Shy guy, that is marrying heirest

The study remained just as Simon remembered it, but the air felt hollow. He had come here expecting a confrontation with the "Ice Queen," Beatrice Fairchild. He had the documents ready—proof of her brother’s financial ruin, the leverage he needed to force the marriage, and by extension, the keys to the kingdom.

But the chair behind the desk was empty.

A single envelope sat in the center of the mahogany surface. Simon didn't need to open it to know what it said. He had spent months carefully planting the seeds, dangling the forbidden fruit of freedom in front of Beatrice and her long-term boyfriend. He had orchestrated the exact pressure needed to make her snap, never once considering that his target might be a variable he couldn't control.

The door clicked open, and the person he had never truly accounted for stepped inside.

Helena walked in. She was a vision of curated, high-maintenance perfection, standing at 5'5" with a slim-curvy silhouette that seemed entirely out of place in a dusty, man-made study.

Simon’s breath hitched. He had accounted for Beatrice, for the lawyers, and for the courts—but he hadn't accounted for the younger sister. He had assumed the contract would force Beatrice’s hand, but as Helena surveyed him with a sneer of pure, unfiltered hostility, he realized his mistake.

"You're late, Simon," she said, her voice dripping with a casual, biting arrogance. "Or perhaps you're just early for the funeral of my sister's reputation?"

Simon adjusted his glasses, trying to regain his composure. "Beatrice is gone," he said, his voice flat. "Which means the contract is in default. I’m here to take possession of the estate through the courts."

Helena didn't snap. She didn't throw a tantrum. Instead, she walked to the window, watching the Thoroughbreds in the paddock with a strange, predatory stillness. She turned around, her gaze locking onto his—the same gaze she had used to judge him years ago.

"The contract never specified which daughter, did it?" she said softly.

The air in the room grew heavy, the silence stretching until it felt like a physical weight. Simon realized with a sinking dread that he wasn't going to get everything without the girl after all. His assumption—that the "Ice Queen" was the only obstacle—had been his undoing.

"The contract never said anyone by name," she repeated, her voice steady and mocking. She walked toward him, closing the distance until the air between them felt charged and volatile. "You want the Fairchild name. You want the leverage. And you want to play master of the house."

She looked at him—truly looked at him—with a hatred that was almost visceral.

"You will marry me," she commanded.

The air in the room grew heavy, the silence stretching until it felt like a physical weight. Simon adjusted his glasses again, the plastic frame feeling slick against his sweat-dampened skin. He was thirty-six, a man who had spent his entire life in the shadows of others, whereas Helena was twenty-one—a girl who had spent her life under the spotlight. He had heard the rumors, of course. Everyone in their social circles knew about Helena Fairchild—the "Princess" of the campus, the girl who moved through life with the arrogance of someone who had never been told "no."

"I know what you've heard, Simon," she murmured, her voice losing its mocking edge, replaced by a low, dangerous purr. "The stories about how much trouble men have around me. They act like they’re intimidated, or perhaps I’m just too much for them to handle—they struggle to even get hard, let alone finish."

Before Simon could process her proximity, she moved. She closed the remaining gap with predatory speed, sliding in behind him. He froze as he felt her press against his back; her frame was firm, and the sensation of her bust pressed against his shoulder blades was startlingly vivid, a sensory overload that his sheltered, emotionless life had never prepared him for.

She leaned in, her breath warm against the shell of his ear, her hands coming up to rest mockingly on his shoulders. He felt her thin hands pinch his ass with a bold, demeaning flick, before sliding back up to grip his shoulders. In a swift, practiced movement, she had taken total charge of his personal space.

"My girlfriends are a different story, of course," she whispered, a cruel, knowing smile audible in her voice. "They seem to have no trouble at all with me. But I’m no virgin, Simon. I know exactly what I am. But I also heard rumors about you—the black sheep of the Newton family, fifteen years my senior and still shivering like a schoolboy. I heard you’re a virgin."

She tightened her grip on his shoulders, her nails digging in just enough to be felt through his shirt.

Simon tried to take a half-step back, his mind racing for a diplomatic exit. "Helena, really," he stammered, his cheeks flushing a vivid, uncharacteristic crimson. "I’m not… I’m just a man with a contract. You don't want me. We’re worlds apart—I’m in my thirties, and you’re barely nineteen. I’m hardly a specimen—I’m certainly not built like the men you're used to. And I can be… difficult. I’m messy, I leave the toilet seat up, and I have a habit of letting laundry pile up for weeks. I can be quite cruel when I’m cornered. I’m a disaster, not a husband."

Helena let out a low, amused laugh, the sound vibrating against his shoulder blades. She didn't retreat. Instead, she leaned in, her breath tickling his ear.

"I could do much worse, babe," she murmured, her eyes dancing with a mixture of amusement and genuine intrigue. She reached out, her fingers tracing the expensive lapel of his suit with slow, deliberate precision before sliding down to rest against his chest, her touch light but undeniably possessive. "And when I talk about men, Simon? I’m talking about you. I’m talking about this man. If you’re as 'cruel' and messy as you claim? Good. I’ve always preferred a challenge over a polished antique. I find older men extremely sexy especially ones that many not be experienced."

Simon swallowed hard, his heart hammering against her hand. He looked down at the contract, then up at the reflection in the window—her predatory grin, and his own look of deer-in-headlights terror. He realized then that all his careful planning had led to a trap he couldn't negotiate his way out of.

She wasn't just taking the estate; she was taking him, and she had already decided he wasn't going anywhere.

Simon reached for the pen, his movements mechanical and steady. The procedure was brutally efficient. They didn't exchange vows of love or promises of devotion; they simply signed their names under the gaze of a lawyer who looked bored by the entire affair.

Once the papers were cleared, a man of the cloth was ushered in—a local officiant summoned on short notice for this transaction. The pace of the room shifted instantly. The transition from legal document to holy rite felt jarring, a rapid-fire progression that left Simon’s head spinning. Before he could even adjust his glasses, the officiant had his book open, his voice drone-like and hurried, as if he were trying to beat a ticking clock.

Simon looked around the study, searching for some anchor—a pause, a hesitation, a reason for the world to slow down—but there was none. Everything was happening at once: the scratch of the nib, the suffocating scent of Helena’s perfume, the heavy, possessive weight of her hand on his shoulder. It felt less like a wedding and more like a landslide.

"Do you take this woman...?"

The question hung in the air, a demand rather than a request. Simon’s mouth went dry. He looked at Helena, who was watching him with that same, predatory amusement.

"I do," Simon said, his voice flat, devoid of any genuine inflection.

"Do you take this man...?"

"I do," Helena replied, her voice crisp and mocking, a smile evident in her tone.

There was no joy, no celebration, only the brief exchange of rings and the cold repetition of religious jargon. As the officiant nodded—a perfunctory, disinterested gesture—the air in the room seemed to vanish. It was done. The Fairchild estate was now legally anchored to his name, but the cost was absolute: Simon was no longer an independent man. He was her husband. They belonged to each other.