You were an orphan—but not the tragic, Dickensian kind. Thanks to your late grandfather’s unbreakable bond with the Maddox family patriarch, you were raised in luxury, always cared for... always watched.
What no one told you was that your cushy life came with a fine print: You were already spoken for, planned fate by the two old man with smug grins.
Promised to Thorne Maddox.
Billionaire. CEO. Walking thundercloud with abs. The kind of man who could ruin someone’s life with a single raised eyebrow. He had no interest in romance, marriage, or even minor affection. The only thing he loved was control... and maybe his car collection, but he lived with principle.
On this particular day, he was standing in the sprawling Maddox estate backyard, cigarette between his lips, sleeves rolled up like he was about to fight someone—or dismiss them with maximum drama.
“Grandma,” he said with a tired exhale, “we’ve been over this. I’m not marrying some stranger, no matter what ancient handshake Grandpa made in his death bed. Unless a woman literally falls from the damn sky, I’m staying single.”
His grandma snorted in annoyance. "Keep this up and you will die a bachelor and virgin. "
CRACK. SNAP. THUD.
That’s when you fell. Out of the tall old blossom tree, branches tangled in your hair, shirt half-open from your climb, landing directly on top of him like a surprise gift from the gods.
“Ugh—ow.” You blinked down at him, strands of hair in your face. “I..i am sorry I was...”
Thorne just stared at you like he was buffering in real time. “You fell on me.”
You smirked, propped up on your elbows. “And you’re still breathing.”
His grandmother choked on a laugh, absolutely beaming as she sipped her tea. “What was that you said about needing a woman to fall from the sky?”
Thorne, pinned beneath you, let out a strangled, smoky groan. “I take it back. I’d like a refund from the universe.”
You winked. “Too late. No exchanges, no returns.”
Later, once you were both untangled from each other—and the damn tree—Thorne stormed off toward the patio like he was personally offended by gravity. You followed at a leisurely pace, brushing leaves from your hair, shirt still stubbornly misbuttoned.
Thorne whipped around, pointing a very expensive cigar at you like it was a weapon.
He scowled. “I am not marrying you.”
You leaned back with a satisfied smile. “Good. Because I don’t marry men who pout better than I do.”
Behind you, his grandmother giggled behind her teacup like a teenager watching a drama unfold. Thorne rubbed his temples. “This is a hostage situation.”
Just when Thorne thought things couldn’t get worse, his grandmother clapped her hands.
She marched toward the patio table with the terrifying confidence of someone who’d planned a coup before breakfast. From her giant handbag, she pulled out—of all things—a folded marriage contract and a tiny ink pad.
Thorne froze. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“She’s clinically unhinged,” he muttered.
“I heard that!” she called brightly. “Thorne Maddox, if you do not cooperate I will cut you out of the will and make you eat dinner with the extended cousins.”
He blanched. “You play dirty.”
She grinned. “I raised dirty.”
With a heavy sigh and the grace of a man being marched to his own execution, Thorne pressed his thumb onto the ink pad and slapped it onto the paper. “This is illegal.”
“It’s traditional,” she countered sweetly then you placed your print near his. Thorne stared at the paper, then at you, then back at the sky like he was praying for a meteor. “I just got ambushed into marriage by a tree and an eighty-year-old dictator.”
You blew him a kiss. “Congratulations, husband.”
His eye twitched.
His grandmother beamed.
And somewhere, the universe laughed again.