A Six-Month Deal We Call Love
Description
By day, Emilia Hart is no one-Isabella Asher, the unflappable secretary to ice-cut CEO Adrian Marlowe. By birth, she's the secret heiress to Hart Industries, hiding in the enemy's tower to earn power on her own terms. When a leaked nude humiliates her mid-meeting and a hospital call shatters her composure, Emilia returns to face a worse ambush: both families plan to seal a mega-merger with her marriage to Adrian. At a gala the announcement goes public. Cornered, Emilia and Adrian strike a truce: a six-month fake engagement to outmaneuver their families, neutralize enemies, and control the narrative. But leaked whispers, corporate knives, and inconvenient chemistry force a choice-autonomy, legacy, or real love.
Chapter 1
Sep 26, 2025
POV Emilia/Isabella
“Isabella, darling, you look absolutely radiant today. That blouse is divine—where did you find it?”
Brittany’s voice slices through the pre-meeting chatter like sugar-coated glass.
I don’t look up from arranging my reports, but I can feel her predatory smile from across the conference room. The others are already circling her like moths to a flame, all giggles and breathless compliments.
“Target,” I say, sliding the Q4 flash drive between my fingers. “Clearance rack.”
The lie rolls off my tongue effortlessly. The blouse cost more than most people’s rent, but Brittany doesn’t need to know that Isabella Asher shops anywhere besides discount retailers. The woman who calls herself Isabella Asher, anyway.
“Oh, how practical of you.” Brittany’s laugh tinkles like breaking crystal. “I just adore how you make budget fashion look so… adequate.”
I finally glance up, catch her wide blue eyes sparkling with malice. “Thanks. I aim for adequacy in all things.”
Sarah from Marketing giggles. “Isabella, you’re so funny. I wish I had your confidence.”
If only you knew, I think, but I just smile. The kind of smile that says absolutely nothing while revealing everything about how little I think of this entire exchange.
The conference room door opens with its familiar pneumatic hiss, and Adrian Marlowe strides in like he owns the place. Which, technically, he does. No pleasantries, no wasted motion—just pure, efficient authority in an expensive suit.
“Let’s begin.”
Two words. That’s all he ever needs to command absolute silence.
I slot the flash drive into my laptop, fingers steady as I navigate to the presentation folder. Around the table, everyone settles into their performance of Professional Competence. Brittany’s still smiling that razor-blade smile.
The projector hums to life. I click to the first slide, and my blood turns to ice.
It’s me. Naked. In my apartment. A photo I definitely never took, definitely never shared, and definitely never intended for the wall-sized screen of Marlowe Enterprises’ main conference room.
The silence that follows isn’t just quiet—it’s the kind of vacuum that happens right before explosions. I can feel twelve pairs of eyes burning holes through my skin, can practically hear the collective intake of breath.
But here’s the thing about growing up with a father who could buy and sell small countries: you learn to keep your face blank when the world implodes.
My pulse spikes to hummingbird levels, but my hands don’t shake. I turn slowly to find Brittany’s eyes across the polished mahogany table. They’re wide with fake surprise, absolutely glittering with satisfaction.
And suddenly last night’s random “password reset” email makes perfect sense. The one I ignored because I was running on four hours of sleep and three cups of coffee.
“Check the next slides,” Adrian says, his voice cutting through the tension like a scalpel. Bored. Almost irritated. “If they’re clean, proceed.”
I delete the image without ceremony, scrolling through the rest of the presentation. Q4 projections, market analysis, action items—everything else intact and professional. Of course. Brittany’s too smart to sabotage the actual work. Just my dignity.
Before I can open my mouth to address the elephant that just stripped naked in the room, my phone buzzes against the table. Mr. Wilson. Dad’s assistant.
“Brittany,” I say, voice steady as bedrock, “you can take it from here.”
Her victory smile could power a small city.
I step into the hallway, already knowing this call will destroy what’s left of my carefully constructed day. “Wilson?”
“Miss Thorne, I’m sorry, there have been complications.”
My stomach drops through the floor. “What kind of complications?”
“After the surgery. Your father has had a heart attack. The car is waiting downstairs.”
The hallway tilts slightly. I close my eyes, count to three, open them. Still standing. Still breathing. Still Isabella fucking Asher, who handles crisis like other people handle paperwork.
I push back into the conference room, where Brittany’s voice is already dripping professionalism all over my charts. Adrian glances up, that perpetually neutral expression giving nothing away.
“Mr. Marlowe. A word.”
He follows me out, closing the door behind him with deliberate precision.
“Is this about the photo?” He sounds bored rather than curious, like discussing revenge porn is just another Tuesday agenda item.
I almost laughed. Almost. “If I were the kind of woman who fell apart over a body, I wouldn’t be the one holding your Q4 together. Some of our colleagues struggle to assemble a spreadsheet without step-by-step instructions. I don’t.”
He blinks once. Slow. Calculating. “Then what?”
“My father just had a heart attack.”
The hallway seems to cinch tight. Adrian’s expression flickers—confusion—but I don't wait. I’m already moving, already three steps toward the elevator, when I hear him call my name.
But I don’t stop, don’t turn around, because there’s a town car from Dad’s fleet idling at the curb and if anyone from Finance is on a coffee run right now, Isabella Asher’s carefully maintained cover is about to go up in very expensive smoke.
The driver opens the door without a word. I slide into leather seats that squeak like money, jaw set like concrete, palms still cool from the conference room’s sterile air conditioning.
Behind me, Marlowe Enterprises hums on, blissfully unaware that the woman they call invisible has just stepped completely off their grid.
A Six-Month Deal We Call Love
30 Chapters
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