Page 17 of The Marriage Clause

ARIA

Hawkeyes Arena glitters around me.

White draped tables, chandeliers the size of cars, floral arches that smell like money and roses. Cammy squeezes my arm as we walk in, her emerald green dress beside my careful black. She’s here for her own taste of vengeance against a gorgeous hockey goalie that she refuses to admit she’s perfect with.

"You look like you’re about to acquire a tech company," she whispers. "I love it."

"I look like I’m about to cry in a bathroom stall," I mutter.

"Isn't that the same thing?" she teases.

Cammy puts me to work, organizing the silent auction tables, making sure that guests are assigned their correct paddle numbers for the live auction portion of the evening. I’m grateful for the job. At least I feel more in my element.

Soon, the event is in full swing and guests are beginning to arrive. There’s a string quartet playing as people arrive. It’s an event where people earn my monthly Brookhaven payment in a single evening. I’ve been to dozens of them—part of the job. Used to be part of the job. Now I feel like I’m crashing it.

Penelope drags me to the bar and orders champagne I’ll pretend to drink.

"You need to circulate," she says. "Mingle. Remind people you exist. I looked over the list last night, and I know there is at least one headhunter here in attendance and most of the people here own large companies. Someone has to have a job opening. It might not be what you’re used to making—"

"—but it’s better than broke," I finish for her.

She reaches out and rubs my arm. "It’s a start. Have some faith. We’re here for you," she says. And I know that between Penelope and Cammy, they have my back. "Worst case, we can cover Brookhaven’s fees—"

"No," I tell her instantly. I can’t let her do that. I can’t owe her that kind of money. "Thank you, but I have to do this on my own. I owe him that."

She lays a hand on my shoulder. "I know I didn’t know you then, but that drunk driver wasn’t your fault, Aria. You know that, right?"

I nod, but only to put her mind at ease because the truth is, I’ve never forgiven myself for my parents being out that night to attend my first gallery opening, and I don’t think I ever will.

"I just need to find a new job. That's what I am focusing on tonight."

She rolls her eyes at me. "Everett Kauffman is an idiot and also a coward. Don’t internalize his stupid choices."

The problem is, he’s not an idiot. He’s ice-sharp and calculating, and he made a business decision. That’s what burns. It was never personal to him—just redundant overhead getting eliminated. Meanwhile, I’m lying awake at 3 a.m. doing mental math about co-pays and facility fees, and he’s probably sleeping like a man who has access to expensive sleeping medications and enough money to solve all of his problems.

Penelope looks frantically around the auction table. "Shoot, the paddle cards for the staff are upstairs," she says. "I swear I brought them down."

One of the event coordinators walks by, reminding Penelope that she’s needed on stage to welcome the guests.

"Don’t worry," I say. "I’ll run up and grab them."

She smiles, and I can see her panic subside. "Thank God you’re here tonight. Have I said lately how stupid Everett is for firing you?"

I give a soft chuckle. "Take care of the guests. I’ll run up and grab them."

She hands me her clearance badge since I no longer have one, and I head for the elevator, knowing my way like muscle memory.

I extract myself from the crowd and head for the staircase. The fourth floor is quieter—most of the administrative staff are downstairs as it is after hours and everyone was invited to the event. I find the staff paddles on Penelope’s desk where she must have left them earlier today, and I’m halfway back to the stairs when I hear voices.

Male voices. Coming from a private room, the door cracked open.

Everett’s voice.

I should keep walking. I know I should keep walking. Instead, I drift closer, a ghost in black silk.

"—weeks out," Everett is saying, and his tone is the one I used to hear in board meetings. Controlled. Tired of controlling. "The trust’s timeline is accelerating."

"So marry someone. It’s not rocket science. Pick a woman downstairs if you have to." It’s a voice I’ve heard before. Damien Rockmore. Another Seattle billionaire, only Damien is self-made through a tech company he founded in college.