She meets my gaze. "Marriage."
She says it like she's suggesting a new vendor contract.
"There are agencies that arrange this sort of thing. Discreet. Professional. No expectation of romance."
I look at Talia. "You're suggesting I get married to quiet down some press noise."
"I'm suggesting it as one possible tool," Talia says evenly. "ERS—Elite Relationship Solutions—has been vetted by several firms we trust. They work with high-profile clients who need structured personal relationships. It's not uncommon in your position."
Malcolm exhales. "That seems excessive."
Graham’s expression tightens. "We’re not arranging a marriage."
"No." My voice is cold.
"It was a suggestion," Talia says calmly. "Not an ultimatum."
"No." I keep my voice level, but there's steel underneath. "I spent six years rebuilding my credibility. I'm not undoing that with a staged marriage."
"It wouldn't look fake," Talia interjects. "That's the entire point of using ERS. They specialize in compatibility matching. From the outside, it would appear entirely genuine."
"From the outside." I lean back in my chair, meeting each of their gazes in turn. "And what happens when it ends? When the 'genuine' marriage dissolves six months later? You think that won't raise questions?"
Malcolm shrugs. "Relationships end. No one expects perfection. The point is demonstrating commitment. Stability. Partnership. Investors respond to that."
I shake my head. The idea is absurd. Marriage isn't a PR strategy. It's not something you schedule between board meetings and earnings calls.
Inviting someone into my private life feels like unlocking a door I sealed years ago.
I don't say any of this aloud. What I say is: "I appreciate the concern. But my answer is no. We'll address the noise through performance, not theater."
Graham exchanges a glance with Malcolm. Something silent and assessing passes between them.
Graham steeples his fingers. "Let’s focus on viable strategies. We’ll proceed with media planning for now."
I hate press tours. I despise the performative sincerity of televised interviews.
Talia closes her tablet. "I’ll forward you the information. So you have all the options."
I nod, fully intending to ignore the email.
"Then we'll move on to the Heritage Street project update," Graham says, smoothly transitioning as if we haven't just discussed arranging my future like a corporate merger.
The rest of the meeting passes in a blur of projections and timelines. I contribute where necessary, but part of my mind is still snagged on what just happened.
***
After the meeting, I return to my office. The city sprawls below, indifferent and vast.
I pour myself a glass of water, wishing it was something strong, and sit at my desk. I don't drink alcohol during work hours, just one of the many rules I don't break.
My phone buzzes.
A calendar reminder:Community meeting follow-up notes due.I pull up the file from last night's forum. My assistant's notes are thorough, as always.Community resistance expected. Proceed as planned. Demolition permits on track.
I scroll through the attachments and stop on a photo someone took during the meeting. It's blurry, taken from the side, but I recognize the woman in the third row immediately. Dark eyes. Sketchbook clutched to her chest like a shield. The one who stood up and called me out in front of fifty people.
I don't know her name. The notes don't mention her specifically. It just says "vocal opposition from local residents."
