Chapter 8 Erik
Con men are charming. It’s how they reel in their marks.
I stare at the quarterly report spread across my desk, but I haven’t read a single word.
Instead, I keep looking at the marriage certificate propped up next to my computer monitor.
Nolan’s signature is messy next to my neat one.
I should have filed it weeks ago, but somehow I haven’t gotten round to it.
Three weeks, and I can’t stop thinking about him.
I’ve pulled up his original claim against the company so many times I’ve practically memorized it.
Every accusation, every piece of alleged evidence, every passionate argument for why Nilsson Industries had stolen his research.
The courts dismissed it. Our lawyers demolished it.
By every objective measure, Nolan West’s case had no merit.
So why can’t I let it go?
I remember Alistair Wallace well. He’d been charming.
Too charming, if I’m being honest. The kind of alpha who walked into a boardroom and owned it within minutes, who could sell sand in a desert and make you feel grateful for the opportunity.
I hadn’t liked him personally, but the proposal had been solid.
More than solid. It had been exactly what we needed.
The research itself had shown real promise.
The initial findings were groundbreaking, the kind of work that could actually change lives for people with chronic autoimmune conditions.
I’d been impressed despite myself, despite my reservations about Alistair’s slick presentation and expensive suit.
The science was sound. The methodology was rigorous. Everything had checked out.
The patent had been filed properly. The acquisition was professional, comprehensive, airtight. I’d had the legal team go over every page, every clause, looking for problems. They’d found none. It was clean. A good deal. The kind of opportunity that doesn’t come along often.
Maybe it was too good.
I shift in my chair, reaching for the cold coffee that’s been sitting on my desk for the past three hours. The chemistry. That’s what’s making me doubt everything, making me second-guess a decision based on solid evidence and proper due diligence.
The pull I feel toward Nolan is clouding my judgment.
Even if he wasn’t guilty—and the evidence clearly shows he is—he’s still not right for me.
Nolan is disrespectful, deliberately antagonistic, completely uninterested in any kind of traditional role.
He wore jeans to our wedding. Jeans. Like it was some casual afternoon appointment rather than the most important commitment of his life.
The doubt creeps back in, insidious and unwanted. What if I missed something? What if the legal team missed something? Alistair was charming, persuasive, the kind of person who could make you believe anything. What if—
No. I have to trust the process. Trust the evidence. Trust that my lawyers, some of the best in the business, did their job properly. The patent was legitimate. The contracts were solid. Nolan West’s claims were investigated and found to be without merit.
I pull up his case file one more time, scanning the documentation I’ve read a hundred times before. Everything is in order. Everything is legitimate. He is the con man that I know he is.
I switch to another tab on my computer—the security footage from the apartment building.
I’ve watched it more times than I care to admit.
Watched Nolan arriving with his single duffel bag.
Watched the way his shoulders tensed as he stepped inside.
Watched him exploring the space, touching the furniture, running his fingers along the spines of the books I left there years ago.
My old apartment. The one I bought when I was twenty-four, fresh out of business school and convinced I was going to change the world.
I lived there for five years while building the company from nothing.
Slept on that worn leather couch more nights than I can count, working until dawn on proposals and projections.
The kitchen table still has coffee rings from marathon planning sessions with Anna.
I never rented it out after I moved to the penthouse. Couldn’t bring myself to. Told myself it was an investment, that the neighborhood was appreciating, that I’d sell it eventually when the market peaked.
The truth is more complicated than that.
When Sara suggested it for Nolan, I agreed immediately. Too immediately. She’d framed it as practical—close to the hospital for his sister’s care, already furnished, less suspicious to the Bureau than a brand-new lease. All valid points.
But that’s not why I said yes.
He’s in my territory now. Sleeping in my bed. I shouldn’t like it as much as I do.
The memory of our kiss surfaces unbidden. The press of his lips. The way his whole body had responded to mine despite his obvious hatred. The sound he’d made, low in his throat, when I’d deepened the kiss.
My hand drifts toward my phone before I catch myself. I am not calling him. That’s what he wants. That’s how the con works—he makes me desperate, makes me come to him, makes me believe I need him.
I don’t need anyone.
My phone buzzes with a message from Sara: Investigation update. Can we meet?
Finally. Something concrete.
I text back: My office. Now.
Sara arrives within minutes, tablet in hand. She’s wearing her “I have bad news” expression, which does nothing to improve my mood.
“The investigation is complete,” she says, settling into the chair across from my desk. “I’ve reviewed everything. Timeline, documents, witness statements.”
“And?”
She hesitates. Just for a second, but I catch it. “The acquisition was clean. Every document checks out. The patent filing was legitimate.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“There’s no problem.” She meets my eyes steadily. “I’m just... there are some inconsistencies in the timeline that I can’t quite explain. Nothing that would hold up in court, nothing actionable. Just... odd.”
“Odd how?”
“Alistair’s story has some gaps. Dates that don’t quite line up. But like I said, nothing concrete.” She shrugs. “Could be sloppy record-keeping. Could be nothing.”
Or it could be something. But I don’t say that out loud.
“Keep looking,” I tell her instead. “Quietly. I want to know everything about the original acquisition.”
“Erik...” She pauses, choosing her words carefully. “You’re investing a lot of resources into investigating a four-year-old deal that’s already been litigated. Are you sure this is about the company’s legal exposure?”
“What else would it be about?”
She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to. We both know what—who—this is really about.
“Just find me answers,” I say. “I need to know the truth.”
After Sara leaves, I sit in the silence of my office and stare at the wall. The truth. As if that’s ever simple.
My phone buzzes again. This time it’s David Sun’s name on the screen.
I let it go to voicemail. Then it buzzes again. And again.
I’ve been ignoring his calls for days now. Deleting his emails without reading them. I know what he wants—proof that Nolan and I are actually trying. Blah blah blah.
I have other things to do with my time than deal with the damned Bureau.
The phone rings a fourth time, and I finally answer.
“Mr. Nilsson.” Sun’s voice is professionally pleasant, which means he’s annoyed. “Thank you for picking up.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“I’m sure. Unfortunately, I’m calling with a rather urgent matter.” Papers rustle on his end. “We’ve flagged your match for non-compliance.”
“Non-compliance?”
His tone sharpens slightly. “Mr. Nilsson, the Bureau has been exceptionally patient. But patience has limits.”
“I don’t see how—”
“ Either you begin actual cohabitation with your matched omega, or we proceed with a public press release announcing your prime match status.” He cuts me off. “ Given your profile, I imagine the media attention would be... considerable.”
The threat lands exactly as intended. A public announcement would be a disaster. Shareholders, board members, competitors—everyone would be watching. Analyzing. Judging.
“That’s not acceptable,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Then I suggest you move in with your husband, Mr. Nilsson. The apartment near the hospital would be a logical choice, since Mr. West is already established there.” A pause. “I attempted to call him as well to convey this message, but he hasn’t returned my calls.”
Of course he hasn’t. Probably too busy plotting his next move.
“I’ll handle it,” I say.
“We will also be asking for additional proof of compliance.”
I roll my eyes. “Send whatever you want to my lawyer.”
“We will do that,” Sun says dryly.
The line goes dead.
I sit there for a long moment, processing. Then I stand, grab my jacket, and head for the door.
If Nolan won’t return Sun’s calls, I’ll deliver the message myself.
The coffee shop is busier than I expected for a Tuesday afternoon. The warm smell of fresh coffee and baked goods fills the air.
Then Nolan’s scent hits me, and everything else fades away.
My vision actually blurs for a second. Every muscle in my body goes taut.
Mate, something deep inside me growls. Mine.
No. Absolutely not.
I force myself to take a breath, then immediately regret it because that just pulls more of his scent into my lungs. He’s behind the counter, wearing a green apron, taking an order from an elderly woman. He’s smiling at her—a real smile, warm and genuine—and something twists in my gut.
He’s never smiled at me like that.
Then he looks up, and our eyes meet across the room.
His pupils blow wide. His hands still on the register. I watch his chest rise and fall faster, see the flush creep up his neck. He feels it too. The pull. The chemistry that neither of us asked for and neither of us can escape.
“Hazel,” he says, not looking away from me. “Cover me for a minute?”
The older woman at the register nods, giving me a curious look as Nolan comes around the counter. He stops a few feet away, close enough that his scent intensifies but far enough that we’re not quite touching.
“What are you doing here?” His voice is rough.
“We need to talk.” I keep my own voice steady with effort. “Sun called me. Since you apparently can’t be bothered to return his messages.”
Something flickers across Nolan’s face. Guilt, maybe. Or shame. “I forgot.”
“You forgot to return calls from the Bureau about our legally mandated marriage?”
“I forgot, all right?” He runs a hand through his hair, looking away. “Ellie had a seizure. The hospital called, and I... everything else just went out of my head.”
His sister. The whole reason he registered in the first place—the whole reason we’re in this mess.
“Is she okay?”
He blinks, clearly surprised by the question. “Yeah. It was a side effect of the new treatment, they said. She’s fine now. But at the time...” He trails off, shaking his head. “I was scared, all right? I wasn’t thinking about any of this.”
For a moment, I see someone who’s exhausted and scared and trying his best.
Then I remember who I’m dealing with, and the sympathy hardens back into suspicion. This is what con men do. They make you feel sorry for them. They make you drop your guard.
“Sun’s threatening to release a press statement,” I say flatly. “Announcing our prime match publicly. Unless we demonstrate actual cohabitation.”
Nolan’s face goes pale. “He can’t do that.”
“He can, and he will. Unless we start living together. Actually living together, not just maintaining the fiction.”
“I’m not—” He stops, jaw clenching. “I’m not leaving the apartment. It’s close to the hospital. Ellie needs me nearby.”
“I’m not asking you to leave.” The words come out before I’ve fully thought them through. “I’ll move in with you.”
Silence stretches between us. Nolan stares at me like I’ve grown a second head.
“You’ll move in with me,” he repeats slowly.
“Does it bother you?” The question comes out sharper than I intended.
Nolan’s laugh is short and bitter. “Bother me? I can’t sleep without...” He stops abruptly, color rising in his cheeks.
Without what? Without thinking about me? Without wanting me?
The thought sends heat pooling low in my stomach, and I have to look away before I do something stupid.
“There’s only one bedroom,” Nolan says after a moment. “One bed.”
“I’ll take the couch.”
“How chivalrous.”
“I’m trying to make this as painless as possible. For both of us.” I meet his eyes again, forcing my voice to remain steady. “This isn’t what either of us wanted. But it’s what we have to do. So we’ll do it, and we’ll get through it, and then—”
“And then what?” His voice is quiet now. “We wait out the year and go our separate ways? Pretend none of this ever happened?”
“That’s the plan.”
He studies me for a long moment. I can’t read his expression—there’s something complicated happening behind those green eyes, something I don’t understand.
“Fine,” he says finally. “Move in. Take the couch. Play house for the Bureau.” He steps back, putting distance between us. “But don’t think this changes anything between us. We’re just... tolerating each other until we can walk away.”
“Agreed.”
“I have to get back to work.”
“I’ll be there tomorrow, around noon.”
He nods once, sharply, then he’s gone, disappearing back behind the counter, and I’m left standing in the middle of the coffee shop with my heart racing and his scent still wrapped around me like a vice.
I walk out into the afternoon sun, taking deep breaths of clean air, trying to clear my head.
Tomorrow. I’m moving in with Nolan West tomorrow.
I should dread it. I should be planning how to minimize contact, how to maintain professional distance, how to survive the next weeks without strangling him or kissing him or both.
Instead, something warm unfurls in my chest. Something that feels dangerously like anticipation.
He’s been living in my space for weeks now. Sleeping in my bed. Surrounded by my history, my belongings, my scent. And tonight, I’ll be there too.
I tell myself it’s just biology. Just the prime match chemistry that neither of us can control. It doesn’t mean anything.
But as I drive back to the penthouse to pack a bag, I can’t stop thinking about the way his voice had broken when he’d said I can’t sleep without...
Without what, Nolan?
I intend to find out.