Five years ago, Jonathan Gilbert was a nobody living in a damp basement, surviving on instant noodles. But his eyes—God, his eyes—had burned with such intensity.
"I'm going to make it, Joanna. I have to."
I had loved that fire. Believed in the future he painted for us.
But my father had shaken his head, unimpressed. "When he looks at you, daughter, he sees a stepping stone, not a soulmate. That is ambition, not love."
I refused to listen. Proud. Arrogant in my devotion. "You don't know him. I can judge a man's character on my own."
My father had remained silent for a long time before laying down the gauntlet.
"Then let's make a wager. You will hide your identity and stay by his side for five years as he builds his empire. If, after five years, he still treats you with sincerity and honor, I will not only bless the union but fully fund his global expansion."
"And if he changes?"
"Then you come home. You inherit the family business, and you never lose your head over a man again."
I had agreed instantly.
Five years seemed like plenty of time for passion to settle into deep, unshakeable trust.