Chapter Eleven
Hayden
Astack of papers hits my distressed white desk with a soft thud.
Annoyed, I inhale through my nose and then cut my eyes upward, not bothering to tilt my head in the direction of the hovering man.
I know who it is, and I know he knows throwing papers on my desk without explanation is a pet peeve of mine.
“What’s this?” I ask, biting my tongue to try and keep the snark under wraps.
“The marriage contract.”
Papers threaten to cut my fingers as I quickly flip through the pages, counting them.
“This has to be at least fifty pages.” Panic settles in my chest as I continue to count. “Okay, more than fifty. How did you draft this already? We’ve been engaged for two hours.”
Unamused, he says in a gruff voice, “The wedding will happen next Saturday. Read through the document and add any changes in the margins.”
“But I—” I look up just as the door shuts, and I realize Darcy has left the room.
“Nine days.” I choke on the words as I process aloud. “Nine days. In nine days, I will be legally married to Darcy Marshall. In the eyes of the law, I will be his wife.” My heart struggles to maintain proper beats as reality sets in.
Being his wife is better than not having a place to live. Or drowning in student debt.
I think.
I’ve tried to find places to live within my budget, but nothing is available. The apartments that are open are in sketchy locations I no longer care to live. I’ve begged my landlady not to sell, but it’s no use. What’s happening is happening.
How does one put together a wedding in nine days? Not to mention, a wedding that will capture the attention of every news outlet and tabloid? My breathing becomes rapid and sweat prickles at the edges of my hairline.
It’s rare I wish for a mom since I’ve been on my own for so long, but… God, I could really use a mom right now.
My door opens without a knock and Darcy saunters back in.
“Mr. Marshall.” His name is a rasp on my lips. I meet his eyes.
“About the wedding…” He trails off, looking away before continuing. “Mother will take care of everything. My networking company, COFFEE, will pay for it.”
I stare at the man in front of me, watching his Adam’s apple bob up and down. He finally looks my way again, and I simply nod, not trusting words.
He tilts his head to the side, almost as if he is expressing sympathy, and then he walks out of the door.
His mother.
The thought of in-laws never crossed my mind when I agreed to marry Darcy.
Student loans, a place to live, a possible trip to Japan, Secretary of State, and a higher income were occupying my thoughts.
Not a mother-in-law or a dead father-in-law with an unpleasant reputation. Goodness, is it hot in here?
I close my eyes and flap my hands wildly around my face.
Two hands wrap around my wrist mid flap, then my hands are engulfed by a much larger set.
“Darcy,” I say, recognizing his spicy scent. I don’t open my eyes.
“If you want to back out, now is your chance. I will not force you to marry me. But I think this can work.” The sincerity in his voice takes me by surprise, and I finally open my eyes. If his voice was sincere, his eyes are sparkling blue pools of truth.
I trust him.
Though he is cold and standoffish, I think it’s because he doesn’t process the world like the rest of us.
I’ve been getting glimmers of that lately.
He apologizes when he needs to, and he’s never done anything to intentionally hurt me.
Stella is right—he cares for his people even if he doesn’t always do the greatest job at showing it.
I can do this.
We can do this.
My breathing finally begins to slow.
“I’m okay. Let’s do this.”
He releases my hands, and they suddenly feel cold and lonely, as if his hands were a comfy blanket ripped away without warning. Ignoring the feeling, I pick up the contract.
“Read through it. Contact me if you have any questions.” And with that, he’s gone again. Hopefully, for good.
Because the flush burning my face now has nothing to do with anxious thoughts and everything to do with Darcy’s hands on mine.
He has never been that kind and considerate to me. He gave me an honest chance to back out. I should have taken it. I should have said never mind and started apartment hunting again.
But the thing is… I didn’t want to back out. The look in his eyes and the loneliness in my heart says we need each other. Even if it’s not for love.
Alone with my thoughts and a hefty contract to sift through, I crank up J-Pop music and get to reading. If majoring in political science and studying public relations and policy has taught me one thing, it is to always read contracts.
Fujii Kaze fills my ears and my eyes stare at the bolded words: Marriage Contract.
Here goes nothing.
Two hours, three cups of coffee, and an entire J-Pop playlist later, I stand up to stretch my stiff muscles. A headache has set in during the last forty-five minutes of the endeavor, and my eyes pulse and ache from dryness and strain.
So far, I’ve read about possession security, grounds for divorce, and the terms of dissolving the marriage at the end of the candidacy or the presidency.
And I’m only twenty-eight pages in. Nothing has been inherently disagreeable at the moment, so I’m hopeful it will remain that way.
A yawn rips through me; it’s time to go home.
I pack up my things and navigate the hallways of Darcy’s estate—the very place I’ll soon be living at—to find the exit and my car waiting for me.
As I’m driving home, the world seems to sing a different tune.
Everything is going to change, and I can’t help but wonder if it will be a change for the better or for the worse.
If I was a person who suffered from anxiety, I would be falling to pieces right now.
But thankfully, I’ve thought through this decision, and I’ve come to terms with it.
Mostly.
Whatever is going to happen will happen.
I am marrying Darcy Marshall next Saturday. I will be Hayden Bennett Marshall. My student loans will be paid, I will have a place to live, my dreams of becoming Secretary of State one day will be closer than ever, and I might even get a trip to Japan.
In nine days, I will change my last name on the basis of trust, not love.
And the world is going to erupt at the news.
Has anyone told the PR and Social Media departments about this? They need to be prepared for the media storm.
Wait. That’s my job. I have to tell my team.
“Ugh!” I’m groaning when my phone rings. “Hey, Stells.”
“So, how did it go? I’ve been on pins and needles over here waiting to hear from you.” The excited tone tells me everything I need to know regarding her feelings toward this fake marriage. She’s delusional and thinks it’ll become real.
“I’m currently driving home after drowning myself in pages upon pages of marriage contract details. How do you think it went?”
Stella yawns before responding. “He must have already had that prepared.”
“Makes sense. He was searching for a wife after all.”
“You’re really doing this.” We sit in silence as I mull over my thoughts.
If you would have asked me only six months ago if I would have said yes to something like this, I would have laughed in your face.
Furthermore, if you would have told me that I would real fake-marry Darcy Marshall, I might have passed out from shock.
What changed? Because he hasn’t changed. I haven’t changed.
Yet, I said yes.
“I have my reasons,” I say to myself more than to her.
I contemplate inviting her to the wedding.
But it’s not real, and I don’t need her by my side to witness me marrying for reasons other than love.
She got the love of her life, and though I know she would be here in a heartbeat if I asked, I don’t want her to watch me practically sell myself out. She can watch online anyway.
I pull into the parking garage and click off the phone with Stella. For once in my life, I want to be alone with my thoughts tonight.
And there’s still so much contract to read.
Once I am snugly inside my blue sherpa blanket with a hot cup of cinnamon tea, I flip to the page of the contract I left off on. This section is titled “Arrangements.”
A quick scan reveals this is about how I will live at his house, travel with him, have personal security with me at all times when I’m out, and give up my apartment.
I laugh bitterly to myself. If I wasn’t already being evicted, that would have been scratched out with a red pen.
As a matter of fact, I think I’ll scratch it out anyway.
He doesn’t get to tell me what I can and can’t keep that belongs to me.
A girl can fight for her own living space against an all-controlling tyrant such as Darcy Marshall, right?
Even if it’s all a facade because I’m losing the apartment.
But he doesn’t need to know that.
As I continue to read, I put my red pen to good use.
Apparently, he should have consulted me first when it came to writing this arrangement section because there are countless things I firmly do not agree with.
For example, he wants me to wear dresses to dinner parties and other formalized events.
Darcy Marshall must have some kind of dress fetish; I’m convinced.
And what’s with the “Party Two will sleep in the same hotel room as Party One when traveling” nonsense?
Because heck no. Party Two will not sleep in the same room as Party One.
Ever.
I check the time and debate calling Darcy to settle these “arrangements” right now, but I’d rather see his face when he meets the mighty force of my red pen, so I will wait until tomorrow.
With that, I zoom through the remaining few pages of the contract, all of which I agree to, or at the very least, don’t feel like fighting him on, and then hit the hay.