[POV Ariel]
The elevator doors slid open into pure silence.
No hum of traffic. No elevator chime behind me. Just silence and glass and space—Sloane Wayne’s penthouse was exactly what I expected from the man himself: cold, deliberate, and curated to perfection.
Like a hotel suite with no personality. Stainless steel and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Seattle’s skyline, all sharp edges and control.
I stepped inside, arms crossed tight over my chest.
He stood by the window, his back to me, the city lights washing him in a halo of steel-blue. For a moment, I imagined he’d changed his mind—maybe called this off, maybe realized how absurd this entire situation was.
But then he turned, eyes locking on me with that same guarded stare he’d worn in the lawyer’s office.
No. Not changed. Just purely, strictly business.
“You came,” he said, voice low.
“I didn’t come for the wine and ambiance,” I replied. “You said we needed to talk.”
He nodded toward the leather sofa. “Sit.”
I didn’t move. “You first.”
His mouth twitched—maybe at the command, maybe at the fact that I hadn’t softened despite the setting. He sat, legs crossed, one arm over the back of the couch like he had all the time in the world.
“I had my lawyer look into the will,” he said.
“So did I.”
His eyes met mine. “It’s airtight.”
I exhaled slowly. “So... either we get married, or the company goes into a holding trust.”
“Which you control.”
“Which I don’t want.”
He studied me. “Why not? Seems like a win for you. Instant promotion. Board respect. All the power you used to chase.”
I stared at him. “That’s not how I work.”
“No?” His voice dropped a notch. “Funny. There’s remarkably little information on how you do work. Or who you were before Wayne Publishing.”
The shift in tone was slight—but unmistakable. Suspicion. Curiosity wrapped in accusation.
I kept my face neutral. “You asked me here to talk about strategy. Not stalk my résumé.”
“There’s a difference?”
I stood my ground. “Look, I don’t know what paranoid corner of your brain thinks I engineered this. But I didn’t. And frankly, I’m not thrilled about being legally forced into playing your fake bride.”
His smirk was humorless. “Then we’re on the same page.”
Silence settled again—uneasy, but no longer sharp. Like both of us were too tired to keep throwing knives.
I finally moved toward the coffee table and dropped a thick file folder onto it.
He raised an eyebrow. “What’s this?”
“A solution.”
He opened the folder. Contracts. Clauses. Typed outlines. I’d drafted it the moment I realized this wasn’t going away.
“Terms,” I said. “A marriage of convenience. Strictly professional. Duration: one year. After which we file for divorce. No mess, no scandal.”
His eyes skimmed the pages. “You’ve done your homework.”
“Someone had to.”
A pause. Then, “Separate living spaces?”
“Absolutely. This is your penthouse. I’ll stay in the guest suite. We conduct ourselves professionally in the office, make a few convincing public appearances together, and otherwise keep our distance.”
“And the media?”
I handed him another sheet. “I’ve drafted a preliminary press release. Storyline: we fell in love working under Richard’s leadership. Secret workplace romance. Marriage was private, low-key. Now we’re coming forward as newlyweds. Clean and respectable.”
He actually laughed under his breath. “You wrote us a love story?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. It’s marketing.”
He leaned back on the couch, flipping through the pages with practiced ease. “There’s a settlement clause.”
“Yes. Upon divorce, you provide a generous severance package. Enough to cover my career transition. My name stays out of scandal. Yours stays intact.”
He paused. “You’re very thorough.”
I met his gaze. “You’re very rich.”
A flicker of something crossed his face. Surprise, maybe. Amusement.
Then he tapped the folder. “We’re both screwed if we don’t go through with this.”
“Basically.”
“You’re not afraid?” he asked.
“Of what?”
“Living with me.”
I snorted. “I’ve survived your management style. I think I can survive your interior decorating.”
For a second—just a second—his mouth twitched again, like he wanted to smile but didn’t quite remember how.
“Do you always handle chaos like this?” he asked, quieter now.
“Like what?”
“Like it’s a hostile board meeting.”
I hesitated, then shrugged. “It keeps me from breaking things.”
He looked down at the papers again. “There’s a clause here about shared public appearances. You want to schedule those in advance?”
“I already drafted a calendar.”
Of course I had. He skimmed it, then glanced back up.
“This entire thing feels like a business merger,” he muttered.
I nodded. “It is.”
He looked at me for a long moment. No fire. No accusations. Just quiet acknowledgment.
“We really are our fathers’ children,” he said softly.
The words hit harder than I expected.
And for once, I didn’t have anything to say back.
***
Two hours later, after tense edits, agreement on schedules, appearance dates, legal protections, and personal boundaries, we both stood in his kitchen—contract signed, the deal sealed.
“Congratulations,” I said dryly. “You’re getting married.”
He poured two glasses of scotch and held one out to me.
I hesitated. “I don’t drink with strangers.”
“You will tomorrow,” he said, clinking his glass against mine anyway. “We’re doing a lunch date. Paparazzi need their story.”
I groaned. “This is going to be awful.”
He smirked. “You haven’t even seen the wardrobe I picked out.”
“You picked—? No. Absolutely not.”
He raised a brow. “You’d rather let the media dress you?”
I took a sip of the scotch. Burned all the way down. Appropriate.
“We’ll negotiate wardrobe boundaries later.”
“Looking forward to it.”
For a heartbeat, we weren’t enemies. Weren’t strangers. Just two people on the same sinking ship, bailing water with matching silver spoons.
We were both pretending.
But somewhere deep beneath all the contracts and clipped sarcasm... I felt the tremor of something else.
Something that terrified me more than the deal itself.
What if the act stopped feeling like an act?