Chapter 2 Turns Out He Does Do Basic

• Three hours later, I was sitting on a park bench, my phone vibrating continuously in my lap. I didn't answer Solomon's texts. But then, a loud ping signaled an official email.
• ​I opened it.
• ​Dear Miss Barnes, we regret to inform you that the Fletcher Educational Trust has officially withdrawn your doctoral scholarship, effective immediately. Your enrollment for the upcoming semester has been canceled due to non-payment.
• ​My breathing hitched. No explanation. No right to appeal.
• ​I dialed Solomon’s number instantly. He answered on the first ring.
• ​"Solomon! What did you do?" I gasped into the receiver. "My scholarship is gone!"
• ​"Oh, yeah," Solomon said. His tone was perfectly casual, as if he were discussing the weather. "My family decided not to continue investing in someone who is no longer becoming part of the family. It’s just business, Freya."
• ​"Business? You are ruining my life because I caught you cheating!"
• ​"Don’t take it personally," he replied easily. "It’s perfectly logical. Why should the Fletchers pay for your degree if you’re throwing a tantrum and breaking off our engagement? Let's be mature about this."
• ​I hung up on him, my hands shaking so violently I almost dropped the phone.
• ⁠✷⁠⁠✷⁠⁠✷⁠⁠✷⁠
• ​By five in the evening, I had packed everything I owned into two battered suitcases. I stood in the middle of my small studio apartment, looking at the bare walls.
• ​My future was collapsing around me.
• ​No scholarship. No fiancé. No best friend. I had nowhere to go, and my bank account held less than two hundred dollars. How did everything disappear in one single afternoon?
• ​I dragged my heavy luggage down the steps of the brownstone building, the cool air biting at my cheeks. The sky was turning a bruised purple.
• ​As I reached the sidewalk, a fleet of three identical, glossy black luxury SUVs pulled up to the curb. The doors opened in perfect synchronization.
• ​A tall man in a crisp suit stepped out from the middle vehicle. He walked directly toward me.
• ​"Miss Barnes," he said, his voice flat and professional.
• ​"Yes?" I pulled my suitcases closer to my shins.
• ​"Mr. Fletcher requests your presence."
• ​It wasn't an invitation. It was a command.
• ​"Tell Solomon to go to hell," I snapped, turning to walk away. "I’m not playing his games anymore."
• ​"Not young master Solomon," the driver said smoothly, stepping in front of me. "The elder Mr. Fletcher. Atticus Fletcher. He requests your presence immediately."
• ​I stopped. Atticus. The patriarch. The man who actually controlled the billions.
• ​"Why?" I asked, my voice defensive. "Does he want to humiliate me in person too?"
• ​The driver simply opened the rear door of the SUV. "It concerns your future, Miss Barnes."
• ​I looked at the dark leather interior, then back at my suitcases. I had nothing left to lose. I got in.
• ​The drive took forty minutes, ending behind the massive iron gates of the Fletcher Estate. I had heard about this place, but Solomon had never brought me here. It was absurdly wealthy. The mansion was a sprawling palace of limestone, glass, and manicured gardens that stretched into the darkening horizon.
• ​Uniformed staff stood at the entrance, bowing slightly as the driver led me inside.
• ​"Right this way, Miss Barnes," a butler said, guiding me down a hallway lined with museum-grade art.
• ​He opened a set of double doors, revealing a massive, two-story private study.
• ​Atticus Fletcher stood near a roaring fireplace. He had clearly just returned from an international flight. His dark overcoat was unbuttoned, draped over the back of a leather chair, and a half-unpacked leather briefcase sat open on his desk.
• He looked up as I entered. He possessed the same sharp jawline as Solomon, but his eyes were different—older, colder, and terrifyingly sharp.
• ​"Sit, Freya," Atticus said. His voice was a deep, resonant baritone.
• ​I sat in the chair opposite his desk, my spine stiff. "If you brought me here to make me sign a non-disclosure agreement about your son's infidelity, you're wasting your time."
• ​"I don't care about my son's sex life," Atticus said, walking behind his desk. "I already know everything that transpired today. Solomon is a fool."
• ​Atticus sat down, leaning forward. He didn't waste time with small talk. He got straight to the point.
• ​"Solomon has embarrassed the Fletcher name," Atticus stated, his eyes locked onto mine. "His behavior is sloppy. Publicly running around with your classmate while engaged to a woman funded by our trust looks terrible for our upcoming public offering."
• ​"So you're going to compensate me?" I asked, a spark of anger returning. "Buy my silence?"
• ​"No." Atticus reached into his desk drawer. He pulled out a crisp, white document and placed it on the desk. Beside it, he slid a sleek, unbranded black credit card. "I am offering you a job."
• ​I looked down at the document. The bold letters at the top read: COMPANIONSHIP AGREEMENT.
• ​"Read it," Atticus commanded gently.
• ​I picked up the papers, my eyes skimming the clauses. "One year... exclusive companionship... public appearances... no emotional attachment... full financial security, including the reinstatement of the PhD funding and a monthly allowance of fifty thousand dollars."
• ​I dropped the paper back onto the desk. "You're joking."
• ​"I never joke about contracts," Atticus said, his expression completely unreadable.
• ​"Why me?" I demanded, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Why would you offer me a fake relationship? To punish your son? It makes no sense."
• ​"Because you're the most suitable candidate," Atticus said simply.
• ​"That's not an answer!"
• ​"It is the only answer I'm willing to give," he replied. He leaned in slightly, his dark gaze dropping to my lips for a fraction of a second, heavy with a quiet, simmering intent that had absolutely nothing to do with business.
• The intensity of it sent a sudden, unauthorized shiver straight down my spine. "Sign it, and your problems disappear. Refuse it, and you leave this house with nothing."
• ​My breath hitched as our eyes locked. For a terrifying, intoxicating moment, the suffocating space between us felt alive with a magnetic pull I couldn't explain—a silent promise that if I signed this, he wouldn't just own my time; he would consume me entirely.
• ​The study doors suddenly burst open.
• ​"Dad!" Solomon’s voice echoed through the room. "I heard your flight got in early—"
• ​Solomon froze in the doorway. His eyes darted from me, to the contract on the desk, and then to the gleaming black card. He blinked, his face twisting in utter confusion before he burst out laughing.
• ​"You can't be serious," Solomon said, walking into the room and pointing at me. "Freya, what is this? Using my father to make me jealous? You were serious about sleeping with him? This is pathetic, even for you."
• ​I didn't say a word. I kept my eyes on Atticus who raised a brow at me after hearing the last part of Solomon's statement. Sheepishly, I turned my gaze away.
• I wasn't actually planning on doing it. I just wanted to hurt him back. Who knew I'd actually be in a position for it to happen hours later? Certainly, not me.
• ​Solomon turned to his father, a confident smile on his lips. "Dad, tell her to get out. You wouldn't touch someone like her. She’s a charity case. Tell her."
• ​Atticus didn't even look at his son. He kept his sharp, steady gaze fixed entirely on me. With one slow, deliberate movement of his hand, he slid the contract and the black card two inches closer to my side of the desk.
• ​"I wasn't asking, Solomon," Atticus said softly.
• ​The room fell into a suffocating, dead silence. Solomon’s smile completely vanished, his face draining of color as his eyes flitted between his father and the pen resting on the desk.
• ​I looked at Solomon’s pale face, then at the black card that could save my future.
• Well…
• ​I picked up the pen.