Chapter Four
ARIA
Hawkeyes Arena glitters around me.
White draped tables, chandeliers the size of cars, floral arches that smell like money and roses.
Cammy squeezes my arm as we walk in, her emerald green dress beside my careful black.
She’s here for her own taste of vengeance against a gorgeous hockey goalie that she refuses to admit she’s perfect with.
"You look like you’re about to acquire a tech company," she whispers. "I love it."
"I look like I’m about to cry in a bathroom stall," I mutter.
"Isn't that the same thing?" she teases.
Cammy puts me to work, organizing the silent auction tables, making sure that guests are assigned their correct paddle numbers for the live auction portion of the evening. I’m grateful for the job. At least I feel more in my element.
Soon, the event is in full swing and guests are beginning to arrive.
There’s a string quartet playing as people arrive.
It’s an event where people earn my monthly Brookhaven payment in a single evening.
I’ve been to dozens of them—part of the job.
Used to be part of the job. Now I feel like I’m crashing it.
Penelope drags me to the bar and orders champagne I’ll pretend to drink.
"You need to circulate," she says. "Mingle. Remind people you exist. I looked over the list last night, and I know there is at least one headhunter here in attendance and most of the people here own large companies. Someone has to have a job opening. It might not be what you’re used to making—"
"—but it’s better than broke," I finish for her.
She reaches out and rubs my arm. "It’s a start. Have some faith. We’re here for you," she says. And I know that between Penelope and Cammy, they have my back. "Worst case, we can cover Brookhaven’s fees—"
"No," I tell her instantly. I can’t let her do that. I can’t owe her that kind of money. "Thank you, but I have to do this on my own. I owe him that."
She lays a hand on my shoulder. "I know I didn’t know you then, but that drunk driver wasn’t your fault, Aria. You know that, right?"
I nod, but only to put her mind at ease because the truth is, I’ve never forgiven myself for my parents being out that night to attend my first gallery opening, and I don’t think I ever will.
"I just need to find a new job. That's what I am focusing on tonight."
She rolls her eyes at me. "Everett Kauffman is an idiot and also a coward. Don’t internalize his stupid choices."
The problem is, he’s not an idiot. He’s ice-sharp and calculating, and he made a business decision.
That’s what burns. It was never personal to him—just redundant overhead getting eliminated.
Meanwhile, I’m lying awake at 3 a.m. doing mental math about co-pays and facility fees, and he’s probably sleeping like a man who has access to expensive sleeping medications and enough money to solve all of his problems.
Penelope looks frantically around the auction table. "Shoot, the paddle cards for the staff are upstairs," she says. "I swear I brought them down."
One of the event coordinators walks by, reminding Penelope that she’s needed on stage to welcome the guests.
"Don’t worry," I say. "I’ll run up and grab them."
She smiles, and I can see her panic subside. "Thank God you’re here tonight. Have I said lately how stupid Everett is for firing you?"
I give a soft chuckle. "Take care of the guests. I’ll run up and grab them."
She hands me her clearance badge since I no longer have one, and I head for the elevator, knowing my way like muscle memory.
I extract myself from the crowd and head for the staircase.
The fourth floor is quieter—most of the administrative staff are downstairs as it is after hours and everyone was invited to the event.
I find the staff paddles on Penelope’s desk where she must have left them earlier today, and I’m halfway back to the stairs when I hear voices.
Male voices. Coming from a private room, the door cracked open.
Everett’s voice.
I should keep walking. I know I should keep walking. Instead, I drift closer, a ghost in black silk.
"—weeks out," Everett is saying, and his tone is the one I used to hear in board meetings. Controlled. Tired of controlling. "The trust’s timeline is accelerating."
"So marry someone. It’s not rocket science. Pick a woman downstairs if you have to." It’s a voice I’ve heard before. Damien Rockmore. Another Seattle billionaire, only Damien is self-made through a tech company he founded in college.
I’ve met him a handful of times when he’s come by to urge Everett to go golfing mid-day or take a flight to France for lunch.
"The wrong choice costs me nine figures. The trust has specific parameters—"
"Yeah, yeah. She has to be magnanimous and genuinely committed and probably noble and boring as hell." Damien’s laugh is sharp. "You know what your problem is? You’re thinking too hard. For some unknown reason, you’re worried the woman you marry is going to fall madly in love with you.
I’m sorry to disappoint, but frankly, you’re not even that easy to like. "
"Thanks, asshole."
Damien chuckles. "That was supposed to make you feel better."
"Then let’s be thankful you’re not someone’s therapist."
"I’m just saying, most people want something.
Find a woman who wants something tangible that you can give her in one year.
Have Christian draw up a secret prenup between you two.
Offer her enough money to marry you for one year and then divorce amicably.
A year later, you can tell the press that you work too much and you never see each other enough—she asked for a divorce.
No one will bat an eye. Just get this done.
You don’t have another choice and you need to marry her in less than three weeks. "
My heart stops and I feel lightheaded from holding my breath for too long. The paddle cards press marks into my palm.
"Just sign a one-year prenup and give her a payout," Everett says as if he’s turning the idea over in his head.
"Exactly. Cut and dry. She gets what she wants, and you get what you want. Have her sign an NDA if you have to, just do it and do it now."
"The prenup would have to be iron-clad," Everett says.
"Christian is one of the best lawyers out there. I’m sure he’ll make sure there are no loopholes that she can wiggle out of."
"I’ll call him tomorrow."
"Good. Now..." Damien says. "Is Everly here?"
"We’ve been over this. You're not dating my sister. She's ten years younger than you and too smart for your bullshit. Besides, she’s out of your league, and she hates your guts for some reason. Didn’t you bring a model as your date anyway?"
"Yeah, right. Good luck finding a wife," Damien says.
Footsteps start toward the door, but this time I’m not frozen. I’m moving, slipping into the shadows by the staircase. Damien emerges first, and if he sees me, he gives no sign. He’s still smiling that devilish smile, adjusting his cufflinks like he didn’t just detonate something inside my chest.
Everett needs a wife. And he’s willing to pay for it.
That’s when I make the decision. One that has me unsure if this dress is so tight that it’s cutting off the oxygen to my brain.
I step out of the shadow and push his office door open.
He glances up at me from the other side of his desk.
"Aria. I didn’t know you were here. How did you get up to this floor without clearance?"
"Penelope asked me to grab something for her."
He stares back at me for a moment as if waiting for the reason I just barged in on him.
"You need a wife."
His eyes narrow, realization dawning. "You were eavesdropping," he says. Not a question.
"Yes."
"The second time you’ve overheard one of my private conversations."
"Yes." I’ve found my spine somewhere between fear and desperation. "I know you need a wife. I know the trust has a deadline. And I know you need someone who understands the parameters and won’t make this—" I gesture between us "—harder than it has to be."
He straightens, folding his arms across his chest, his tux pulling tight over muscles he’s spent plenty of time building in the gym.
"Are you trying to blackmail me into giving you your job back?"
"What? No." I shake my head. "I need money. I’m offering to be your wife." The words come faster now, because I’ve started and there’s only forward. "I need three hundred and sixty thousand dollars. No more, no less." My throat tightens around the number. It’s more money than I’ve ever seen in my life. To Everett, it’s probably nothing.
"The amount isn’t negotiable. I’ll marry you.
For a year, or whatever the timeline is. I’ll be exactly what you need."
"Aria—" he starts, his arms uncrossing.
"Don’t." I hold up a hand. "Don’t tell me I’m confused or emotional or not thinking clearly.
I am thinking clearly. You need a wife. I need—" I stop myself. He doesn’t need to know what the money is for.
I can keep at least one thing for myself.
"I need a business arrangement. And we already know you don’t actually want me around as an employee, so at least this would be honest."
I move around the desk until I’m standing directly in front of him. Close enough that he has to look at me. Close enough that he can’t dismiss me from across polished wood and leather.
"You don’t know what you’re offering," he says quietly. "This won’t be romantic. You’d be lying to the trust board.
To the public. Not even your friends and family could know it wasn’t real.
You wouldn’t be allowed to date anyone else for the entire year.
If the trust finds out it was fake, you get nothing.
It would be controlled. Restrictive. There would be public appearances, private dinners, and—" He stops, jaw tightening. "The appearance of intimacy."
My mouth goes dry. "I understand."