Page 25 of The Marriage Clause

Christian understands the trust clauses inside and out. Everly understands image, narrative, and how quickly a story can turn if it’s handled badly.

If Aria and I have any chance of pulling this off, we need both of them.

"I'll send my driver for you in the morning," I say. "He'll bring you to my penthouse. Christian and Everly will meet us there."

Some of the color fades from her face.

"Before any of that happens," I say, "I need to know why."

She blinks. "Why what?"

"Why you're doing this. You climbed into my lap two hours ago and offered to marry a man who just fired you. People don't do that without a reason." I turn in my seat to face her fully. "What do you need the money for?"

The shift in her is immediate. Her jaw tightens. Her fingers curl into the fabric of her dress at her thigh, and for a second I think she's going to lie to me.

"My father," she says quietly.

I wait.

I wait.

She exhales through her nose, and when she speaks again, her voice is steadier than I expect it to be. "Three years ago, my parents were in a car accident. My mother died. My father survived, but he had a traumatic brain injury. He lost years of memory. Motor function. He couldn't walk for a long time."

The car feels smaller.

"He's at Brookhaven," she says. "The memory center."

I know Brookhaven. My family's name is on a wing.

"Insurance covered a facility where he sat in a hallway and stared at walls. Brookhaven is the place where he's actually getting better. Walking again. Rebuilding. His therapists say two to three more years and he could move into his own apartment." She pauses. "It costs almost ten thousand a month. I need to know that I can afford his care until he's well enough to function on his own again."

I don't say anything. I don't need to do the math. I already understand.

The job she fought to keep. The longer hours. The reorganized filing cabinets and the coffee experiments and the way she flinched when I said the word redundant. None of it was about impressing me.

"That's why Phil adjusted your salary."

It's not a question. The pieces fall into place with the kind of quiet efficiency I should have seen months ago.

Some of the color fades from her face.

If she would have told me from the beginning why she needed this job, I probably would have covered his care whether or not she agreed to marry me.

"I'll make sure that Brookhaven gets funded immediately," I say, and then look away.

Because if I keep looking at her, I'm going to start understanding exactly how much trouble I'm in.

Jeremy glances back again. "Everly wants to know if she should tip off a few photographers to get clean shots of Aria coming and going from the penthouse this week."

Aria’s head turns toward me. "Why would we need that?"

I ignore the question for a beat and think. Everly’s instincts are usually good. Better than good. She understands public appetite, media rhythm, and narrative construction better than most CEOs understand their own balance sheets.

But manufactured too early is risky. Too polished and the whole thing starts to smell false.

Then again, there is nothing polished about the way Aria is sitting beside me now—hair wild, mouth swollen from my kiss, still holding her shoes like she might use them as a weapon if pushed too far. No one is going to accuse us of overplanning.

"Tell her to give us a day for set up," then my eyes glaze over her body. She looks the part of a billionaire’s fiancée tonight, and though she always dressed professionally for work, she lacked the expensive touch of a woman people would assume is engaged to a Kauffman. "Tell Everly to schedule her stylist for a full lifestyle overhaul. Expensive bags, clothes, gowns, shoes, jewelry... everything. If she is going to step out of Kauffman Enterprises building, she needs to look like she belongs to me."