"I don't want that," I interrupt.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed. The room spins, but I plant my feet on the cold floor and wait for the horizon to settle.
I look her dead in the eye.
"I want a fiancée."
Ivy stares at me. "What?"
"My board has pushed the closing to Labor Day," I say, checking the date on my phone. "That's eight weeks from now. I spent my twenties convincing them I wasn't my father's reckless son anymore. One hospital visit, and they think I'm falling back into old patterns. They think I'm volatile. They think I'm a liability."
"Volatile?" Ivy asks, her brow furrowing in confusion. "It was a thirty-second scuffle in a garden, Brooks. No one even saw what happened. And even if they did, no one has said a word. There's no scandal."
"There is now," I say, turning the phone so she can see the screen. "Someone at the intake desk flagged my name. My father got a call from a hospital board member asking if I was all right." I let the implication sink in. "As if I'd been found face-down in a gutter somewhere."
Ivy blinks. "What?"
"That's the problem," I explain. "The wedding guests didn't see anything, so there is no story to contradict the rumors starting right here in this room. The board knows I'm hospitalized, but they don't know why. It's a vacuum, Ivy. And they are filling it with 'breakdown.'"
I gesture to her wrist.
"You've already provided the narrative to fill that vacuum. I need you to stick to the script."
"You..." She shakes her head, a nervous laugh bubbling up. "You're joking. You have a concussion. You're delirious."
"I have never been clearer," I say. "Here is the deal. You put me in this bed. You created the question mark hanging over my career. So, you are going to help me answer it."
"You want me to... pretend to be your fiancée? For real?"
"For eight weeks," I say. "We spend the summer in the Hamptons. My parents are hosting the season at Eastmoor. You will come with me. You'll charm my mother, impress my father, and smile for the cameras while looking lovingly into my eyes so I can close this deal."
"You're insane," she whispers. "I can't do that. I have a job! I have a life! I can't leave for two months to play house with a man I—with a man I don't even know."
"You have a job if you still have a company," I point out softly.
The threat lands. I see it hit her. Her eyes widen, filling with horror.
"You wouldn't."
"I would," I lie.
I wouldn't. Suing a wedding planner is terrible PR. But she doesn't know that. She sees a venture capitalist in a tailored suit, or at least a hospital gown that used to be a suit, and she assumes I am a monster.
I might as well use the reputation.
"Negligence," I list off, counting on my fingers. "Emotional distress. Loss of business opportunities due to physical injury. I could tie Ever After, Inc.up in court for years. Your friends, Maddy? Savvy? They'd be deposed. Their assets frozen. The legal fees alone would bankrupt a boutique agency in six months."
Ivy looks sick. She takes a step back, hitting the wall. "This is blackmail."
"This is a transaction," I correct. "You broke it. You buy it."
She stares at me, her chest heaving. Her mind is racing, looking for an exit, looking for a contingency plan. But there isn't one. I have the leverage, and she knows it.
"What happens after Labor Day?" she asks, her voice barely a whisper.
"We break up," I say. "Amicably. We issue a joint statement. Conscious uncoupling. You get to be the one who leaves me, if you want. It plays better for sympathy."
"And the lawsuit?"
