Chapter Seven #3
Claudia Preston, Arnold Harris, and Sadie O’Connor. Three associates that Conrad Kauffman called his “inner circle”. The three people he asked to become the trust’s board of trustees to keep the children he never met from foiling his legacy.
Ms. Preston folds her hands. "Mr. Kauffman. Mr. Kauffman."
Christian inclines his head. I nod once.
"Your engagement," she says, not wasting time with pleasantries, which I appreciate. "Why did we learn about it through the press rather than through your office?"
Every eye in the room pins me where I stand.
I take my seat.
"We were keeping the relationship private," I say evenly. "That changed."
"Conveniently," one of the directors mutters.
Christian opens his folder, but I lift a hand. This part is mine.
"Aria worked closely with me during the Hawkeyes transition. We intended to handle the announcement more carefully. Circumstances forced the issue."
Ms. Preston's expression does not change. "And you expect us to accept that this marriage is genuine?"
I meet her gaze without blinking. "Yes."
She lets that sit while glancing down at paperwork, adjusting the glasses on her nose. "You terminated Ms. Taylor's employment last week."
I don't flinch. "A staffing decision. Since revised."
"Revised because she became your fiancee?" another board member asks.
"Revised because her continued employment created a conflict of interest," I say.
It's not the whole truth. But it's also not a lie.
Christian steps in, voice calm. "The trust requires a marriage by the deadline. It does not prohibit a relationship from developing within a professional environment, provided the conflict is addressed."
Ms. Preston looks at him, then back at me.
"And Ms. Taylor is suitable?"
My fingers twitch once, involuntarily, against my thighs under the table.
"She is intelligent, steady, adaptable, and more than capable of meeting expectations."
I hear Christian shift beside me. The particular shift that means I've said something factually accurate and emotionally bankrupt.
"And they fell in love while they worked closely together," Christian adds, in the warm tone I apparently don't own.
Right. The emotion bit I forgot. I realize now that I just made it sound like I was giving her a job reference.
"Right. It wasn't my intention to fall for someone in the office. But it happened."
Ms. Preston watches me too closely. The kind of watching that tells me she's not fooled and she knows it and I know she knows it, and we're all going to sit here and pretend otherwise because the trust doesn't require her to believe me. It requires her to follow the rules.
Finally, she nods once.
"The board will permit this engagement to proceed."
Permit.
Like they're granting me a parking permit. Like I've just been approved for a zoning variance.
"However," she continues, "if at any point we determine this marriage is being executed solely to satisfy the trust, the consequences will extend to every Kauffman heir."
I already knew that. Christian, Genevieve, and every trust attorney in the state of Washington have drilled the clauses into our heads.
But hearing it aloud from the board itself—twelve directors saying it in a room that smells like leather and expensive mistakes—brings a new kind of weight to keeping this thing from going south.
Christian closes his folder. "Understood. Everett is very much in love."
He flashes a look at me. So does Ms. Preston.
"Right," I say. "Yes. Very in love."
I sound like a man ordering a sandwich.
They dismiss us with nods and thinly veiled contempt.
I don't think they believe me for a second, but they still have to follow the trust requirements, which demand they allow me to marry someone to keep my inheritance.
The moment the doors close behind us, Christian exhales like he's been holding his breath for the last forty-five minutes.
"Well," he says, "don't ever let me put you on the stand to testify. You're the shittiest liar I've ever seen."
"Fuck off."
I shove him toward the elevator.
He laughs all the way down the corridor.
Then I remember.
Brookhaven.
The memory care facility. The same facility that our family has contributed to for years, ever since Conrad Kauffman spent some of his final days there.
The facility that keeps Aria's father safe and cared for and in a private room because someone is paying for it—someone who, until recently, was Aria, draining savings she didn't have because the alternative was a waitlist and a shared room and a man who forgets his daughter's name being treated like a number.
I pull out my phone and make the call before I can talk myself out of it.
The line rings twice.
"Brookhaven Memory Center, this is Gladys."
"Gladys, this is Everett Kauffman."
A brief pause. Then her tone brightens. "Mr. Kauffman. What a pleasure. I usually hear from the family accountant or Ms. Kauffman. What can I do for you today?"
I glance down the empty corridor, lowering my voice even though no one is close enough to hear me.
"I'd like to make a payment on my fiancée's father's account."
Another beat.
Then, warmly, "Of course, sir. And congratulations. I had no idea you were engaged."
"Thank you," I say, because that's what normal people say when someone congratulates them on their upcoming fake marriage. "I'd like to cover the next quarter in full. We'll be traveling soon, and I don't want anything disrupting his care while we're away."
"Certainly, Mr. Kauffman. I can take care of that for you."
"And if anything comes up," I add, "and I'm unavailable, contact Everly Kauffman or the family accountant directly. I don't want there to be any interruption in his treatment."
"Of course. I'll make a note on the account."
I give her the payment information, wait until she confirms the balance is covered through the end of the quarter, then end the call.
For a moment, I just stand there in the middle of the corridor with my phone still in my hand.
It's a simple enough thing. Money in. Problem handled. That's the only kind of help I know how to give—the kind that doesn't require me to feel anything, just write a check and move on.
Except I'm not moving on.
I’m in a hallway thinking about a woman who spent six months bringing me coffee I never asked for, who chased me barefoot down arena steps, who looked at a ten-million-dollar ring like it mattered because I put it there, not because of what it cost.
She signed a contract for money.
I tuck the phone away, square my shoulders, and head for the elevator.
It's almost ten and I know Aria has a dress fitting at ten-thirty because Everly texted me to make sure my driver was available.
My driver. For her fitting. Because somehow, without anyone's permission, the infrastructure of my life has already started rearranging itself around her.
Time to get back to work.
I have a company to run. A fake engagement to maintain. A board to manage. A contract to honor. And a woman in my penthouse who has no idea that I swam forty laps this morning trying to outrun the memory of her kiss and didn't even come close.
But maybe today, I'll work from home.