Page 18 of The Marriage Clause

I’ve met him a handful of times when he’s come by to urge Everett to go golfing mid-day or take a flight to France for lunch.

"The wrong choice costs me nine figures. The trust has specific parameters—"

"Yeah, yeah. She has to be magnanimous and genuinely committed and probably noble and boring as hell." Damien’s laugh is sharp. "You know what your problem is? You’re thinking too hard. For some unknown reason, you’re worried the woman you marry is going to fall madly in love with you. I’m sorry to disappoint, but frankly, you’re not even that easy to like."

"Thanks, asshole."

Damien chuckles. "That was supposed to make you feel better."

"Then let’s be thankful you’re not someone’s therapist."

"I’m just saying, most people want something. Find a woman who wants something tangible that you can give her in one year. Have Christian draw up a secret prenup between you two. Offer her enough money to marry you for one year and then divorce amicably. A year later, you can tell the press that you work too much and you never see each other enough—she asked for a divorce. No one will bat an eye. Just get this done. You don’t have another choice and you need to marry her in less than three weeks."

My heart stops and I feel lightheaded from holding my breath for too long. The paddle cards press marks into my palm.

"Just sign a one-year prenup and give her a payout," Everett says as if he’s turning the idea over in his head.

"Exactly. Cut and dry. She gets what she wants, and you get what you want. Have her sign an NDA if you have to, just do it and do it now."

"The prenup would have to be iron-clad," Everett says.

"Christian is one of the best lawyers out there. I’m sure he’ll make sure there are no loopholes that she can wiggle out of."

"I’ll call him tomorrow."

"Good. Now..." Damien says. "Is Everly here?"

"We’ve been over this. You're not dating my sister. She's ten years younger than you and too smart for your bullshit. Besides, she’s out of your league, and she hates your guts for some reason. Didn’t you bring a model as your date anyway?"

"Yeah, right. Good luck finding a wife," Damien says.

Footsteps start toward the door, but this time I’m not frozen. I’m moving, slipping into the shadows by the staircase. Damien emerges first, and if he sees me, he gives no sign. He’s still smiling that devilish smile, adjusting his cufflinks like he didn’t just detonate something inside my chest.

Everett needs a wife. And he’s willing to pay for it.

That’s when I make the decision. One that has me unsure if this dress is so tight that it’s cutting off the oxygen to my brain.

I step out of the shadow and push his office door open.

He glances up at me from the other side of his desk.

"Aria. I didn’t know you were here. How did you get up to this floor without clearance?"

"Penelope asked me to grab something for her."

He stares back at me for a moment as if waiting for the reason I just barged in on him.

"You need a wife."

His eyes narrow, realization dawning. "You were eavesdropping," he says. Not a question.

"Yes."

"The second time you’ve overheard one of my private conversations."

"Yes." I’ve found my spine somewhere between fear and desperation. "I know you need a wife. I know the trust has a deadline. And I know you need someone who understands the parameters and won’t make this—" I gesture between us "—harder than it has to be."

He straightens, folding his arms across his chest, his tux pulling tight over muscles he’s spent plenty of time building in the gym.