He clears his throat. “I thought it might be prudent to discuss where things stand. The timeline is… increasingly tight.”
No shit.
“I’m aware of the timeline.”
“Yes, of course. But given your father’s renewed interest, and the attention this matter seems to be attracting, it would be wise to clarify your intentions.”
I take a slow drink. “My intentions.”
“With respect, sir, you must understand that if you are unable to present a legally valid engagement, followed by a marriage within the month, your father’s challenge becomes significantly?—”
“I know what happens.”
The words come out flatter than I intend. He shuts up immediately.
I set the glass down and move to the desk, not sitting, just bracing both hands against the polished wood. “Ask what you came to ask.”
He adjusts his glasses. “Very well. What is your plan?”
For a second I almost laugh. Because a week ago, I had one.
Simple. Mechanical. Find a woman with the right pedigree, the right discretion, the right appetite for a contract dressed up as a marriage. Make the offer. Secure the future. Produce the heir. Claim the inheritance. Survive my father.
Clean. Now nothing about it is clean. Now every candidate gets measured against a woman who should never have been in the equation at all.
I turn away from the desk and go back to the window. “The plan is to keep moving.”
“That is not particularly specific.”
“It doesn’t need to be.”
He shifts, nervous enough to try for diplomacy. “Sir, with all due respect, your… assistant’s efforts seem ambitious. But marriage is not a procurement process. Even a favorable match takes time.”
My mouth twists.
No. It isn’t procurement.
That’s the problem. Zatanna has made every match impossible.
Not intentionally. If anything, she’s trying too hard. Three dates in one day, candidates in every category, enough options to populate a small monarchy. Efficient, determined, maddeningly competent.
And useless.
Because none of them are her.
None of them look at me and see through the mask.
None of them go pale at my scars and stay anyway.
None of them would push me out of the way of a bullet.
None of them would ask if my life hurts.
The attorney clears his throat again. “Mr. Vasiliev?”
I realize I’ve gone silent too long.
“I heard you,” I say.
