It was a late March evening in New York, the air still carrying that stubborn end-of-winter bite.
Victor stood in front of the fancy hotel's revolving doors, watching Caroline Channing slide into the back of a sleek black Lincoln.
The tinted window rolled up slowly, hiding her perfectly made-up but ice-cold profile.
As the car melted into the night, he stayed rooted to the spot, like he could still feel the warmth of her arm in his hand—until the wind snatched it away.
"Just a deal," he muttered to himself. "I need a ticket in."
Victor turned and walked the other way.
He wasn't the same cocky fat kid who'd just woken up to a few amateur wins and thought he was untouchable. And he sure wasn't the type to run from a cheap, fluke victory thinking he'd cracked the code—only to get played.
Victor now knew exactly what the Channing family was up to: using a fake romance to cover something way messier.
How messy?
Messy enough to bring down an entire business empire. Maybe even make the financial crisis worse.
But underneath all the tangled threads was one dead-simple truth:
Money.
Power.
And him? Just a pawn in the right spot to be useful.
Back in his hotel room, Victor peeled off the pricey suit. The dress shirt underneath felt like it belonged to someone else—itchy, wrong.
He stared at his reflection: a boxer from Chicago's South Side who had no business rubbing elbows with the Channing elite.
But fate loves a joke. Blair had pitched him as a boxer, a businessman, a community leader in Chicago—and that got Old Man Channing's attention. Then came the meeting. Then the "relationship" offer.
Victor could still hear the old man's voice:
"Young man, this won't hurt you one bit."
Of course it wouldn't.
The Channings would give him the golden ticket he needed—make other Americans finally see Victor as one of them. All he had to do was show up at the right events, play the smitten boxing star dating Caroline Channing.
Win-win. No feelings. Exactly how Victor wanted it.
He'd learned the hard way from Fiona and Veronica: never pay with your heart in a trade.
Meanwhile, inside the Lincoln, Caroline Channing stared blankly at the city lights streaking past.
The driver glanced at her in the rearview.
"Boss is real worried about how tonight went, Miss."
He said it carefully.
"Tell him everything's on track," Caroline replied, voice flat. "He made the offer. I accepted. Victor's in. No lines crossed."
She pulled a compact from her purse and checked her makeup under the dim light.
Flawless mask. Just like everything else in her life.
A Channing daughter doesn't need real feelings—just to follow Daddy's orders. Though honestly, she'd rather date a Wall Street pretty boy than some roughneck who didn't know Chanel from Old Spice.
Especially one who carried a gun under his armpit even on a "date."
But she had to admit—Victor Li was more intriguing than expected.
He didn't look at her with the usual hunger or awe. Just cold, hard assessment—like she was the one being weighed.
He carried tension in his body, no shrinking, no groveling. He'd straight-up admit he didn't know designer brands without a hint of shame.
And somehow, this body—this package—couldn't turn a man's head?
Nah. Give her a finance bro any day.
·······
March 5th. Sunlight poured through the glass walls of the Brooklyn Eagle building, landing on the signing table.
Victor signed his name—bold, clean strokes.
Sports editor Johnson grinned and shook his hand.
"Mr. Victor , we're gonna have a bright future together."
"My pleasure," Victor replied smoothly, knowing full well this gig was bought with cash. He just wanted a megaphone:
Finally, not the whole country trashing me!
After the ceremony, Alice Moretti and her husband Mark were waiting by the door.
Alice was one of Victor's few real friends—and one of the only people who knew what his "temper" really meant.
"So," she whispered, grabbing his bag, "how's the acting gig?"
"Sticking to the script."
Victor kept it short.
On the way to the airport, he watched the world blur past, thinking hard about his choices.
The Channing deal could shave ten years off his grind—no more begging congressmen to vouch for him.
But at what cost?
He pictured Caroline's cool blue eyes last night, sizing him up like a stock. He hated being valued. But wasn't life just one long appraisal?
The most immediate perk? His challenge applications would stop getting laughed off by promoters.
Waiting at the gate, Victor felt uneasy. Deep down, he was still a 22-year-old kid who wanted to earn his way—not take shortcuts.
He glanced at Alice. "We got time. Wanna fool around?"
She hugged him tight—in the bathroom.
······
Back in Chicago, Victor crashed hard.
Next day, he was ready to train. The gym—sweat, leather, dust kicking up with every punch, cussing that never hit the floor—that was home. Not New York's fake parties and flashing cameras.
But on the morning of March 8th, the doorbell wrecked his routine.
Victor opened the door in sweatpants and a soaked tank top, dripping from a workout.
Caroline Channing stood there in a cashmere coat worth more than his rent, rolling a suitcase, looking like she'd landed on another planet.
"You?" he blurted.
"Not gonna invite me in?"
She raised an eyebrow and brushed past him. The driver followed with the bags. "Safe to leave the car out here?"
Victor glanced at the Lincoln. "Yeah, this block's fine."
He turned to his surprise guest.
"Start talking, Caroline."
She scanned the surprisingly clean apartment, eyes landing on him.
"I need coffee. Then we'll talk."
Victor cracked a grin. "This ain't the Ritz, princess. No butler, no room service. Pot's over there—help yourself."
Caroline blinked—partly at his bluntness, partly at the half-wet shorts clinging to his thighs—but recovered fast.
"Good. I like a tough boyfriend."
She shrugged off her coat, revealing a tailored suit, and headed to the tiny kitchen.
Victor leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching her fumble with the coffee maker.
This girl had clearly never made coffee in her life.
"Move."
Finally, the driver—who'd been watching Victor not help—stepped in and took over.
Victor chugged a purple protein shake Michael had prepped. "Spill it. Why are you here?"
Caroline took a deep breath. "My dad's company's in trouble."
Victor didn't stop moving. "And that's my problem how?"
She went quiet.
He glanced at the driver, who took the hint and stepped outside to guard the car.
"So he gave me a chunk of walking-around money," Caroline said flatly. "He's injecting five million into your company."
Victor froze mid-sip, then turned to face her. "That's not exactly pocket change."
"Technically, it's laundering it so I can use it," she said, like she was talking about the weather. "That's what boyfriends are for."
Victor finally got the real weight of this deal.
He poured two coffees, handed her one, and walked to the window, staring out at the gray Chicago streets.
Five million.
Life-changing money.
Also trapdoor-to-hell money.
"This is illegal," he said.
Caroline laughed lightly. "You're a mob boss and you're drawing lines? I asked for directions on the way here—everyone knows you're the mafia kingpin."
She sipped her coffee. "Besides, it's just smart asset management. You said it yourself—this is a transaction. Transaction activated."
Victor turned and studied her.
Caroline Channing: beautiful, icy, a perfectly sculpted statue.
But he caught it—a flicker of nerves in her eyes. She was scared he'd say no.
"Why me?" he asked.
"I need cash. You need access. You're smart but not greedy. Ambitious but controlled."
She set her cup down. "Most importantly—you don't seem like the type to catch feelings."
Victor nodded slowly.
He sat on the couch, motioning for her to take the opposite chair.
"What if I walk?"
Her face tightened just a hair. "Then things get… different. Dad could still invest—just enough to tank your whole operation."
A velvet-wrapped threat.
Victor smiled. He respected the honesty.
"I could find another white girl. Might not have your name, but hey—maybe I'll marry into the Kennedys," he mused. "This deal's lopsided, Miss Channing."
Back to "Miss Channing" now. Cold.
"You want more money?"
"Nope."
Victor locked eyes with her. "I want a bigger stake."
She tensed. "Meaning?"
Victor leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
"I've been playing lovesick boyfriend. Now you want me risking prison for your bigger game? Then Martin needs to back me hard."
She nodded. "That's already in motion. Your agent's about to get calls. Every brand tied to my dad will reach out."
"Good."
Victor stood up—still in a sweaty tank and shorts, muscles glistening—and looked at the curvy heiress.
"Before we start, I think I should at least know what my 'girlfriend' tastes like."
Caroline's face flashed shock, a hint of offended fury—and, surprisingly, a spark of curiosity.
"I've been wondering the same," she shot back.
Victor scooped her up in a princess carry. "Then let's start endurance training."
As he carried her up the stairs, Caroline stayed silent for a full minute, eyes roaming over him. She could feel the strength in three different places.
At the top, she grabbed his collar, pulled him close, and kissed him.