The grand mirror hall of the Waldorf Hotel glittered under a sea of chandeliers. Crystal light danced off diamond necklaces and cufflinks, casting kaleidoscopic reflections across the marble floor. Riley stood at the entrance, feeling like an intruder in a world she didn't belong to.
She wore a black evening gown borrowed from Sophie. Simple in design, but cut just well enough to let her blend in—barely. Her hand clutched a small clutch bag, stuffed with all the cash she had… and a crumpled list of wealthy guests.
"Deep breath, Riley," she told herself. "You can do this."
The music swelled from the ballroom, where men and women laughed and sipped champagne, engaged in conversations about private clubs, European villas, and the latest philanthropic initiatives. It was a language Riley didn't speak.
"Hi, I'm Riley Bennett."She mustered her courage and approached a middle-aged man who seemed approachable.
"Bennett?" He frowned. "Don't recall a Bennett family in New York. What do you do?"
"I'm a screenwriter."
"Oh." His interest vanished almost instantly. "Excuse me, I must find my wife."
Over the next hour, Riley repeated that same introduction a dozen times—always ending in disinterest or thinly veiled dismissal. Doubt crept in. Maybe Sophie's idea was a mistake.
"Champagne?"
She turned to see a young server offering her a glass.
"Thank you," she said, taking it and downing half in one go. The alcohol lent her a thin veneer of courage.
"First time at one of these?" the server asked softly.
"That obvious?" Riley gave a wry smile.
"I've seen a lot of people. You… don't quite fit the mold."
"I'm here looking for help," she admitted before thinking. "My mother's sick. She needs surgery."
The server gave a sympathetic nod. "Try the terrace. The crowd out there's a little… easier to talk to."
Grateful, Riley nodded and made her way toward the outdoor terrace.
The autumn air was crisp. A handful of guests lingered, smoking or sipping cocktails. Riley leaned against the railing, staring at the traffic below, her mind spinning. This felt absurd. She was an independent woman with a career, a voice. And yet, here she was—hunting for a "benefactor."
"Escaping the party?"
A deep voice startled her. She turned and saw a man who made her breath catch.
He looked to be in his early thirties. Tall, broad-shouldered, and impeccably dressed in a tailored dark suit. His features were sharply defined—straight nose, piercing blue eyes, and an air of cool detachment that felt almost aristocratic.
"No," Riley replied, trying to keep her composure. "Just needed some fresh air."
"Alexander Grant," he said, extending a hand. His voice carried a subtle British accent.
Her pulse quickened. Alexander Grant—the first name on her list. CEO of the Grant Group, heir to one of Europe's largest investment firms. Net worth over a billion dollars.
"Riley Bennett," she said, taking his hand and feeling the firm warmth of his grip.
"Bennett." He repeated the name, as if tasting it. "I don't recall seeing you in New York's social circles."
"Because I'm not part of them," Riley replied honestly. "I'm a screenwriter."
Alexander raised an eyebrow, mildly intrigued by her candor."Interesting. So, Miss Bennett, what brings a screenwriter to a place like this?"
She met his gaze. His eyes had a way of seeing through pretense—sharp, almost disarming. Lying would be useless.
"I need help," she said plainly. "My mother is ill. Her surgery costs half a million dollars."
His expression remained unreadable, but his gaze sharpened.
"So you came here hoping to find a generous benefactor?"
"No." Riley took a deep breath. "I came here hoping to find someone willing to marry me."
The moment the words left her lips, regret hit her like a wave. It sounded too desperate. Too raw. She braced herself for mockery or worse—disgust.
But Alexander simply stared at her, silent.
"You see marriage as a transaction?" he asked finally.
"In some cases, yes." Riley held her ground. "I'm willing to give something of equal value in return."
"Such as?"
"Being a capable wife. Attending social events, handling household matters, maintaining appearances." Her voice grew steadier. "I'm smart, a quick learner, and I won't cause problems."
Alexander leaned against the railing, as if weighing her words. "Do you know who I am?"
"Yes. Alexander Grant, heir to the Grant Group. Your grandfather John Grant founded the company. You're the youngest member on the board. You studied at Cambridge, worked in investment banking, then joined the family business."
"You've done your homework." His lips curled ever so slightly—almost a smile. "Then you also know I don't lack women willing to marry me."
"I know," Riley said, blushing. "But they want your wealth and status. I only need money to save my mother. That's… more honest."
"Honest." He repeated the word like a forgotten flavor. "It's been a while since anyone's said that to me."
They stood in silence for a moment, the sounds of city traffic below mixing with the distant music from inside.
"If I said I might consider your offer," Alexander said suddenly, "what would you be willing to commit?"
Riley's heart pounded. "I… I don't understand."
"Marriage—even a business arrangement—requires commitment. What would you promise?"
"I…" She searched for the words. "I'll sign whatever agreement you want. I won't ask for love, won't interfere with your personal life, won't—"
"Won't what?" His voice lowered slightly.
"Won't make you regret it."
Alexander turned fully toward her. In the moonlight, his gaze seemed bottomless.
"You know, Miss Bennett, I have pressures of my own," he said. "My grandfather's been urging me to marry. The board believes a married CEO appears more stable, more trustworthy."
Riley's breath caught. She hadn't expected this.
"So your proposal," Alexander continued, "might serve us both."
"You mean…" She could barely believe her ears.
"I mean, we can discuss the possibility." He reached into his suit pocket and handed her a business card. "Tomorrow at three. My office. Let's talk about this… business arrangement."
Riley's hand shook as she accepted the card. "You're serious?"
"I never joke, Miss Bennett." He nodded politely. "Good evening."
And with that, he turned and disappeared into the crowd, leaving Riley on the terrace, clutching the card that might change everything.
Back home, Riley sat on her bed, staring at the elegant card in her hands. Alexander Grant—his name printed in silver ink on expensive paper.
She picked up her phone and texted Sophie:"I met him. Alexander Grant. We're meeting tomorrow to talk about marriage."
Minutes later, Sophie replied:"OMG! Are you serious? Riley, are you sure you know what you're doing?"
Riley looked at the message, then up at the photo of her mother on the wall—Linda Bennett, smiling in healthier days.
"I have to do this," she replied.
She walked to the window and looked out into the night. Tomorrow, everything would change. She would either become the wife of a billionaire—or walk away and face her mother's illness alone.
But at least… she was trying.
She thought of Alexander's eyes—that detached, aristocratic coldness… and the flicker of something lonely behind it.
Maybe—just maybe—they could help each other.
What Riley Bennett didn't know was that, across Manhattan, Alexander Grant stood at the window of his penthouse, a glass of whiskey in hand, thinking about the strange woman he had just met.
Riley Bennett was unlike anyone he had ever encountered. Desperate, but not pitiful. Needing help, but not without dignity.
Most of all—she was honest.
It had been a long time since anyone had been honest with him.
Tomorrow's meeting would determine whether they began a most unusual partnership.
Fate had already started turning its wheels.