“We can still keep it smaller if you want.”
“Ben, your PR manager wantsVanity Fairto cover this. I don’t think ‘smaller’ is an option anymore.”
He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture I recognize from years of watching him stress about things. “You’re right. This has gotten way beyond what either of us originally planned.”
“It’s not your fault. Well, it’s not entirely your fault. I’m the one who suggested we go through with the wedding.”
“And I’m the one who told Carson we could make it public.”
We stand there for a moment, both of us apparently realizing how far we’ve strayed from the simple favor this was supposed to be.
“Michelle’s waiting for an answer,” Ben says finally.
“Let’s book it. It really is perfect, and Michelle seems wonderful. Besides, if we’re going to do this, we might as well do it somewhere beautiful.”
An hour later, we’re back in Ben’s office, sitting across from each other at his conference table with a lawyer between us. The view from the forty-second floor is spectacular, but I can barely focus on it because I’m too busy trying to process the stack of legal documents in front of me.
“This is fairly straightforward,” explains Gia Welson, the family law attorney Ben hired to handle our arrangement. She’s a woman in her fifties with sharp eyes and an expensive suit, the kind of lawyer who probably handles divorces for Chicago’s elite on a regular basis.
“The agreement specifies that the marriage will be dissolved after one year,” Gia continues, flipping through the pages. “Mr. Lawlor will retain all business assets acquired before and during the marriage. Ms. Hull will receive the compensation package as outlined in Exhibit A, plus any gifts given during the marriage period.”
Compensation package. As if I’m an employee being hired for a particularly unusual job.
“There are confidentiality clauses, of course,” Gia continues. “Neither party may discuss the arrangement publicly during or after the marriage. Ms. Hull, you’ll also receive a severance payment upon completion of the contract, contingent on your adherence to all terms.”
I stare down at the papers, feeling sick. This is really happening. We’re actually going to sign legal documents that turn our friendship into a business transaction with a predetermined expiration date.
“Any questions?” Gia asks.
Ben looks at me. “Freya? Anything you want to add or change?”
I shake my head. What would I add? A clause requiring him to actually fall in love with me? A provision that this won’t destroy our friendship when it’s over?
“No questions,” I manage.
We sign the papers in silence, our pens scratching across expensive legal paper while Gia witnesses our signatures. When it’s done, she shakes our hands and congratulates us on our upcoming marriage, as if we’re a normal couple taking a normal step in a normal relationship.
After she leaves, Ben and I sit in his office, neither of us quite sure what to say.
“Well,” I finally break the silence. “That was… official.”
“Very official.”
“One year,” I say, more to myself than to him.
“One year. And then you’re free to find someone who wants to marry you for real.”
The words sting, even though I know he doesn’t mean them to. But they highlight exactly what’s wrong with this whole situation—I’m committing a year of my life to a fake marriage, which means a year of not dating, not meeting anyone, not moving forward with my actual life.
“What if I meet someone during the year?” I ask. “Someone I truly want to be with?”
His expression tightens almost imperceptibly. “Discretion would be required, obviously, but it’s not like you’d be a prisoner.”
“Discretion. Right.” I lean back in my chair, suddenly exhausted. “God, Ben, what are we doing?”
“We’re helping each other. You’re helping me secure the biggest deal of my career, and I’m giving you the financial freedom to pursue your art full-time.”
“Is that what this is? A business partnership?”
