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Sigurd has returned to his chair, looking far too composed for a man who just proposed a fake relationship to a stranger. “You came here because you need me to stop the evacuation. I can do that, and I need your help with something in return.”

“That sounds suspiciously like trading a town for a plus-one.” I glance at the records between us. “You’re just making it sound more respectable.”

“I’m making it accurate.” The faintest hint of amusement touches his expression. “I’d call that a perfect compromise. And you do so love that word, don’t you, Ms. Priest?”

The teasing edge is subtle, but it’s there. I hadn’t expected Sigurd Eiriksson to listen closely enough to throw my own argument back at me.

“You were listening,” I say. “That’s almost reassuring.”

“I generally listen when someone storms into my office and lectures me.” His expression remains controlled, but the amusement underneath it remains unmistakable.

“I was defending my town. The lecture was a bonus.”

“Of course,” Sigurd replies with a serious nod. “And I love bonuses almost as much as you love compromises.”

Monster moguls are impossible. A part of me wants to punch that handsome face of his. Another can’t help but think this may be an actual solution.

“What exactly are you asking for?” I make myself ask. “One evening? The whole weekend?”

“One wedding weekend,” Sigurd says. “There will be public appearances, and people will need to believe you’re there with me willingly.”

That sounds considerably more involved than putting on a dress and standing beside him for photographs. Before I can ask what willingly entails, he reaches toward the console built into his desk and types a short message.

I watch his fingers move across the screen. “Do you have something more important to do? Or are you just catching up with your emails while we’re talking?”

“I’m messaging my attorney.” He sends the message and looks back at me. “If we reach an agreement, I want the terms prepared properly.”

The fact that he’s already involving a lawyer should probably irritate me. Instead, the possibility of having everything in writing makes the proposal feel slightly less reckless.

“I’d read every word,” I tell him. “Probably twice.”

“I would expect you to.” There’s no mockery in the answer, and that catches me more than another joke would have.

I spent hours buried in records before I was willing to confront him at all. Apparently he noticed more about me during that argument than I realized.

“You still haven’t explained why you need me,” I say. “You must know hundreds of women who could attend a wedding with you.”

“My mother intends to trap me in a political match with my siren ex,” he answers, now as serious as he was in the photo. “I refuse to be maneuvered.”

That makes considerably more sense than anything I had imagined. It also raises several questions I’m not sure I have any business asking yet.

“So you hire a stranger to play the buffer?” I ask. “Where is this wedding even happening?”

“It’s my best friend’s ceremony. Rakan al-Rashid.” Sigurd pauses before adding, “His bride is a human named Iris Beckett, and the ceremony is at Mt. Qaf.”

Rakan al-Rashid I’ve heard of. It would be difficult not to have. The djinn bilionnaire is probably one of the most famous people in the world.

But the fact that his bride is human catches my attention for a completely different reason. Then the rest of Sigurd’s sentence sinks in.

“Mt. Qaf?” I repeat. “As in the Mt. Qaf?”

Sigurd gives me a slight nod. “There is only one I’m aware of.”

Hattie reads about Mt. Qaf in the tabloids, usually beside photographs of celebrities stepping off private jets. My grandmother’s stories were considerably older and involved djinn palaces, impossible gardens, and mountains that didn’t always obey the same rules as the rest of the world.

Either way, ordinary people don’t simply spend weekends there. Mt. Qaf belongs to djinn royalty, monster dynasties, billionaires, and the kind of old magic most people only hear about in stories.

Even reaching the place requires access most people will never have. I become abruptly conscious of the fraying cuffs of my cardigan and the damp shoes that have left marks across Sigurd’s antique rug.