Wish I Never Met You Chapter 3 Part 2
CHAPTER 3 · PART TWO
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Seth Baker ushered me into his home, and I had to bite back a gasp.
The penthouse was immaculate—the kind of place you only see in glossy magazines. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a sweeping view of the city skyline, buildings glittering like jewels against the blue morning light.
Polished marble floors reflected sleek, minimalist furnishings that screamed expensive. Plush gray couches sat around a glass coffee table stacked neatly with art books, while a modern chandelier of glass and silver cast soft light across the space.
Dark eyes locked on me, that cocky smirk firmly in place.
He knew.
He knew I was here because I had finally decided to accept his proposal.
I took a steadying breath and met his gaze.
“What can I offer you, Miss Bailey?”
“Nothing.”
Despite my answer, Melinda—his housemaid—glided in with a silver tray. She set down a pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice, condensation fogging the glass, and placed a crystal tumbler beside it.
“To what do I owe your presence, Miss Hazel?” he asked, legs crossed as he leaned back, victory dancing in his eyes.
“I spoke to my daughter,” I began. “And I found out—”
“That I was telling the truth?” he interrupted smoothly.
I nodded, even though it tasted bitter.
“I had no intention of harming her or using her against you,” he continued calmly.
“But that’s exactly what you did,” I countered, leaning forward.
He didn’t flinch. “You were stubborn. I had no other way to reach you. But my priority was Gabrielle. I wanted the best for her.”
There was smugness in his words—but also sincerity.
And that scared me more than lies ever could.
“If we’re doing this,” I said carefully, “I don’t want you digging into my life.”
He nodded instantly. “Agreed.”
I didn’t entirely believe him.
He poured us both orange juice, then looked up as realization dawned.
“Does that mean you’re agreeing to marry me?”
I hesitated only briefly. “Yes. But I still have a problem.”
“Name it.”
“Why me?” I said bluntly. “And spare me the bullshit.”
He handed me the glass, studying me before answering.
“Because I’ve never had anything real,” he said quietly. “Only people who took advantage of me. If you had my money, you’d understand.”
“So you just want someone real?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re sure that’s me?”
“I can see it. You learn to value authenticity when you’ve been exploited long enough.”
I let it go.
“You said this wouldn’t be a real marriage,” I reminded him. “What does that mean?”
His answer came without hesitation.
“Six months.”