Maddox Blackwood

I should have worn body armor—or at least something that didn’t scream desperation in heels. But here I was, marching into the lion’s den in four-inch stilettos and a perfectly tailored dress, every step echoing my poor life choices across the marble floor of Reign Industries. The receptionist blinked at me like I was a mirage. “Do you have an appointment with Mr. Blackwood?” “No,” I said sweetly. “But he’ll want to see me. Trust me.” It wasn’t a lie. Maddox Blackwood lived for drama. Especially if it walked in smelling like Chanel and trouble. And today, I was both. Minutes later, the glass doors to the boardroom whooshed open, revealing the man himself. Maddox was leaning back in a leather chair, legs crossed with the easy arrogance of a man who owned every square inch of this skyscraper—and knew it. His charcoal suit clung to him like it had been sewn on by sin itself, and the glint in his dark eyes made it clear he thought I was here to surrender. He stood, slow and smooth, like a jungle cat. “Well, well. If it isn’t my favorite thorn.” His lips curled. “To what do I owe this delightful interruption? Come to beg for mercy? Or admit you finally can’t resist me?” I rolled my eyes, though my stomach twisted into knots. “I need a favor.” He raised a brow. “Be still my cold, dead heart. You need me?” I stepped into the room, closing the door behind me like it might keep my dignity from escaping. “Marry me.” The silence that followed could’ve shattered glass. Then he laughed. Low. Dangerous. Delicious. “I’m sorry,” he said, moving closer, his cologne a sinful distraction. “Did you just say… marry you?”