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He glances over each of our faces as if bracing for impact before returning his gaze to the folder in his hands. “‘This is a family business, and my sons will run it together or not at all. If any one of the five of them does not marry by their respective fortieth birthdays, their shares will be equally divided among the remaining board members and stakeholders. The Ashford Group will cease to be a family enterprise. They will all be removed from their positions, their assets frozen, and their access to the empire revoked. Cora’s trust will be reduced to ensure she doesn’t have the means to support my sons if they fail me.’”

I stare at Hale, shaking my head. None of us are the marrying type. Roman Ashford didn’t raise us to be good husbands and fathers. He bred an army of soldiers to grow and protect his empire. We fuck for sport, not love.

Beckett sets his glass down with a dull thud. “You’re fucking joking.”

Hale closes the folder. “I’m afraid not.”

“What the actual fuck?” Kaden snaps, springing to his feet. “He can’t do that. That’s… that’s fucking insane. We can’t all get married. Baldwin and Beckett are… How old are you?”

“Thirty-five,” the twins answer in unison.

“Xander’s thirty-seven,” Kaden continues, pacing with his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “I’m thirty-eight. And Vance…” He stops, turning to me, and the realization hits him at the same moment it hits me. “Shit. Vance. Your birthday.”

I take a long swallow, letting the whiskey burn its way down before lowering the glass and allowing it to hang loosely from my fingertips. “One week,” I exhale. “One week until I’m forty.”

The room falls into a stunned silence. We sit in collective solemn disbelief, each of us staring ahead as the weight of our father’s final demand settles over the room. Even the twins have nothing to say, for once.

I stare at Hale, trying to come to terms with the reality Roman just thrust upon me.

“You’re saying,” I confirm slowly, “that in one week, I need to find a wife. A real wife. Or we all lose everything. Mom loses everything. And the empire gets carved up by the board like a fucking Thanksgiving turkey.”

Hale nods. “Your father was… specific. The marriage must be legally binding, publicly acknowledged, and permanent. There are clauses about cohabitation, public appearances, the usual social requirements, and, as I mentioned, heirs. He wanted to ensure it was legitimate.”

“Legitimate,” I parrot. “Roman wanted legitimacy. From us. The man who gave us everything money could buy and taught us to want nothing it couldn’t, all while teaching us that affection was a liability and vulnerability was something to be exploited.”

“He loved our mother,” Xander says quietly.

“He owned our mother,” I snap. “There’s a difference.”

The conversation continues without me, my brothers throwing words back and forth, but their voices are nothing more than background noise. My mind is elsewhere, needing to figure out how the hell I’m going to fix this.

One week.

One fucking week.

I don’t even have a girlfriend. I haven’t had one in twenty years, not since Roman made damn sure the last woman I cared about knew exactly where she ranked. That lesson came with raised voices, a broken door, and a bruise on my jaw that took weeks to fade. After that, I understood the message: The empire comes first—always.

I have women I call when I need to fuck; a phone full of names: models, socialites, and the occasional ambitious junior executive who thinks one night with me will advance her career. They’re beautiful. They’re willing. And they’re absolutely fucking vapid.

I scroll through my mental Rolodex of available pussy; Tiffany, the blonde with the trust fund and the cocaine habit; Sarah, the brunette who laughs at everything I say like I’m a fucking comedian; Jessica, the redhead who believes the stock market is a place you go shopping. I imagine bringing any of them here, to Mom’s penthouse, and having to introduce them as my fiancée. I cringe at the thought of having to hold an actual conversation with any of them when the only interaction I’ve ever wanted was the kind that ended with my cock inside of them.

The thought makes my stomach turn. I cannot imagine surviving forty years with any of them. These women are decorations and distractions, nothing more than holes to fill when I’m bored or stressed. They’re not partners nor wives. And they’re certainly not the kind of women Roman would have considered worthy of the Ashford name.

One week. Seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours until I lose everything my father built, everything I’ve sacrificed for, and everything I am.

“Vance,” Kaden says, and his voice is strange, almost gentle. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” I lie. I do know. I know exactly what I’m going to do. Exactly what Roman wants me to: I’m going to find a wife. I’m going to trap someone in this cage with me. I’m going to do what Roman taught me to do—take what I need and destroy what opposes me with no apologies.

The question is who.

I need someone smart. Someone who understands the game, with vulnerabilities I can exploit, and leverage I can use.

Someone like… Sophia Bennett.

She’s perfect.

Impossible.