain appropriate appearances. Dinners, events, and the occasional weekend away when necessary. You’ll need to move in with me?—”
She drops the phone, her eyes wide. “What? No.”
I frown at her. “Bella, we’re supposedly long-term partners. Living separately would raise questions.”
“Damn it.” She stands again, and now, she begins pacing the small room in the same way I had, not an hour ago. “This is insane. The whole thing is insane.”
“You can keep your apartment,” I say, trying to sound indifferent. “For appearance’s sake, you’ll live with me.”
“With separate bedrooms,” she says firmly.
“Obviously.”
“And no sex,” she repeats.
“Uhm… yeah, definitely not.”
“Even if...”
“Even if what?”
She meets my eyes. “Even if we both want to?”
For a second, I don’t trust myself to speak. Because the worst part is how easily I can picture it—her in the next room, brushing past me in the hallway in one of those sleep shirts that barely covers anything, her bare legs just a glance away. The sound of her laughing in the kitchen late at night, her voice still husky from sleep. The way she tastes, how her body gives in without hesitation.
And I’d have to pretend none of it gets to me.
I swallow hard, keeping my voice level. “Especially then.”
We quietly sign the contract on my phone. One for the business arrangements, one for our personal agreement.
She disappears into her kitchen again, returning with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. "One last drink before we're officially fake dating?"
I find myself accepting the glass even though I shouldn’t.
"Don't worry, it's not a thirty-year Macallan," she says, pouring. "Just regular people's whiskey."
I groan. "Are we ever going to let that go?"
"Nope." She settles back on her couch, feet tucked under her. "So, do we need a backstory? For Edinburgh?"
I take a sip. The whiskey's better than she's letting on. "You did a semester abroad. We met at a pub near the university."
"The Elephant House?"
"Too obvious. Tourist trap." I lean back, letting my accent wrap around the memories. "There was this small pub off the Royal Mile. The Bear's Head. Dark wood, low ceilings. Local bands on Thursdays."
She smiles as she imagines that, and I can see it in the way her eyes go dreamy. "Sounds real."
"It was. Best whiskey in Old Town." I find myself smiling. "We'll say you were there with classmates. I was avoiding a business dinner."
"And I quoted Shakespeare to you?"
"Naturally."
She bats her eyelashes at me. "Then you pursued me relentlessly until I agreed to coffee?"
I snort and take a long sip. "Other way around, love. You were quite taken with the accent."
She throws a pillow at me. "In your dreams, Fraser."
If I stay any longer, I’ll find myself wishing for things I can’t have tonight or for a long while. So I drain the contents of my glass and set it down with a tight nod. "I should go."
“Of course,” she says. “But one last thing. When do I move in?”
I picture her in my home, moving around like she’s… mine. Yup, I definitely need to get out of here. “Sunday. I’ll send movers.” I head for the door before I can do something stupid like kiss her again.
“Logan?”
The softness in the question makes me pause with my hand on the doorknob. “Yes?”
“Why did you really agree to my conditions so easily?”
Because I’ve watched your career since that first meeting at Audrey’s graduation. Because I know exactly how brilliant you are. Because ? —
“It’s good business,” I say instead. “Goodnight, Bella. Actually..." I hesitate at the door. "Mind if I use your bathroom?"
She points me down the small hallway, and I find myself taking in her space as I walk. Books stacked everywhere—not just bookshelves, but coffee tables and windowsills. A worn copy of King Lear catches my eye.
Her academic background shows in the organization: fiction by genre, non-fiction by subject. Just like my mother used to arrange our library.
Her bathroom is exactly what I'd expect—organized chaos. Lavender hand soap, expensive face creams lined up by size, one of those ridiculous shower poufs in pale pink. Everything in here screams Bella, from the modern artwork to the countless hair products lined up on glass shelves.
I pull out my phone, snapping a few discrete photos while washing my hands. The granite countertop is a soft sage green—the same color she always gravitates toward in her office supplies. Mental note: have the guest room repainted before she moves in .
Back in my car, I find myself scrolling through her Instagram instead of starting the engine. Her bedroom appears in the background of several photos—white bedding, lots of throw pillows, a reading lamp that looks oddly familiar.
The drive home is filled with calls I shouldn't be making at this hour. My contractor sounds less than thrilled until I mention the bonus for immediate renovations.
My housekeeper is more understanding—she's seen me make stranger requests than copying someone's bathroom organization system. The designer who owes me a favor listens patiently as I describe the reading nook I want built into the guest room's bay window.
"Like the one from that renovation show?" she asks.
"What renovation show?"
"The one Ms. Levine keeps posting about on Pinterest."
I didn't even know Bella had Pinterest.
It's close to midnight when I finally reach my penthouse. The acquisition reports I should be reviewing mock me from my briefcase, but instead, I find myself standing in the guest suite. I've always been proud of this space—it's beautiful and perfectly appointed.
And completely wrong for Bella.
The room is like a luxury hotel—pristine, impersonal. Nothing like the warmth of her apartment. No books scattered about, no art that means something, no sense of the person who'll live here.
I start making notes on my phone: sage green paint, built-in bookshelves, that specific brand of hand soap. I even know which side of the bed she sleeps on—the right side, judging from her Instagram photos.
My phone keeps buzzing. The contractor wants to discuss the timeline. The designer's sending fabric samples. Bella just liked a post about vintage vanity mirrors.
I find myself on the website before I can think better of it. The mirror is ridiculously expensive and probably won't arrive in time, but I order it anyway.
Then I sit in what will be her room, surrounded by notes about paint colors and furniture placement. I’m excited, and I let myself admit what I've been avoiding: this isn't just business anymore.
If it ever was.