Page 7 of The Marriage Clause

Our youngest sister was the only one. An accident—when our father’s cold heart might have felt something for another person, and he impregnated a woman who worked at a diner he frequented. He wanted all sons. But then he had a daughter, and she was the only one who ever got to know him.

Psychopath is more like it. God rest his spiteful soul.

I rub both hands over my face and let out an annoyed sound—more groan than yawn. The residue of the panic attack clings to my skin like sweat. I can still feel it in my fingertips—that faint tremor that takes twenty minutes to fully fade.

I can’t let my inability to have anything resembling a personal life ruin things for the rest of the Kauffman family. Seven other people are depending on me not to screw this up.

I stand, and then the memory of Friday hits me.

Her eyes widening in the hallway when Levi turned his full charm on her. The flush when he called himself the better-looking brother. Her fingers tightening on that coffee cup like she was bracing for impact.

And then my own voice, cutting through the air before I could stop it.

She’s off limits—

I scrub a hand over my jaw.

I don’t say things I don’t mean. I don’t lose my temper. I don’t snap. And yet there it was—reflexive, instinctive, and unfortunately, I said it out loud.

Maybe it was just because Levi likes to push. Maybe it was because the idea of Levi dragging one of my employees into whatever recklessly casual thing he calls a relationship is dangerously inconvenient.

That’s all.

I move through my morning routine with the same rigid discipline I bring to everything else. I shower, shave, and then get dressed for the day. The uniform is a comfort. Navy suit, white shirt, steel-gray tie. Every element deliberate. Every decision unemotional. I knot the tie and look at myself in the mirror.

Oldest Kauffman son. Head of Kauffman Entertainment Holdings. Owner of the Seattle Hawkeyes. Next in line to either secure or destroy the family inheritance.

There’s no room for error. No room for anything else.

My phone buzzes on the counter.

Christian: Board wants a progress update on your "personal timeline." Don’t be late.

I clench my jaw.

My "personal timeline." They mean my marriage deadline. The clause that says if I don’t wed by thirty-five, not only do I lose my division, but every single one of my brothers—and my sister—loses theirs. Dad didn’t just leave us an empire. He left us a ticking bomb. As if being an absent father wasn’t enough of a kick in the dick.

I slip my phone into my pocket, straighten my jacket, and head out.

My driver is already waiting outside when I get to the curb of the Kauffman Enterprises tower. The skyrise is all glass face, catching the first real light of the day. Our father believed in structure. Each sibling gets a division and a floor in that building. Levi’s is casino and hotel acquisitions. Colston’s construction. Zayne’s real estate. Wes’s mergers and acquisitions. Archer’s security. Christian’s legal. And somewhere managing events, charity galas, and Kauffman’s internal PR firm with a smile sharp enough to cut… Everly. The baby of the family at twenty-seven.

The drive to the arena takes twenty minutes. Seattle traffic is light this early—the city hasn’t fully committed to Monday yet.

I have offices in both buildings, but I’ve been coming to the arena every day for six months. Penelope Matthews, the Hawkeyes GM, runs a tight crew—she doesn’t need me hovering. The board meetings, the real Kauffman business, all of that happens at the tower.

There is no logical reason for me to be at the arena this often, and yet, every morning for the last six months I show up there.

I pull into the garage, take the elevator to the fourth floor, and push into my office. Drop the briefcase. Unlock the computer. Numbers, charts, and projections fill the screen.

I should feel settled now. Back in my environment.

But something tugs at the back of my mind.

Brown eyes. Serious mouth. Nervous, determined energy.

Aria.

I grit my teeth.