And though it’s probably wrong to weaponize my laugh in a moment like this, I do it anyway.
“You know,” I say with a forced wink dropping his hand, “I’ve been mistaken for a stripper before in New York City. Guess I’ve either got the face or the body for it. Or maybe I have a doppelganger out there dancing her nights away. Sounds fun, doesn’t it, Dad?”
I glance at my father, watching his face transform from rage to mild annoyance as he grumbles something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like, “No daughter of mine would ever be a stripper.”
“I believe they prefer the titledancer,”I say playfully.
Without missing a beat, I turn back to Boone, pulling out my tablet and notebook with purpose, and take a seat directly across from him at the table.
I don’t say another word, just fight to hide the smirk tugging at the corners of my mouth. If Boone’s confused now, he’s in for a hell of a ride working with my dad and brother.
The room is quiet for a beat, the tension stretching taut until my father finally sighs, sinking back into his chair as if he’s just aged five years.
“Boone, I don’t know what clubs you’re hanging out in, but now that you’re a married man—on paper only—keep that shit under wraps for the next three months. No more strippers, no hookers, no… whatever else you’re doing with women. It’s a marriage of convenience, but don’t disrespect my daughter by sleeping around publicly.”
I hear Boone clear his throat from across the table. His gaze is still fixed on me. I can feel it despite refusing to look at him. It’s practically burning a hole into the front of my face.
I’m sure he’s attempting to gauge my reaction to his comment, but I refuse to give him anything. My eyes stay glued to my tablet, my fingers aimlessly scrolling through the screen like I have something of grave importance to review when really, I'm just looking at gifts to buy my niece for Valentine’s Day.
Fuzzy little teddy bears, adorable baby lambs with oversized eyes. I wonder how mad my brother would be if I bought her a live kitten?
“Yes, sir. I apologize, sir, Maxwell, for the, um, mix-up,” Boone says, his deep voice cracking just a little. “That won’t ever happen again. I’d never, uh, disrespect your daughter in any way. And, um, calling her a stripper isn’t disrespectful because that’s, uh, a very respectable career. So that wasn’t a diss. Youknow, when I asked, it was just… I guess I was just in shock. She really must have a doppelgänger out there. Not that I hang out at strip clubs—I mean, I’ve gone, like, one time. And it was with the team—”
“Boone. Will you pleaseshut the fuck up,” the Mayhem team owner hisses.
I bite back a laugh, hiding my smile behind my tablet while Boone stumbles through his attempt at damage control.
This is pure gold. A little uncomfortable, but the most excitement I’ve had since that night in the strip club. My sister-in-law Rhiannon would kill to be a fly on the wall right now.
“Your manager’s right. You really need to learn when to shut up,” my father mutters with another weary sigh, rubbing a hand down his face as if he’s questioning his decision to branch out into sports law.
“All right let’s move on. Both of you have been briefed on the marriage agreement you’re entering, but I want to reiterate one more time—this ison paper only.You will not live together, you will not sleep together, and you will not, underanycircumstances, kiss or engage in anything resembling a real relationship. Hold hands in public if the cameras are rolling. Smile for the photos and wave. But if I hear you say one more negative word about my daughter, Boone, you’ll be fired so fast that not a single PR firm, law firm, or agent on either coast will touch you.”
“Yes, sir,” Boone responds, his voice quieter this time, though I’m pretty sure I catch a flicker of irritation cross his face.
I get the impression he doesn’t like being told what to do. He has no idea how much worse it’s going to get with my father as his counsel.
My dad reaches into his briefcase and pulls out a stack of papers, sliding them across the table to us. “Here’s the paperwork that our PR firm and legal team have finalized. It outlines the terms of your agreement for the next three months.”
I glance at the documents, flipping through the pages quickly. It’s standard legal jargon—nothing too surprising or horrifying—except for the part at the end that outlines how this whole charade will end.
In three months’ time, we’ll stage some sort of dramatic public dispute that our PR team will devise. The team will tip off photographers and videographers, and we’ll be “caught” in the fallout.
That same evening, one of us will file for divorce and Cain will have the whole thing annulled, all carefully orchestrated to maximize media coverage and public sympathy for him.
My dad is watching us closely, looking for any weakness or hesitation in me, but I've done this a thousand times before and I remain unaffected. Okay, I’ve never entered into a marriage with a guy I don’t know. But wild, questionable assignments from him are a norm.
“Understood,” I say simply.
Boone nods, his jaw tightening. “Got it.”
The tension in the room is still thick, but at least now it feels like we’re all on the same page or at least pretending to be. For the next three months, Boone Tremblay is my husband in name only. And if I’m going to make this work, I need to stay focused.
By the end of March, this will all be over, and I’ll be senior partner.
“Will there be a ceremony?” Boone asks, catching me off guard.
A wedding ceremony? Is he serious?
