Chapter 6
six
. . .
Lucas
The Wonderland Studios lot is buzzing with its usual Monday morning energy: PAs rushing coffee orders, talent slipping into trailers, executives power-walking between meetings.
No one gives me a second glance as I make my way to Grant’s office.
I feel like I should have a scarlet “V” for Vegas emblazoned on my chest or at least be trailing wedding confetti.
But no. Same nods from colleagues. Same life, except for the gold band burning a hole in my pocket. I couldn’t bring myself to wear it, but throwing it away felt strangely wrong.
My phone vibrates with a text. Austin Lexington, Jess’s younger brother. My former teammate and friend.
AUSTIN
Dude. DUDE. When were you going to tell me you were hooking up with my sister?
I wince. With all the chaos of the past twenty-four hours, including the rushed checkout from the hotel suite we didn’t book, the wordless plane ride, with us seated nowhere near each other, and the tense “we’ll call our lawyers” goodbye at LAX, I hadn’t even thought about Austin.
LUCAS
It’s not what it looks like. Call you later to explain. I’m sorry, man.
I slip the phone away as I reach Grant’s office. His assistant waves me through with a knowing smile that makes my stomach clench. Grant is standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lot, hands clasped behind his back, exuding the casual power that’s made him a legend before forty.
“The prodigal husband returns,” he says without turning around.
“Grant, I can explain—”
Waving a dismissive hand, he finally turns to face me. “Lucas, sit down before you sprain something in your rush to apologize.”
I sink into one of the leather chairs opposite his desk. “I’m sorry for embarrassing the studio. It was a drunken mistake, and I’ve already contacted my attorney. We’ll have it annulled immediately.”
Grant studies me for a beat too long. Then he sighs and takes his own seat. “How long have we known each other?”
“Five years, give or take.”
“And in those five years, have I ever given you the impression that I give a damn what you do in your personal life?”
I blink. “No, but—”
“Is Jess Lexington pressuring the studio in her reporting? Using your relationship for insider information? Causing any actual conflict of interest I should be aware of?”
“No, of course not. She’s…” I stop, unsure how to describe whatever Jess and I are to each other. Rivals? Acquaintances? Temporary spouses?
Grant leans forward. “Frankly, Lucas, I’ve always suspected that something was brewing between you two. That kind of tension”—he makes an explosive gesture with his hands—“doesn’t come from nowhere. Fine line between love and hate and all that.”
Before I can respond, my phone buzzes on the table. “FATHER” flashes across the screen in all caps, and that one word hits me like a punch to the gut.
I brace myself. If I don’t answer, it’ll only get worse. And if I do…well, it won’t be great, either.
The familiar twist tightens low in my stomach. Frustration. Resentment. Obligation.
Even now, with my own career, my own place, my own life, he still finds ways to insert himself. Always with expectations. Always with control.
I flash Grant an apologetic look. He gives me a small nod, a silent go-ahead.
I step out into the hallway and answer.
“Lucas.” My father’s voice is ice. “I expect you’re already meeting with an attorney.”
“Good morning to you, too, Dad.”
“This is not a joke. You will annul this…indiscretion immediately. I’ve already called Bernard to handle the paperwork.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Bernard, his ancient attorney, who still uses a flip phone and a fax machine. “I have my own lawyer.”
“You will use Bernard. And you will issue a statement explaining that this was a misunderstanding, possibly orchestrated by that woman. Perhaps she had ulterior motives, given your position.”
I feel heat creeping into my face. “She’s not after my money, Dad. Her father owns the California Devils.”
“The what?”
“It’s a Major League Baseball team. Trust me, she doesn’t need or want your money.”
“Then they’re after connections to my campaign. You’ll suggest she took advantage—”
“Dad, stop.” I’m surprised by the firmness in my voice. “I’m not blaming Jess for anything. This was mutual…” I stop myself before I say “stupidity.” It doesn’t feel exactly stupid.
A long pause.
“Lucas James Carmichael, the future of this family’s legacy is at stake. Your sister’s husband is up for re-election. I’m announcing my gubernatorial run in less than six months. And you’re in the tabloids with some sports reporter—”
“Journalist,” I correct automatically, my jaw already clenching.
“Whatever she is, she is not Madeline Bishop. Who, by the way, is devastated. Her father called me this morning. You will fix this. You will tell Madeline you are interested in her. You will do your duty to this family for once in your life.”
The call disconnects, and as I stand there in the hallway, the silence is louder than anything he said.
My phone stays in my hand, but my fingers curl into a fist around it. My jaw is tight, and my shoulders are tense. There’s a throb in my temple and a burning at the base of my throat that I can’t swallow away.
I’m almost thirty years old. I run communications for one of the most powerful studios in Hollywood. But after five minutes on the phone with him, I’m twelve again, with my back straight and my tie perfect, nodding through his monologue about legacy and image like it was gospel.
He didn’t ask what I want. He never has. He doesn’t care that I’ve built a career that I’m proud of and that I’m good at it. He doesn’t care that I’ve done it on my own. All that matters to him is how I’m perceived, if I’m aligned, or if I can offer anything useful politically.
And now he wants me to call up Madeline, string her along for optics, and pretend she’s what I want? That’s not who I am. I might be his son, but I’m not him.
I have no interest in turning my personal life into a negotiation, no interest in pretending to care about someone for the sake of “family strategy.” I’ve played the game long enough to know exactly what it costs, and I’m done footing the bill.
I take a deep breath, scrub a hand over my face, and steel myself before walking back in. Grant’s watching me, his expression unreadable.
“I take it your father isn’t happy?” he asks with one brow raised.
“No.” I exhale slowly. “I’ve ruined his plans for a political merger between our family and one of his donors.”
Grant nods slowly and then gestures to his laptop. “You know, Dylan Reeves has a first-look deal with us.”
The abrupt subject change throws me. “I thought so.”
“This show he’s been developing about industry power dynamics, we’re likely to bid on it when he’s ready.”
“Grant, listen—”
“The footage he posted of you and Jessica has already gone viral. The chemistry reads well on camera. Very authentic.”
“It’s not—”
“Let me guess,” Grant continues, standing to pace.
“Your father wants you to annul your marriage and blame your new wife, a respected journalist with significant industry connections, I might add, so you can marry the daughter of his donor.” He stops to fix me with a pointed look.
“How do you think that plays in the press?”
My stomach sinks. “Not well.”
“Not well,” he echoes. “And it puts this studio in the position of having our head of communications appear manipulative, dishonest, and, frankly, a bit of an ass.”
He’s right. As much as I hate to admit it, spinning this to blame Jess would be inexcusable, both personally and professionally.
“Dylan’s documentary could be interesting,” Grant says, returning to his seat, “and staying married, even temporarily, would certainly silence your father’s pressure about Madeline.”
I stare at him. “You can’t be serious.”
“Six months. Maybe a year at most. You present a united front, do the documentary, then have an amicable separation when the spotlight fades.” He shrugs. “It’s not uncommon in this town.”
“You want me to stay married. To Jess Lexington. The woman who once published a three-thousand-word exposé on studios manipulating box office numbers.”
“The very one.” Grant smiles. “It was excellent reporting, by the way. Got us all to clean up our practices.”
“She’ll never agree to this.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” He leans back in his chair. “But consider the benefits for her, too.”
I think about how our marriage immediately protects her from relentless industry players like our friend Marcus—and the documentary exposure could boost her podcast significantly.
My mind races, attempting to process the surreal turn this meeting has taken. “You’re suggesting I pitch this to her as a business arrangement?”
“I’m suggesting you consider all options before rushing to undo something that might actually solve several problems at once.” Grant stands, signaling the end of our meeting. “Talk to Jess. See where her head is at.”
I rise, feeling unsettled. “And if she says no?”
Grant clasps my shoulder. “Then you annul the marriage, weather the storm from your father and the press, and we all move on.
As I leave his office, my phone buzzes with a text from Jess.
JESS
My lawyer says we need to meet. Today. How’s 4pm? I’ll send address shortly.
I stare at the message as Grant’s proposal echoes in my head.
Six months of pretending to be married to the most infuriating woman I know.
Six months of domestic proximity to someone who’s made a career of challenging people like me.
Six months of fighting this unwelcome attraction that’s apparently visible enough for even Grant to notice.
It’s ridiculous. Impossible. A disaster waiting to happen.
So, why am I already drafting a pros and cons list in my head?
LUCAS
I’ll be there.