Page 42 of The Marriage Clause

I already knew that. Christian, Genevieve, and every trust attorney in the state of Washington have drilled the clauses into our heads. But hearing it aloud from the board itself—twelve directors saying it in a room that smells like leather and expensive mistakes—brings a new kind of weight to keeping this thing from going south.

Christian closes his folder. "Understood. Everett is very much in love."

He flashes a look at me. So does Ms. Preston.

"Right," I say. "Yes. Very in love."

I sound like a man ordering a sandwich.

They dismiss us with nods and thinly veiled contempt. I don't think they believe me for a second, but they still have to follow the trust requirements, which demand they allow me to marry someone to keep my inheritance. The moment the doors close behind us, Christian exhales like he's been holding his breath for the last forty-five minutes.

"Well," he says, "don't ever let me put you on the stand to testify. You're the shittiest liar I've ever seen."

"Fuck off."

I shove him toward the elevator.

He laughs all the way down the corridor.

Then I remember.

Brookhaven.

The memory care facility. The same facility that our family has contributed to for years, ever since Conrad Kauffman spent some of his final days there. The facility that keeps Aria's father safe and cared for and in a private room because someone is paying for it—someone who, until recently, was Aria, draining savings she didn't have because the alternative was a waitlist and a shared room and a man who forgets his daughter's name being treated like a number.

I pull out my phone and make the call before I can talk myself out of it.

The line rings twice.

"Brookhaven Memory Center, this is Gladys."

"Gladys, this is Everett Kauffman."

A brief pause. Then her tone brightens. "Mr. Kauffman. What a pleasure. I usually hear from the family accountant or Ms. Kauffman. What can I do for you today?"

I glance down the empty corridor, lowering my voice even though no one is close enough to hear me.

"I'd like to make a payment on my fiancée's father's account."

Another beat.

Then, warmly, "Of course, sir. And congratulations. I had no idea you were engaged."

"Thank you," I say, because that's what normal people say when someone congratulates them on their upcoming fake marriage. "I'd like to cover the next quarter in full. We'll be traveling soon, and I don't want anything disrupting his care while we're away."

"Certainly, Mr. Kauffman. I can take care of that for you."

"And if anything comes up," I add, "and I'm unavailable, contact Everly Kauffman or the family accountant directly. I don't want there to be any interruption in his treatment."

"Of course. I'll make a note on the account."

I give her the payment information, wait until she confirms the balance is covered through the end of the quarter, then end the call.

For a moment, I just stand there in the middle of the corridor with my phone still in my hand.

It's a simple enough thing. Money in. Problem handled. That's the only kind of help I know how to give—the kind that doesn't require me to feel anything, just write a check and move on.

Except I'm not moving on.