“Wait.” His voice, hesitant and unfamiliar, stopped her mid-step.
She turned back slowly, one eyebrow raised. “Yes, Your Majesty?”
He ignored her teasing, standing straighter, arms crossed in a quiet barrier.
“I have a business proposition.”
“Okay…” Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “If this is about the coffee budget again, I swear?—”
“It’s not the coffee budget.” He cut her off. “I need to know how you’d feel about becoming my fake fiancée.”
Her brain seemed to freeze, refusing to process the words. She blinked. Once. Twice. Then a third time for good measure, because surely she had misheard. “Fake fiancée?”
“Fake fiancée.” He stated.
“Did someone spike your morning espresso?” Nervous laughter bubbled up as she crossed her arms. “I think we should call HR.”
“You’re overreacting.”
“Overreacting?” A sharp laugh escaped her. “You’re asking me to be your fiancée. That’s not an overreaction; that’s basic insanity. This is like picking Comic Sans as your wedding font. Or drinking orange juice after brushing your teeth. It’s crazy.”
“Just—”
“Wait!” She raised a finger, her thoughts whirring. “Is this some kind of test? Should I be worried? Do you need therapy? Do I need therapy?”
“Close the door.” His voice edged sharper, sounding like he was two seconds from ordering a hostile takeover.
“Why? Are you about to confess you’ve been secretly drinking before your nine a.m. meetings? Oh my God, is it kombucha? That would explain so much—” she rambled.
“Devney.”
This time, his tone made her freeze, mid-gesticulation, her hand still hovering as if directing traffic. His expression was difficult to decipher, but behind his eyes—exasperation? Wariness? Maybe both. “Please. Close the door.”
“Fine.” She huffed, letting her arms fall dramatically to her sides as she turned back to his office door.
With a firm click, it closed. The air in the room suddenly felt thin, charged with the sheer craziness of what he’d just said.
“Thank you.” His even tone returned, the slight looseness of his tie the only sign he might not be okay.
She crossed her arms, leaning a hip against the edge of his desk. “Explain.”
“It’s about Andrew Beauchamp.”
“The billionaire with the estate on Martha’s Vineyard? The one who looks like he stepped out of a Ralph Lauren catalog?”
“Yes. That Andrew Beauchamp. He’s considering an investment in Oath Capital. A significant one. But he has…criteria.”
“Criteria? Like what? Annual profits? Asset diversification? Or does he make you recite Shakespeare while juggling flaming torches? Honestly, none of this would shock me at this point.”
“Family values. He prioritizes working with businesses that represent traditional family values. Stability. Commitment. That sort of thing.”
“And you think pretending to be engaged is going to check that box?”
“Exactly.” His tone was as nonchalant as if they were discussing the stock market. “The Beauchamps will be at the charity gala this weekend—the same one you convinced me to attend specifically because Andrew would be there.”
“The Beauchamps? As in, his wife will be there, too?”
“Indeed. Eleanor. She’s known for her uncanny intuition. If I show up alone, it invites conjecture. But if I arrive with you by my side, it projects an image: stability, commitment, partnership.”
