Chapter One

“Mr. Radcliffe will see you now,” his secretary, Miss Havilah said to the young lady who had been sitting outside the boss’ office for close to two hours. Tasha was not in her Sunday best but she had managed to get the wrinkles out of her pleated skirt and her shirt was starched till it was as stiff as a snobbish old lady. She had been afraid that the security would not let her in considering how poorly dressed she was. Every now and then, she pushed her thick glasses up her nose, playing with her fingers too out of anxiety. From the newspapers and internet business news, Mr Radcliffe was definitely not an ordinary man. She wondered how her father could have known such a powerful man as Nelson Radcliffe.

 “Thank you,” she murmured and gradually got on her feet. She clutched her purse close to her chest, looking as petrified as a chick. Her heels were broken from the impact of jumping off the bus and they clacked noisily against the milky tiles. Her embarrassment doubled when necks turned to locate where the irritating noise was coming from. She had thought of taking them off when she first arrived but she didn't want to seem even more desperate than she already was. She knocked twice to alert the occupant of the office that she was coming in before pulling the door open. 

 The office was like a dream, a fantasy that was too beautiful to exist on earth. Every corner of the room was painted in white: the tiles, tables, lattices, and even the trash can. The couches were white as well and buttery soft to the touch but they were moved to a side of the room, probably meant for informal company. The marble tiles had a sheen to them that dazzled the observer. Immediately, Tasha felt self-conscious, looking down at her well-worn clothes and ugly shoes. Her mother had pawned her jewellery to get the heels the year before and now, they were old and tight. She still wondered how the receptionist had left her through the front door. Perhaps, it was because she had said she had an appointment. She fed her eyes with the exquisite decor, delighted by the artistic designs.

 “Who are you?” a cold, masculine voice asked from a corner of the room. The owner of the deep baritone revealed himself afterwards, standing two heads taller than Tasha. He took leisurely strides towards her that no one would call lazy, but rather confident. Tasha stood transfixed by the beauty of the man coming to her. A mug of warm coffee was held in his firm grip and his clever, green eyes took in her appearance in one sweeping gaze. It was obvious that he was not impressed with what he saw because he did not bother hiding it in his irritated countenance. Tasha subconsciously took two steps back and tilted her head backwards a bit to be able to meet his eyelevel. His gaze was fixed and unwaivering, unnerving the young woman. Her heels wobbled underneath her and her retreat was unsteady. 

 “I– I. . .” she stuttered, her tongue tied in wonder. “G–Good morning, sir. My name is Natasha King and my father sent me to you. He said you would help us.”

 The billionaire lifted a perfectly carved brow in amazement and finally got behind his desk. Tasha sighed in relief and took his action as a hint to have a seat. She was about to sink into a swivel chair when his cold baritone caught her off guard again.

 “I have not confirmed your identity and I did not ask you to sit. Remain as you are until I confirm your story. Tell me who your father is.”

 Tasha straightened her back and pushed up her glasses again, fidgeting under the spotlight of his eyes. “My father is Mr Spencer King. Earlier before now, he told me that he had a discussion with you concerning our. . . family problems.” She did not want to use the word ‘debt’ and assumed the alternative would be more presentable to the ears. It was embarrassing enough that it had to get to the extent of formally begging for financial assistance.

 Three years ago, when at his wit’s end, her father, Spencer King had gone to the bank seeking for a loan. Back then, it was termite season and his furniture store had suffered as a result. His store stank of rotten wood and no one wanted substandard goods. He had a huge loss that year and he could not recover in time to cater for Tasha and Henchard’s tuition fees. At long last, the bank granted his request after he had used his store as collateral. Unfortunately, it was past time to pay and two million dollars was an amount that he did not own. The bank was after him and it seemed Mr Radcliffe was their only hope.

 “Spencer King is your father?” he questioned, doubt dripping from his words. “The apple fell a bit far from the tree, from the look of things. I did not expect your father to send you here so soon, by the way. We just spoke last week concerning this issue and I have not yet come to a conclusion. Nevertheless, delay is dangerous and time is money. Have a seat, Miss . . .”

 “Tasha. Tasha King, sir,” she reminded him and he nodded, waving his hand here and there like her name was unimportant. Unfortunately, as she sat down on the chair, she popped a few stitches in her skirt and the sound echoed aloud in the big room. Icy, green eyes found their way to her and she shrank further into the cushioned chair. Mr Radcliffe scoffed in disgust and slipped a document onto his flat tabletop. He quickly scribbled his signature on it and slid it in front of her afterwards, dropping the ballpoint beside the document. Tasha glanced at the heading on the document and froze in her chair.

 “A marriage agreement? Am I to get married to you?”