THE PERFECT TRAP
Maya's POV
The morning air in Pioneer Square tasted like coffee and regret as I stood outside Elite Connections, watching Seattle wake up around me while I prepared to commodify my heart.
I'd been standing here for twenty minutes, briefcase clutched in my white-knuckled grip, trying to convince myself this was just another business transaction. The kind I handled every day in corporate law—complex negotiations with high stakes and calculated risks. Except this time, the commodity being negotiated was my capacity for love, and the contract would bind me to a stranger for life.
The building's facade was understated elegance, all glass and steel that reflected the gray morning sky. No gaudy signs advertising romance packages or promises of happily ever after. Just a small brass plaque beside the entrance: "Elite Connections - Discretionary Services for Discerning Clients." The kind of place where desperate people paid premium prices to pretend their desperation was actually sophistication.
My heels clicked against marble as I entered the lobby, the sound echoing in a space designed to intimidate with its quiet luxury. Original artwork lined the walls—pieces that probably cost more than most people's annual salaries. Security cameras tracked my movement with mechanical precision, their red lights blinking like mechanical heartbeats. Everything smelled faintly of gardenias and money, the scent designed to soothe anxieties while extracting maximum payment from emotional emergencies.
The elevator carried me to the seventh floor in silence, my reflection multiplied infinitely in its mirrored walls. I looked composed, professional, exactly like the kind of woman who might choose a matchmaking service for efficiency rather than desperation. My navy suit was armor, my briefcase a shield, my expression carefully neutral despite the way my pulse hammered against my throat.
Elite Connections occupied the entire corner suite, floor-to-ceiling windows offering panoramic views of Elliott Bay while cream leather furniture created intimate conversation areas throughout the open space. The receptionist—blonde, beautiful, probably hired as much for her genetic lottery win as her administrative skills—smiled with practiced warmth.
"Ms. Reeves? Victoria Sterling is ready to see you."
Victoria Sterling emerged from an inner office like she'd been waiting her entire career for this exact moment. Silver hair swept into an elegant chignon, suit that probably cost more than my car payment, manicured nails that caught the morning light as she extended her hand. Everything about her screamed competence and discretion, but there was something else in her expression—satisfaction, like she was looking at a problem she'd already solved.
"Maya." Her handshake was firm enough to suggest strength, warm enough to imply genuine care. "I'm so glad you reached out. Please, come in."
Her office was a study in understated power—mahogany desk, leather-bound books, fresh orchids arranged with artistic precision. The windows overlooked Pioneer Square, where early commuters moved like chess pieces across the plaza below. Victoria settled behind her desk with fluid grace, her pale eyes focused on me with uncomfortable intensity.
"Before we begin, can I offer you coffee? I have an excellent Ethiopian blend that I think you'd enjoy."
I hadn't mentioned my coffee preference when I'd called to schedule this appointment. "How did you know—"
"Lucky guess." Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "You strike me as someone who appreciates complexity in her beverages."
The coffee appeared within minutes, served in bone china cups that probably cost more than most people spent on groceries. The first sip was perfect—rich, complex, exactly the kind of high-end Ethiopian blend I'd developed a taste for during late nights at the office. Too perfect to be coincidence.
"Let's discuss your situation," Victoria said, settling back in her chair with predatory elegance. "You mentioned timeline sensitivity when you called."
"I need to be married within eighty-eight days." The words came out steadier than I felt. "It's... complicated family circumstances."
Victoria nodded like timeline-pressured marriages were an everyday occurrence in her line of work. "Inheritance clause?"
My coffee cup rattled against its saucer as I set it down. "How did you—"
"I've been in this business for fifteen years, Maya. You'd be surprised how often family trusts include marriage incentives. Your grandparents believed strongly in traditional values, didn't they?"
The mention of my grandparents hit like ice water in my veins. I'd never mentioned them in our brief phone conversation, never discussed the specifics of my situation beyond needing to marry quickly. Victoria Sterling had done her homework, and she'd done it thoroughly.
"I don't discuss my clients' personal information lightly," she continued, somehow reading my expression. "But when someone contacts us with urgent timeline requirements, we do preliminary research to ensure we can provide appropriate services. Your family's history is a matter of public record—Robert and Susan Reeves, brilliant tech innovators, tragic accident fifteen years ago. Patricia and James Reeves, conservative family values, structured trust reflecting those beliefs."
My hands were shaking now, a fine tremor I couldn't control. "What else do you know about me?"
"Enough to help you succeed." Victoria leaned forward, her voice dropping to confidential tones. "Elite Connections specializes in what I call 'timeline-sensitive arrangements'—clients facing inheritance deadlines, visa requirements, family pressures that require creative solutions. We don't just introduce people and hope for the best. We engineer compatibility."
She slid a leather portfolio across the desk, thick enough to contain forty or fifty pages. "Our intake process is comprehensive. We need to understand not just what you want in a partner, but what you need, what you fear, what would make you genuinely happy. Most of our competitors focus on surface compatibility—shared interests, similar backgrounds, mutual attraction. We dig deeper."
The forms inside felt substantial, expensive paper with questions that seemed designed to excavate my emotional archaeology. Describe your parents' relationship. What was your longest romantic relationship and why did it end? What are your three greatest fears about marriage? Rate your comfort level with emotional vulnerability on a scale of one to ten.
"This feels like a psychological evaluation," I muttered, flipping through pages of increasingly personal questions.
"Love isn't logical, Maya. It's psychological, chemical, deeply personal. We can't manufacture genuine connection, but we can identify the conditions where it's most likely to develop." Victoria's voice carried the certainty of someone who'd turned romance into a science. "Our success rate with timeline-sensitive clients is ninety-three percent."
"Meaning ninety-three percent of your desperate clients find someone willing to marry them within their deadline?"
"Meaning ninety-three percent of our clients find genuine partnership that survives long beyond their initial timeline pressures." Her smile sharpened. "We don't just arrange marriages, Maya. We create lasting connections between people who might never have found each other otherwise."
The questions on the forms seemed to stare back at me, demanding honesty I wasn't sure I was ready to provide. Describe your relationship with your parents. How has their death affected your ability to trust others? What role does financial security play in your definition of love?
"How long does this process usually take?" I asked, pen hovering over the first page.
"For comprehensive matching? Normally six to eight months. For timeline-sensitive arrangements..." Victoria tilted her head thoughtfully. "We have accelerated protocols. Intensive personality profiling, targeted introductions, guided relationship development. Still thorough, but compressed into your available timeframe."
I signed the first form, then the second, my handwriting becoming shakier with each signature. The questions grew more invasive as I progressed—childhood traumas, sexual preferences, financial anxieties, relationship patterns I'd spent years trying to forget. By page twenty, I felt like I was performing emotional surgery on myself with a dull knife.
"You seem hesitant," Victoria observed, watching me struggle with a question about my willingness to relocate for the right partner.
"This is extremely personal information."
"Personal information is the foundation of personal connection." She leaned back in her chair, fingers steepled like she was preparing to deliver a sermon. "Traditional dating allows people to reveal themselves gradually, over months or years. You don't have that luxury. If you want genuine partnership within your timeline, you need to be willing to skip the superficial stages."
The pen felt heavy in my hand as I continued working through the forms. Questions about my parents' work, my career ambitions, my deepest insecurities. Details I'd never shared with boyfriends, barely admitted to myself. By page thirty-five, I was writing about the recurring nightmares I'd had since the car accident, the way certain weather patterns still made me panic.
"You mentioned other clients with inheritance deadlines," I said, trying to distract myself from the emotional excavation happening on paper. "Is this common?"
"More common than you might think. Wealthy families often structure trusts to encourage traditional milestones—marriage, children, career stability. We've successfully matched several clients facing similar time pressures." Victoria's voice carried casual confidence, like she was discussing stock portfolios instead of orchestrated love stories. "In fact, I believe we have the perfect match for you already in our system."
My pen stopped moving. "Already?"
"A client who recently joined us, also facing timeline pressures. Remarkably compatible profile—similar background, complementary career goals, shared values regarding family and financial responsibility." Her smile widened, revealing teeth that were too white, too perfect. "It's quite serendipitous, actually."
The word 'serendipitous' tasted wrong in my mouth, like artificial sweetener masquerading as sugar. I'd been a lawyer long enough to recognize when coincidences were too convenient to be accidental.
"How can you know we're compatible if I haven't finished the intake process?"
"Preliminary assessment based on your initial contact and our conversation today. Of course, we'll complete the full compatibility analysis before making any formal introductions." Victoria gathered the completed forms, her movements efficient and predatory. "But I have excellent instincts about these things, Maya. Twenty years of successful matches. I can usually tell within the first ten minutes whether two people will generate genuine chemistry."
I signed the final form—the contract that would cost me fifteen thousand dollars and give Elite Connections access to every emotional vulnerability I'd just documented. My signature looked foreign on the expensive paper, like someone else's name written in my handwriting.
Victoria's smile shifted as she witnessed my signature, becoming something sharper, more satisfied. Predatory rather than professional. "Welcome to Elite Connections, Maya. I think you're going to be very happy with our services."
She stood and moved to the window, looking down at Pioneer Square like a general surveying a battlefield. "We have the perfect match for you already, Maya. It's almost like he's been waiting his whole life to meet you."
I gathered my briefcase and headed for the door, but something in Victoria's tone made me pause. Too satisfied. Too certain. Like she wasn't introducing strangers but reuniting conspirators.
As the elevator descended toward street level, I caught a glimpse through the lobby windows of a black sedan parked across the square. The same model I'd noticed outside my building this morning when I left for the appointment. Probably coincidence—black sedans were common in downtown Seattle.
But as I stepped onto the sidewalk, the sedan's engine started, and it pulled into traffic three cars behind my Uber, maintaining perfect following distance as we headed back toward my penthouse.