Aubrey
Linden Dunleavy opens his copy of the proposal folder across from me. I remember how those hands felt opening me and—
Stop it.
Just stop it.
He's Linden Dunleavy. The Sentinel executive tied to the system Lantern House is preparing to testify against. The same Linden who's about to propose a contract marriage.
I should be outraged. I should have walked out. I should—
And yet here I am, ready to entertain the proposal.
This may be the stupidest adult decision I've ever made, and I once ate gas-station tuna at two in the morning.
Hester sets a copy in front of me. "The offer is an eighteen-month fixed-term civil marriage, with a six-month minimum and an option to dissolve before the full term under controlled conditions if the Sentinel final approval campaign closes without further board challenge."
My ears ring at civil marriage. Like adding civil makes the rest of it more sane. Civil please sign here and become legally attached to the man who had his mouth all over you.
Nope. Don't think mouth. Think clauses.
Hester continues. "Lantern House's rescue package would not be paid to you.
It would not be controlled by Mr. Dunleavy personally.
The structure proposed is an independent stabilization trust funded before the marriage filing, administered by outside trustees, with disbursements tied to Lantern House Network's operating needs.
For your trouble, we are also reserving a flat fee of five hundred thousand dollars, payable directly to you after the initial six month period. "
My mind goes blank at the five hundred thousand dollars part and I don't hear anything else.
Five hundred thousand dollars?
Five hundred effin' thousand dollars?
Oh my god.
Where do I sign up?
"Why?" My voice comes out flat. Good. Flat's better than shrieking for joy. Wouldn't want to give away how badly I want this. Need this. Fake wife? Sure whatever. 500k? Yes please. "Why me?"
Hester slides another page forward. "Nadine Dunleavy, Linden's mother and the founder-chair of Dunleavy Media Holdings, has a stability clause that requires a legal spouse of record before the Board credits Linden's governance lane during the Sentinel approval window. That means a wife."
Doesn't really answer the question of why me, but... 500k.
I look at Linden. I don't want that smug bastard to think he's won just yet.
Let's give him a little bit of a fight.
"So I'm a governance lane now huh?" I taunt.
"No," he says. "You're the only person in this room who can call bullshit on Sentinel and still make the marriage credible."
That's worse than a compliment. That's a compliment with a crowbar.
I'm just the hostile witness to him, then. The perfect solution to his problem.
Nothing more.
Too bad.
I was almost starting to believe last night meant something.
Hester says, "Your scheduled testimony is part of why this proposal has to be insulated. The Aubrey Bell witness packet and the Lantern House due-diligence file cannot look like a purchase of silence. The—"
"Then why pick me at all?" I retort. "If I show up as his wife it's obviously a conflict of interest. Not sure how that won't look purchased."
"Because you're still going to testify against Sentinel," Linden says quietly. "In fact the draft specifically states that you retain the right to testify truthfully before the Metropolitan Data Use Commission."
I stare at the page until the words blur. "You built this around my testimony and Lantern House's debt."
"Yes," Linden says.
"I don't get it," I reply. And then it finally dawns on me. "I marry the face of predictive surveillance, then walk into a hearing and tell the city predictive surveillance can get survivors hurt."
Hester leans in. "Publicly, that contradiction becomes the argument for internal reform.
Linden marries a credible critic, not a socialite, not a friendly board asset, not someone who can be dismissed as bought before she opens her mouth.
The risk is obvious. The usefulness is also obvious.
His shares in the company will be virtually guaranteed. "
"There's no way my mother will believe the marriage is fake," Linden agrees.
I shake my head. "But the second any marriage announcement hits, Lantern House staff start wondering whether I traded the case for a ring.
Residents hear Dunleavy money and wonder if their files, their stories, their whole awful history with Sentinel just got folded into my personal deal.
" I tap the page. "It might not look like I was bought to your family. But to everyone else?"
"Then the trust language has to be strong enough for your board to review," Hester says. "And your independent counsel."
"I'm not signing anything today," I blurt out instinctively.
But... 500k?
Hope I don't regret those words.
Linden's gaze stays on me. The scratches on his hands stand out.
Those hands that had me pinned...
"Let's see what we have..." I pick up the draft and look at the tabs. "Term length. Cohabitation. Public appearances. Discretionary funds." I stop. "Discretionary funds?"
Hester answers before Linden can. "Household spending, wardrobe required for public events, travel, staff, medical privacy protections, security related to your public role."
"I have my own clothes," I protest.
Hester glances at my hoodie and then, wisely, doesn't complete whatever sentence was on his lips.
"In any case, these funds are above and beyond your 500k disbursement due after the six months, which is guaranteed," he finishes instead.
"Good, but, any wardrobe provisions go through me," I say. "I'm serious about this. No makeover ambush. No stylist measuring my hips while pretending it's empowerment."
"Agreed," Linden says.
My eyes snap back to him. "I wasn't asking you."
"You should," he says. "It's my house they'll try to dress you for."
I turn back to Hester because looking at him is bad for my dignity. "Cohabitation?"
"The public story works better if you share a residence," Hester says.
I frown, but of course he's right.
Hester flips to a page. "The draft assigns you a private suite in the penthouse. Separate bedroom. Separate bath. Lockable door. Staff access only with your consent except emergencies."
I look at Linden. "Written. Not suggested. Not 'we discussed it.' Written."
"It is written," Hester says. "It's right here." He points at a line.
I grab his copy, read the paragraph he pointed at, then give it back.
"Add separate bedrooms for the full term unless I request otherwise in writing.
Add that marriage doesn't create any expectation of sex, physical contact, sharing a bed, changing clothes in the same room, or being available on demand because a photographer caught us holding hands outside some horrible charity breakfast."
Hester nods. "We can draft a personal conduct covenant. Consent remains revocable at all times."
I keep my eyes on my own copy of the contract. "Right to refuse intimacy. In plain language. Not legal fog."
Linden says, "Yes."
Too fast.
My skin goes hot again, because yes from that mouth has history now. Last night, yes had meant his body over mine and his voice telling me to stop pretending I didn't want exactly what I was asking for.
I force my attention back to the page.
"Don't yes me like you're granting a permit," I say to nobody in particular.
I risk a glance at him. A corner of his mouth almost moves.
"I'm agreeing to the clause," he says finally.
Hester coughs and keeps writing.
I turn a page. "What happens if one of us wants out early? Don't say 'six-month minimum' like it's a locked door."
This time Linden answers. "Six months is the stability period Sentinel needs before the Board stops treating the marriage as provisional.
You can force an exit before then. Your counsel notifies Hester and Felix, and we file within the day.
Public language goes out before market open if timing requires it.
The trust doesn't claw back funds already disbursed to Lantern House, but new disbursements pause for independent review so no one can claim I paid you to stay married.
The Board reopens my stability review. Sentinel takes a hit.
Reporters ask whether I coerced you, whether you sold testimony, whether I lost control of my own house.
You'll be followed. Lantern House will be called. Marnie will be called."
"What about my personal fee?" I ask.
"Early exit costs three thousand dollars for every day you're short of six months," he replies.
"And if you want out?" I ask.
"Same filings," he says. "Same market damage. Worse for you publicly unless I take blame first."
"Would you?" I press.
"Yes." I hate that I believe him a little.
I close my eyes for one second.
Bad idea.
Our lovemaking flashes behind my eyelids. White sheets. His hand at my waist.
I open my eyes. "The elevator video exists."
"The elevator can be the first meeting," Hester says. "Or a parting. Depending on the story we come up with."
I stack the pages, badly. "I need independent review of every clause.
I need proof the Lantern House trust can't be sold, branded, named after your mother, or used as a leash.
I need our board to see the documents without your people in the room.
I need Marnie able to tell residents, truthfully, that Lantern House didn't become another thing Linden Dunleavy owns. "
"It won't," he says.
"Proof," I say. "Not your voice."
He looks down at the page before answering. "You'll have it."
I stand because staying seated any longer feels like agreeing, and I'm not agreeing.
But 500k...
I look at Linden one last time. "I'm probably still going to tell you to go to hell."
Though I already know I'm going to accept.
His eyes stay on mine. "All good."
I leave before my mouth finds another quip.
His chief of staff walks me down without asking whether I'm okay. Points for that.