Chapter 1 - The Fifty-Thousand-Dollar Proposal
The first thing Cassian Mercer ever gave Penelope Blake was fifty thousand dollars.
The second was a diamond ring.
The third was a rule.
And four months later, Penelope would break that rule while standing barefoot in a dark library, begging Cassian’s half brother to save his life.
She would not know until thirty seconds later that there was no rescue coming.
That Cassian had been listening.
And that the rule had never really been meant to protect her from his brother.
It had been meant to protect his brother from Cassian.
But on the rainy Tuesday night when Cassian Mercer first walked into her bakery, Penelope knew none of that.
She only knew she was about to lose everything.
The Buttered Crumb sat on a narrow corner in Chicago’s South Loop, squeezed between a dry cleaner and a family-owned bookstore that had somehow survived three recessions and the rise of online shopping.
At six in the morning, the bakery smelled like browned butter, espresso, orange zest, and warm sugar.
At nine at night, when Penelope was alone, it smelled like fear.
Three pink notices had been taped to the inside of the front door.
FINAL NOTICE.
PAYMENT OVERDUE.
ACTION PENDING.
Penelope had turned them face-down during business hours.
Customers did not need to know that the woman piping perfect roses onto wedding cakes had twelve dollars and forty-three cents in her checking account.
They did not need to know that the industrial mixer had started making a sound like a dying lawn mower.
They did not need to know that she had skipped dinner four nights in a row so she could afford to pay her teenage dishwasher.
And they definitely did not need to know that two men had come by that afternoon asking when Eddie Marlow would be getting his money.
Eddie had been Penelope's worst decision.
She had gone to him after two banks rejected her expansion loan.
Fifty thousand dollars, he had promised.
Quick paperwork.
No judgment.
No committee deciding whether a thirty-four-year-old woman with flour on her cheek and no wealthy family looked like a worthwhile investment.
What Eddie had not emphasized was what happened when the payment schedule slipped.
Penelope was wiping flour from the counter when the bell above the front door rang.
“We’re closed,” she called without looking up.
No answer.
She raised her head.
Three men stood inside.
The two in back looked like human barricades in dark coats.
The one in front looked like something more dangerous.
He was tall, broad through the shoulders, and dressed in a charcoal suit that appeared to have been constructed around his body instead of purchased for it. His dark hair was cut short. His jaw was clean. A pale scar disappeared near his right temple.
His eyes were an unsettling shade of blue.
He glanced around the tiny bakery once.
Then he looked at Penelope.
One of the men behind him turned the sign from OPEN to CLOSED.
The other locked the door.
Penelope’s fingers tightened around the dish towel.
“If you’re here for Eddie,” she said, “I don’t have his money.”
The man stepped closer.
“Penelope Blake?”
Her stomach sank.
“Depends who’s asking.”
“Cassian Mercer.”
For one absurd second, Penelope forgot how to breathe.
She knew the name.
Everyone in Chicago knew the name.
Mercer Holdings officially owned warehouses, trucking companies, waterfront property, parking structures, restaurants, commercial towers, private security companies, and enough land to make Cassian a frequent photograph in business magazines.
Unofficially, people lowered their voices before saying Mercer.
There were stories.
Nightclubs changing hands overnight.
Men leaving town without luggage.
Contracts signed because refusing was considered an unhealthy lifestyle choice.
Penelope swallowed.
“If you’re planning to kill me,” she said, “could you do it somewhere else? I just had the floors refinished.”
One of the men behind Cassian made a choking sound that might have been laughter.
Cassian’s expression barely moved.
“I am not here to kill you.”
“Wonderful.”
“I’m here because Eddie Marlow no longer owns your debt.”
Penelope stared at him.
Cassian placed a thick envelope on the glass display case.
“I do.”
The bakery suddenly seemed too small.
“I knew there was going to be a bad part.”
“You misunderstand.”
“I sincerely doubt that.”
Cassian opened the envelope and removed several documents.
“Your fifty-thousand-dollar loan has been paid in full. The penalties have been eliminated. I also purchased the lien on this building from your landlord.”
Penelope blinked.
He slid another document toward her.
“The bakery is yours.”
She stared down.
Her name was on the deed.
Penelope Blake.
Owner.
No lien.
No outstanding loan.
Her hands began to shake.
“What did you do?”
“I solved your problem.”
“No one solves a fifty-thousand-dollar problem for a stranger.”
“Correct.”
His eyes moved over her.
Not mockingly.
Not quite sexually either.
Assessing.
She suddenly became aware of her oversized cream sweater, black leggings, soft stomach, broad hips, and the streak of frosting on her forearm.
Penelope had spent most of her adult life learning how people looked at women shaped like her.
Some looked through her.
Some looked at her as if her body were a confession she should apologize for.
A few men looked at her secretly, desirously, then dated women they thought their friends would approve of.
Cassian Mercer looked as though none of those rules interested him.
Which somehow made him more unnerving.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“A fiancée.”
Penelope stared.
Then she laughed.
She couldn’t help it.
It burst out of her so sharply that one of the bodyguards actually smiled.
Cassian did not.
“Oh, you’re serious.”
“Entirely.”
“You want me to find you one?”
“I want you to be one.”
The laughter died.
Cassian folded his hands over the head of his black cane umbrella.
“A federal special investigations bureau has spent the last fourteen months trying to build a criminal conspiracy case against several of my business associates. They have little direct evidence against me, so they are pursuing a simpler narrative.”
“Which is?”
“That I am an emotionally vacant monster who values nothing except power.”
Penelope glanced at the locked door.
“You’re making a fascinating counterargument.”
His mouth twitched.
“My attorneys believe public perception matters. So do potential jurors. I require someone outside my circle. Someone with no connection to wealth, politics, nightlife, shipping, or my family.”
“And you chose a baker.”
“I chose you.”
“Why?”
He looked at her for a long moment.
“Because people believe you.”
She frowned.
“They walk into this place tired, stressed, lonely, celebrating divorces, birthdays, funerals, promotions, miscarriages, engagements, and terrible first dates. You remember their names. You give coffee to delivery drivers when they’re cold. Last Christmas you made sixty pies for a shelter and refused payment.”
Penelope’s smile vanished.
“How do you know that?”
“I investigate before I make investments.”
“I’m an investment now?”
“For six months.”
Something sharp touched her pride.
Cassian saw it.
He continued more carefully.
“The public would never believe I could manufacture someone like you.”
“Someone like me.”
“Warm.”
His gaze dropped briefly to her flour-covered hands.
“Unpolished.”
“Wow. You really know how to romance a woman.”
“Beautiful.”
That silenced her.
Cassian didn’t smile.
“Real,” he added.
Penelope felt heat rise beneath her skin.
“And what exactly would Fake Fiancée Penelope be required to do?”
“Live at my residence. Attend dinners, charity events, business functions. Be photographed with me. Wear the ring. Occasionally hold my hand. Pretend you are deeply in love.”
“Occasionally?”
“Frequently.”
“Anything else?”
“Kiss me when necessary.”
Her eyebrows rose.
“Define necessary.”
“When cameras are present.”
“And if cameras are everywhere?”
“Then we will both learn adaptability.”
Penelope stared at him.
He stared back.
The silence became much too warm.
She cleared her throat.
“No sex.”
His expression did not change.
“That was already in the contract.”
“No entering my bedroom.”
“Agreed.”
“No controlling what I eat, wear, or say unless it directly affects whatever ridiculous billionaire-mafia public relations performance we’re doing.”
“Reasonable.”
“I keep working here.”
His answer came immediately.
“No.”
Penelope’s shoulders stiffened.
“Then we’re done.”
“You misunderstand. You may keep the bakery. You may continue overseeing it. But you cannot work fifteen-hour shifts while pretending to be engaged to me. Security alone makes that impossible.”
“I have employees.”
“You have one full-time employee, two college students, and a dishwasher who still has a learner’s permit.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“I’m beginning to dislike your research department.”
“I’ll hire a general manager at my expense.”
“No.”
“At my expense,” he repeated, “but chosen by you.”
Penelope hesitated.
Cassian pushed the contract toward her.
“Six months. At the end of six months, you walk away owning this building free and clear. Eddie Marlow never contacts you again. Your bakery receives a two-hundred-thousand-dollar capital reserve held independently so I cannot take it back if we disagree.”
Penelope looked up sharply.
“That’s insane.”
“It is compensation.”
“That is life-changing.”
“Yes.”
“And all you get is public affection?”
“No.”
The tone changed.
Just slightly.
Penelope noticed.
“What else?”
Cassian’s blue eyes held hers.
“You follow three rules.”
There it was.
The third thing he would give her.
A rule.
Or, more accurately, three.
He lifted one finger.
“First, when my security team tells you to leave somewhere, you leave. No debate until you are safe.”
“Fine.”
A second finger.
“Second, you do not lie to me about threats, visitors, messages, or anything involving my family.”
Penelope tilted her head.
“Your family?”
“Yes.”
A third finger.
His expression went still.
“Third, you never go to my half brother for help.”
Penelope waited.
Cassian did not elaborate.
“That’s weirdly specific.”
“Yes.”
“Does your half brother live with you?”
“Part-time.”
“Is he dangerous?”
Cassian’s eyes became unreadable.
“Dorian Mercer can be extremely persuasive.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning if I am unavailable, you call my head of security, Marcus Vale. If Marcus is unavailable, you call my attorney. If my house is on fire and Dorian is standing beside a bucket of water, you walk outside and wait for the fire department.”
Penelope stared at him.
“That sounds less like a family relationship and more like a Greek tragedy.”
“It often feels that way.”
“What did he do?”
“That is not part of our arrangement.”
Penelope leaned against the counter.
“If I’m moving into a house with a man I’m forbidden to ask for help, it absolutely feels like part of the arrangement.”
Cassian’s jaw tightened.
Then he said quietly, “Dorian is not a threat to you unless you become involved in matters that concern me.”
“That didn’t answer my question.”
“It is the answer you’re getting tonight.”
She looked at the contract.
Six months.
Her bakery saved.
Her debt erased.
Enough money to stabilize everything she had spent eight years building.
The sensible answer was no.
The intelligent answer was no.
The answer any woman with functioning survival instincts should have given the most feared businessman in Chicago was absolutely not.
Penelope picked up a pen.
Cassian watched her.
“You haven’t read the entire contract.”
“I will.”
“Before signing.”
“I know.”
She carried the papers to one of the café tables.
For forty-three minutes she read.
Cassian waited.
He did not rush her.
He did not answer his phone even when it vibrated three times.
She crossed out two clauses.
Added one requiring four weeks’ notice before any international travel.
Added another saying The Buttered Crumb could not be used for Mercer business without her written approval.
Cassian accepted both.
When she reached the final page, she looked at him.
“Why do I feel like agreeing to this is going to ruin my life?”
His gaze held hers.
“Because you are intelligent.”
She signed anyway.
Cassian signed beneath her.
The room changed.
Nothing physical moved.
But Penelope felt it.
A line had been crossed.
One of the men in the back—Marcus, apparently—opened a black velvet box.
Inside sat a diamond ring so large Penelope nearly laughed again.
“No.”
Cassian looked at her.
“No?”
“I cannot wear that.”
“You agreed to wear a ring.”
“I agreed to wear a ring. That thing could redirect airplanes.”
“It belonged to my grandmother.”
That stopped her.
Penelope looked again.
The setting was old-fashioned without being delicate, a large oval diamond surrounded by smaller stones in a platinum band.
“You’re giving me a family ring for a fake engagement?”
“Lending.”
“Still.”
“My grandmother was the only person in my family the public genuinely liked.”
“And you?”
For the first time, something almost human passed across Cassian’s face.
“She tolerated me.”
Penelope smiled.
“I’m starting to like her.”
“She died twelve years ago.”
Her smile softened.
“I’m sorry.”
Cassian looked away.
Marcus handed him the box.
Cassian removed the ring.
Then, without warning, he lowered himself onto one knee.
Penelope froze.
“What are you doing?”
“Practicing.”
“There is nobody here.”
“My security team is here.”
Marcus immediately looked at the ceiling.
The other guard suddenly became deeply interested in the espresso machine.
Cassian took Penelope’s left hand.
His fingers were warm.
Hers were cold.
He looked up.
Penelope had expected performance.
Instead, for one strange second, the man kneeling before her looked almost solemn.
“Penelope Blake,” he said, “will you participate in a six-month contractual deception designed to improve my public image and possibly irritate half of Chicago?”
She burst out laughing.
Cassian’s mouth finally curved.
It transformed him.
Just for an instant.
“Yes,” she said. “Unfortunately.”
He slid the ring onto her finger.
It fit perfectly.
Penelope’s laughter stopped.
“You had this sized.”
“Yes.”
“You were very sure I’d agree.”
“No.”
“Then why—”
“I hoped.”
That single word unsettled her more than the money.
More than the guards.
More than the locked door.
Cassian rose.
They stood close.
Too close.
Penelope became aware of his cologne—something dark and clean, cedar and cold air.
She stepped back.
“Six months.”
“Six months.”
“And then we go back to being strangers.”
Something unreadable moved behind his eyes.
“Yes.”
The next morning, Chicago woke up to photographs of Cassian Mercer leaving The Buttered Crumb with one hand around Penelope Blake’s waist.
By noon, the story had spread everywhere.
WHO IS THE MYSTERY WOMAN WHO TAMED CHICAGO’S MOST ELIGIBLE BAD BOY?
MERCER SECRETLY ENGAGED TO SOUTH LOOP BAKER.
BILLIONAIRE CRIME HEIR FINDS LOVE OVER CROISSANTS.
Penelope nearly dropped her phone into a bowl of buttercream.
At three o’clock, a black SUV arrived.
By four, she was standing in front of Mercer House.
The mansion sat behind iron gates in Lincoln Park, enormous without being showy, all gray stone, ivy, tall windows, and intimidating silence.
Penelope looked at Cassian.
“You live here alone?”
“No.”
She immediately remembered rule three.
“Right.”
The front doors opened.
A man stepped out.
He was younger than Cassian by perhaps three years. Same dark hair. Same height. Similar shoulders.
But where Cassian was controlled edges and winter silence, this man smiled like summer trouble.
His eyes were green instead of blue.
He looked at Penelope.
Then at the ring.
Then at Cassian.
“Well,” he said.
Cassian went completely still beside her.
The man descended the steps and offered Penelope his hand.
“Dorian Mercer.”
Penelope looked at his hand.
Then at Cassian.
She remembered the rule.
Dorian noticed.
His smile deepened.
“Oh,” he said softly.
“He warned you about me.”
Cassian’s voice turned cold.
“Dorian.”
“What?”
Dorian kept his eyes on Penelope.
“I’m just wondering which version of the story you got.”
Penelope did not take his hand.
Dorian laughed.
“Smart woman.”
He stepped aside.
“Welcome to the family, future sister.”
Cassian’s hand settled at the small of Penelope’s back.
Possessive.
Protective.
Maybe both.
As they entered the mansion, Dorian called after them.
“Penelope?”
She looked back.
His smile was gone.
“If Cassian ever tells you he doesn’t need saving, don’t believe him.”
Cassian stopped walking.
Penelope felt every muscle in his body tighten.
Then Dorian smiled again and disappeared into another room.
Penelope looked at Cassian.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“You have a very strange definition of nothing.”
Cassian guided her toward the stairs.
“Remember the rule.”
Penelope looked down at the enormous diamond on her finger.
Six months, she reminded herself.
It was only six months.
She had no idea that four months later she would violate that rule.
No idea she would stand in Dorian Mercer’s library with tears on her face.
May you like
No idea she would beg him to save Cassian from a betrayal already in motion.
And no idea that when Cassian finally stepped from the darkness and heard what his brother had done, the fake engagement would become the least dangerous lie inside Mercer House.
