Chapter 3 #2
I shake off the feeling, saving the document and moving on to the press release draft. The announcement needs to hit at precisely the right moment, immediately after the ceremony, when we're officially married but before anyone can question the whirlwind timeline.
"Harborlight Resort CEO Weds Local Marketing Director in Holiday Surprise"
I craft the story carefully, building the narrative of a chance meeting at Harbor Arts Collective, an immediate connection, a shared vision for community and celebration. It's good. Compelling. The kind of heartwarming holiday tale that media outlets love to run between Black Friday and Christmas.
It's also complete fiction.
I catch myself wondering what Bash is doing right now. Is he reviewing the contract with the same attention to detail he showed yesterday? Is he having second thoughts? Is he, like me, caught in strange moments of wondering ‘what if’ before ruthlessly suppressing them?
My work phone rings, startling me from these dangerous thoughts. Miranda's name flashes on the screen.
"Morning, Miranda," I answer, injecting confidence into my voice.
"Charlie." She doesn't bother with pleasantries. "The board wants an update on the Harborlight campaign. Today. Three o'clock."
My pulse quickens. "Today? But we haven't finalized...”
"Three o'clock," she repeats. "Bring Sinclair if you can. They want to hear this insanity directly from both of you."
She hangs up before I can respond, leaving me staring at my phone in growing panic. The board. Today. With Bash.
We weren't supposed to go public until after the ceremony, until we had the marriage license in hand and the press release ready to go. Bringing Bash to the agency now risks exposing our plan before all the pieces are in place.
But refusing isn't an option. Not if I want to keep my job.
I text Bash with shaking fingers: Agency board wants to meet. Today at 3. Can you make it?
His response comes almost immediately: I'll clear my schedule. Send the address. We present as a united front.
Relief floods through me, followed by a wave of something warmer. He didn't hesitate. Didn't question. Just immediately aligned himself with me, a united front.
It's what good business partners do; I remind myself firmly. Nothing more.
I spend the next hour finalizing my presentation for the board, distilling the comprehensive campaign into key points that demonstrate both strategic thinking and creative vision.
The marriage is presented as an unprecedented partnership opportunity, clinical language for a deeply personal commitment.
By the time I need to leave for the office, I've been awake for over twenty-four hours, fueled by coffee and anxiety in equal measure. I gather my materials, double-checking that I have everything the board might want to see, projections, mockups, timelines, contingency plans.
As I reach for my keys, my phone buzzes with another text from Bash: On my way to pick you up. Arriving in 10.
I freeze, staring at the message. He's coming here. To my apartment? The thought of Sebastian Sinclair in my modest living space sends a fresh wave of panic through me. There are dishes in the sink. Laundry on the couch. Marketing books stacked haphazardly on every surface.
This is not a space designed to impress a billionaire CEO.
I rush around like a madwoman, shoving laundry into my bedroom, stacking dishes in the dishwasher, straightening the throw pillows that my mother insists make a house a home. It's ridiculous, he's just picking me up for a meeting, not evaluating my living conditions.
Still, when the buzzer sounds exactly ten minutes later, my heart hammers against my ribs.
"Coming!" I call, grabbing my presentation materials and taking one last glance in the mirror. I look professional. Polished. Like a woman who hasn't been awake for twenty-four hours crafting fake wedding vows for her fake husband.
I open the door to find Bash standing in my hallway, impeccable in a charcoal suit that probably costs more than my monthly rent. His hair is perfectly styled, his jaw freshly shaven, his posture radiating the easy confidence of a man accustomed to commanding rooms.
No one looking at him would guess he'd been up at dawn reviewing contracts. No one would know he's about to legally bind himself to a near-stranger for the sake of hotel occupancy rates.
"Ready, partner?" he asks, his gray eyes warming slightly as they take me in.
The word shouldn't affect me the way it does. We are partners, business partners in a strategic alliance. Nothing more.
But as I step into the hallway beside him, close enough to catch the subtle notes of his cologne, I can't help the small thrill that runs through me.
For the next eight weeks, this man is mine. On paper, at least.
"Ready," I tell him, forcing confidence into my voice.
As we walk to his waiting car, his hand settles naturally at the small of my back, a gesture we'll need to perfect for our public appearances. The warmth of his palm seeps through my blazer, and I fight the urge to lean into his touch.
This is business, I remind myself firmly. Only business.
But as he opens the car door for me, his fingers brushing mine as he takes my presentation materials, I can't help wondering if I'm the only one struggling to maintain that boundary.
"By the way," he says as he slides into the driver's seat beside me, "I've been meaning to tell you, your vows. They're good. Especially the last line."
Heat rises to my cheeks. "You liked that? Choose us?"
The corner of his mouth lifts in what might be the beginning of a genuine smile. "It's what partnerships are about, isn't it? Making that choice every day."
His eyes meet mine for a moment too long to be purely professional, and something shifts in the air between us. This is dangerous territory, acknowledging the emotional weight of what we're undertaking, however obliquely.
"Exactly," I agree, turning to look out the window as he pulls away from my apartment building. "A daily choice to honor the contract."
But as we drive toward the agency in comfortable silence, I can't help thinking about those words again. Choose us. Every day that we have.
Eight weeks suddenly feels both impossibly long and not nearly enough.