But most of all, I hate that I had no choice but to invent this farce in the first place.
“You said six months,” I bite out. “That I could stay until?—”
“Six months are up.” He slides a folded document from his inner pocket and drops it into the art deco bowl on the console. “You’re lucky I didn’t evict you the moment the ink dried.”
I swallow. “So what now? You throw us out?”
His gaze narrows, something dark flickering. “No. You come with me.” He strolls into the living room that has seen better days, barely holding back his distaste as his gaze skips over the worn furniture. “I’ve decided the price of extending this farce longer is for me to turn this fake engagement into a real marriage.”
I ignore the sharp lance of unadulteratedsizzlein my belly as a laugh breaks from me, sharp and brittle. “What? You’re insane.”
“You want your grandfather to remain here?” he asks, smooth and deadly. “Then marry me. For a year. Maybe less, if you behave.”
My heart hammers. “You’re doing this for revenge.”
He doesn’t deny it. That’s the worst part.
He steps closer, the heat of him shorting my thoughts. “I’m doing this for many things that are none of your concern. All you should be interested in is that you’ll get what you need. And I’ll get what I want.”
“And what do you want?” I whisper.
His gaze drops to my mouth, lingers. “Everything.”
“Why?” I snap, forcing space between us. “Why now? Why… marriage?” I hate the shaky note in my voice that doesn’t come from horror but from the memory of wanting this…yearningfor this when I was too young and foolish to know better.
His answer is pure brisk business. “Because there are three important milestones for Dillinger Enterprises in the next nine months I don’t intend to miss. The Preservation Trust vote on the island’s conservation lease. A sovereign wealth fund term sheet that requires ‘stability optics’ in their key-man clause. The crusty eighty-year-old who runs the private fund I’m courting only backsmarriedbusinessmen—never mind he’s on wife number seven; and the investors I’m wooing for our stock launch pay more for a reformed sinner than a walking headline.” His mouth hardens. “A wife weakens questions about stability and leadership. Alovingwife ends them permanently.”
My stomach dips. “Optics. That’s all this…my life…means to you.”
“It’s also leverage.” He nods toward the corridor where my grandfather vanished. “For you. Or are you going to tell Theodore about your little lies? Are you going to confess that you assured me he would be with his Maker by now?”
My jaw locks, even as my heart squeezes tight. “I told the truth. Hewassupposed to be…gone by now,” I say, the words scraping out of me. “Three cardiologists gave him four months tops—end-stage heart failure with a calcified aortic valve. Then a fourth opinion offered a transcatheter valve replacement and an aggressive regimen.” My throat burns. “We…we’d lost hopebut it worked. He’s here. He’sbetter. And your countdown didn’t account for a miracle.”
Something resembling surprise flashes in his eyes, then something softer he strangles fast. “I’m glad he’s improving.”
I almost laugh. “Are you? But let me guess, our agreement has suddenly gotten complicated with hidden small print all in your favor?”
“I don’t need your grandfather to force your hand, Naomi.” His voice drops. “I need a wife to close what I’ve built for ten years. And the trust board prefers a couple stewarding the island, not a bachelor with headlines. You know every family on Dillinger Island. They don’t vote facts, they vote feelings.”
“So you want me to stand beside you and play adoring,” I say, the word curdling, “so your deals don’t wobble.”
His teeth flash in a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “They won’t,” he says. “I intend to win regardless of obstacles. This way grants me the quickest and smoothest route.”
Silence swells, thick with old ghosts. He reaches into his pocket again, not for papers this time, I realize.
For aring box.
My lungs stop as he opens it.
The diamond is an emerald-cut monolith, five carats at least, set east-west on a knife-edge platinum band, a hidden halo catching light like trapped lightning. It’s obscene and exquisite and cold as the man holding it.
“I designed it myself,” he says, softer. “Clean lines. No filigree.”
“Because sentiment is messy?”
“Because you hate fuss,” he counters, like he still knows me. “And because this looks good in photographs.” His gaze lifts. “They’ll study your hands. They always do.”
Anger surges hot and useless. “You think a rock makes us credible?”
