I stared at the calendar on my desk, each day mocking me as it ticked away. Thirty days left. Just thirty days to locate someone willing to marry New York's most eligible bachelor. It should have been easy, right? Wrong.
The weight of my father's ultimatum pressed down on me like a ton of bricks. Marry by thirty or lose everything. The company, the riches, my entire life's work—gone. I ran my hands through my hair, tugging at the roots. How had it come to this?
My phone buzzed. Another note from my assistant, reminding me of tonight's speed dating event. I groaned. Was this what my life had come to? Me, Dylan Blackwood, relegated to three-minute talks with strangers in hopes of finding a wife?
"You've got this, Blackwood," I said to myself, adjusting my tie. It was just another business agreement, right? Find a qualified individual, make an offer, close the sale. Simple.
The location was one of those trendy, dimly lit lounges that tried too hard to seem classy. The host, a bubbly blonde with a clipboard, greeted me with a plastered-on smile.
"Mr. Blackwood! We're so pleased to have you join us tonight," she chirped, taking me to my assigned table. "Remember, you have three minutes with each lady. When the bell sounds, go to the next table. Good luck!"
I nodded, feigning a smile. This was going to be a long night.
The first bell rang, and a small brunette sat across from me. "Hi, I'm Melissa," she responded, her eyes widening as she recognized me. "Oh my God, you're Dylan Blackwood!"
I winced internally. This was going to be worse than I feared.
"Yes, that's me. So, Melissa, tell me about yourself."
She started into a rapid-fire rant about her Instagram following and her goals of being a social media influencer. I nodded respectfully, my thoughts already slipping.
The bell rung. Thank God.
The next woman was a redhead named Amber. She leaned very close, her perfume overwhelming. "I've always had a thing for powerful men," she murmured. "I bet you know how to take charge in every situation."
I shifted uncomfortably. "So, Amber, what do you do for a living?"
She waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, this and that. But I'm far more interested in what you do. Or rather, what we could do together."
Another bell. Another escape.
The parade of women continued. There was the overly exuberant yoga instructor who insisted on displaying me her headstand right there at the table. The wannabe actor used our three minutes to perform a dramatic monologue. The corporate lawyer who interrogated me about my company's recent stock performance.
By the tenth round, I was ready to call it quits. This wasn't functioning. None of these women were right. They either saw me as a ticket to fame and fortune or were so intimidated they could barely string two words together.
I glanced at my watch. Just two more rounds. I could do this.
The next woman sat down, and I plastered on my best phony smile. "Hi, I'm Dylan," I said, extending my hand.
"Jessica," she replied, her handshake strong. "Let's cut to the chase, shall we? I know who you are, and I'm sure you are here because of your father's will."
I blinked, taken aback. "How did you?"
She smirked. "I done my research, Mr. Blackwood. I'm a journalist. Specializing in uncovering the filthy secrets of New York's elite."
My blood ran cold. "Is that a threat?"
Jessica leaned back, her eyes glinting. "Not at all. It's an opportunity. You need a wife; I need an inside scoop on the Blackwood empire. I propose a mutually beneficial partnership."
The bell rang, but neither of us moved.
"You can't be serious," I murmured, my voice low.
"Deadly serious. Think about it, Dylan. I'm offering you a route out of this problem. All I seek in return is exclusive access to your world."
I sprang up hastily, my chair scrapping against the floor. "Thanks, but no, thanks. I'm not that desperate."
Jessica's smile never wavered. "Not yet, maybe. But ticktock, Mr. Blackwood. Time's running out."
I stormed out of the lounge, loosening my tie as I gulped in the chilly night air. This was a disaster. How was I expected to discover someone genuine in this metropolis of opportunists and gold-diggers?
My phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number.
"Having problems finding Mrs. Right? Perhaps it's time to consider that the perfect candidate might be closer than you believe. Look at your past, Dylan. The answer lies there."
I froze, staring at the enigmatic words. Who could have sent this? And what did they mean by looking at my past?
As I examined the enigmatic wording, a figure attracted my sight across the street. A woman with long dark hair, her face half-hidden by the shadows. There was something familiar about her stance, the way she handled herself.
My heart skipped a beat. It couldn't be. Could it?
I stepped off the curb, intent on crossing the street to get a better look. A cab horn blared, and I stepped back, narrowly avoiding being hit. When I looked up again, the woman was gone.
But I couldn't shake the sensation that I knew her. That she was someone from my past, someone important.
My phone buzzed again. Another message from the mysterious number:
"Tick tock, Dylan. She won't wait forever."
I swung around, scouring the busy sidewalk for any indication of the enigmatic woman. Who was she? And why did I have the strong impression that she held the key to everything?
As I hailed a taxi, my mind raced. The cryptic messages, the familiar stranger—it all pointed to one indisputable fact: someone was pulling strings behind the scenes. But who? And to what end?
One thing was clear—I needed answers, and I wanted them fast. Because with every passing second, the clock was ticking. And I was running out of time.
The cab drew up, and I climbed into the backseat, my head swirling with possibilities. As we pulled into traffic, I couldn't shake the impression that I was missing something vital. Something that had been right in front of me all along.
Little did I know, my whole life was about to be turned upside down. And it all started with a face from the past that I never thought to see again.