His Ring Her Rules

Every romantic comedy has that scene where the wealthy, emotionally distant guy pulls off a spectacular gesture.

Mine, however, included a contract, a conference room, and enough legalese to ruin the atmosphere more quickly than spoiled milk.

I certainly didn't anticipate seeing Ethan Blackwood again so quickly, let alone outside my apartment complex wearing a charcoal suit that most likely cost more than my six-month rent.

And certainly not carrying a manila folder as though it held the secret to eternal life.

He didn't knock. He buzzed. similar to a courteous debt collector.

I sighed as I peered through the peephole. "You've got nerve showing up here."

"I came to talk," he stated plainly in a deep, soothing, and irate voice.

I partially opened the door. "I swear, if it's about my uterus again—"

"It has to do with safety."

I blinked. "A restraining order, perhaps?"

"No. You. The kid. And... my business.

Oh. It was there.

When your life begins to resemble a soap opera, curiosity always triumphs, so I let him in—not because I trusted him.

Looking completely out of place in my small living room, he stepped in. The sort of man who should have been in glass towers rather than sitting on stuffy IKEA couches.

He started by placing the folder on the coffee table as if it were a peace offering and said, "You said the baby is mine." And now, the media also believes it. My board is in a panic. The investors are wary.

I crossed my arms. "So, what are you here for? Make a hush money offer?

"No. I have a deal to offer.

I took notice of that. The main reason is that when billionaires say "deal," it usually means fine print and catastrophe.

He pulled out the folder.

contract for marriage.

I gazed at it. Next, at him. Then again.

"You're kidding."

"I'm not."

"You wish to marry me?"

"Just in name," he explained, as if that would make it less crazy. "We go public. Rewrite the story. Stabilize the image, safeguard the infant, and prevent additional media backlash with you and me.

"What is the end time of this circus?"

"After the baby is born and our brand confidence has been restored." Perhaps a year or two.

I chuckled. In fact, I laughed.

"You believe I would wed a man who abandoned me, denied ever knowing me, and now wants to use my pregnancy as a pretext for a corporate makeover?"

He was so bold as to appear... sincere. Infuriatingly sincere.

"You'd be protected. Medical care. financial security for the infant. And I would ensure your care—for the rest of your life.

My eyes narrowed. Why me? Why don't you just go back to your boardroom and quietly settle this?

I looked at him. "Because I am not the man they believe me to be." Furthermore, I cannot afford another scandal. Grace, you're in this already. We may or may not like it.

I crossed my arms and stood. "What if I decline?"

He didn't recoil. "Then I leave, leaving you to handle the vultures, the rumors, and the media by yourself. We have control over the story, though, if you say yes. Together."

I looked at the contract once more.

It was chilly. calculated. Thus, Blackwood.

Additionally, there was an indisputable glimmer of fear in his eyes. Not for himself. For the kid. For myself?

I remembered the sound of a heartbeat. The one on the sonogram that I saw. tiny. Actual. mine.

I didn't respond. Not just yet.

However, I took a seat next to him. I then opened the folder.

Because glass slippers aren't always the beginning of fairy tales.

Contracts and their repercussions can sometimes be the first step.

Rule #9: Never agree to marry a billionaire without reading the fine print.

Even if his eyes say everything his lips won't.