Page 47 of Top Shelf

From the phone, Nia agrees. “You’re not out of options—this is just one option.”

One option. An absurd, enormous, temporary option.

I close the folder. “I need a lawyer.”

“Good. While you’re doing that, I’ll look into the language from a PR control standpoint.” Zoe reaches for her laptop, and I’m reminded that, once upon a time, she signed a similar contract to fake date Chase Walton. If there’s anyone who understands the logistics of this, it’s her.

Lulu touches the ring box with a fingertip. “And I’ll be over here, trying not to develop feelings for a diamond.”

***

By six in the evening, I’ve spoken to a lawyer who owes Carina a favor, and my accountant. By eight, I’ve read the contract three more times. At nine, I’ve managed to eat half the pasta Carina sent me home with once I finished my shift.

And by ten, I’m standing outside Viktor Karlsson’s condo with the annotated contract in my hand and the ring box in my bag.

His building is all glass, and the elevator takes me up smoothly. I stand outside Viktor’s door with my eyes closed, talking myself into knocking, when he opens it. My raised fist pauses, then lowers.

He’s changed into gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt, and his hair is loose around his shoulders, damp at the ends. The tattoo at his collarbone disappears beneath the fabric, and I force my eyes upward with the discipline of a saint.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hello.”

“You look kinda nervous.”

“I am.”

Great. At least one of us is being honest. He steps aside, gesturing for me to walk into a condo that’s warmer than I expected. Still clean and controlled like him, but there are books stacked beside the couch, a helmet on a side table, a framed black-and-white photo of a lake on the wall, and a battered record player near the windows.

And, most importantly, no visible signs of a wife dungeon. Encouraging.

I stand in the living room taking it in as Viktor joins me. “You got the lawyer and accountant to look at it?”

“Yep.”

“Carina?”

“And the rest.”

His mouth moves. “That sounds right.”

I hold out the folder, my signed version inside, and he takes it carefully from my hand.

“I’ll marry you,” I say, watching as Viktor goes still, only his eyes moving between mine. “But with the terms and revisions. My lawyer will send formal notes tomorrow, and nothing is final until both sides review everything properly. But yes—if the studio stays mine, and I can walk away if something feels wrong—then, yes. I’ll marry you.”

Viktor is quiet for a moment. It’s a different kind of silent, full of all the things neither of us seems to know how to say.

“Thank you,” he finally says quietly, his icy blue eyes locked on mine.

It’s just two words, but somehow they’re enough to make my chest hurt.

“Don’t thank me like I’m doing you a favor,” I deflect. “I’m getting my dream out of this, too.”

“Yes.” His smile is soft. “I am very glad for you, too.”

“And,” I continue, ignoring the dangerousness of that smile, “if at any point you start becoming a weird or controlling husband, I’ll ruin your life in both legally creative and physiologically specific ways.”

This time he actually chuckles. “I believe you.”