PROLOGUE #2
“Because as much as I hate the idea of getting married, I’m also sick of living with my parents.
I'm sick of asking permission to go out with my friends, of getting hounded with Where are you? messages after eight p.m. like I’m still a teenager.
So yeah, I agreed to get set up because I want freedom, not a lifetime commitment ceremony for one man’s emotional bare minimum. ”
I braced myself for the judgment, the eye roll, the patronizing laugh, the you’ll change your mind one day speech I’d already heard a million times.
“I’m not interested in getting married either.”
My head snapped up. “What?”
“I’m only doing this because my mom is dying,” he said. “And it’ll make her sad if she dies and I’m still single.”
For the first time during the evening, I felt like an ass. A well-dressed, charming ass—but still.
“That’s...a way more legitimate reason than mine.”
“Of course it is. Your reasoning is ridiculously immature, while mine is noble and compassionate,” he replied casually. “So, you in?”
My brain stalled. I hadn’t actually expected him to agree—not after a dozen coffee dates and setups that had all fizzled out with a diplomatic rejection or a gentle: you’re not what I’m looking for. I’d never prepared myself for a yes.
Most people looking to get married dim their identity back—turn the volume to polite, hide the quirks, tuck away their honest, sloppy selves until they’ve successfully locked each other down, only revealing the mayhem once it was far too late to return the merchandise.
My approach slanted in the opposite direction.
I had a system. Go in, scan them over, and as soon as I spotted one redeeming feature—a decent laugh, a crooked smile, a shared hatred for pineapple on pizza—I’d unleash my most unfiltered, chaotic self.
I was lucky enough that the unvarnished version of me—the one who talked too much, forgot to sugarcoat, and carried herself like a woman who thought she was right more often than she actually was—turned out not to be a persona at all, but simply the default setting I came factory-installed with, so the performance didn’t take much effort.
It was my litmus test. My pre-emptive strike. Some people called it self-sabotage. I called it safeguarding my most sacred organ.
Because the goal was never to charm them. If one of these men was going to end up my husband, it seemed wiser to make sure he didn’t inspire anything as disastrous as feelings first.
But this time was different. I didn’t actually see anything I liked.
There was no glimmer to fan into disaster, no soft edge to ruin.
He just triggered the worst, loudest, most inconvenient parts of me into the light, with no invitation, no warning, like he’d found the “Do Not Touch” sign on my soul and decided it was a challenge.
I hesitated, nerves catching and fluttering in my chest. Over his shoulder, I caught my mother’s gaze—still fixed on me, not watching so much as scowling.
I typically tried to only acknowledge her at the end when my date was halfway to fleeing the scene and I could finally meet her glare with a smug little smirk, slip on my sunglasses, and make my own dramatic exit.
It was all a part of our game. But now this man—someone I’d known for less than five minutes and already sincerely disliked—was suggesting I play by a different set of rules.
I looked away and quickly did the emotional calculus of what saying yes would cost me.
Pros: He was the opposite of anyone I’d ever be attracted to—which, in this case, was a blessing.
That meant no messy crushes, no heartbreak, no late-night overanalyzing of texts that ended with a passive aggressive goodnight.
I could move out from under my mother’s hovering disapproval, could finally breathe air not filtered through her huffs of constant critique.
I could check the married box once and for all, and maybe the aunties would stop treating me like a ticking time bomb.
My dad had already vetted him with his family and half the neighborhood, so I felt reasonably confident he was harmless. Or at least not criminally alarming.
Cons: This was, objectively, the stupidest, wildest, most irreversible thing I could possibly do because the only thing more exhausting than marriage was the paperwork required to undo one.
People did this, right? Married someone they’d just met?
Usually it involved tequila, questionable life choices, and a neon chapel in Vegas—or, you know, several decades back, when “no” wasn’t even a word women were allowed to use.
But it still counted. Technically. And technically was the only category my current decision-making skills seemed qualified for.
My throat tightened around a laugh I didn’t quite mean. “Are you being for real?” I asked, half hoping he’d grin and tell me it was a joke, that I could safely return to my regularly scheduled, mildly unremarkable life—one that didn’t involve accidentally agreeing to marry a stranger.
He nodded, unfazed, like he was offering to split an appetizer and not a legally binding future.
“You would actually do that? You would get married without the feelings, or the connection—I mean, we couldn’t even get through a single conversation.”
He tilted his head, mouth curving into an aggravating almost-smile. “You know, for a doctor doctor, you’re not very bright.”
A flicker flared through me—irritation, maybe, or that dangerous spark that always lit up when someone told me I couldn’t do something. Especially coming from a man who dressed like a tax accountant on laundry day and held a PhD in the world’s most sleep-inducing subject.
I straightened, my chin tipping in defiance. “Fine. Under one condition.”
His brow arched. “And what’s that?”
“Don’t fall in love with me.”
He blinked, lips twitching like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or call for help. “Sorry,” he said slowly, studying my face. “You’ve spent the last fifteen minutes saying some of the most unhinged things I’ve ever heard, so I genuinely can’t tell if you’re being serious right now.”
I lifted my glass and took a long, deliberate sip of water, eyeing him over the rim like that was a perfectly reasonable declaration to make on a blind date.
His expression shifted as the realization dawned. “Okay,” he said, letting out a breath. “You are being serious.” He ran his fingers through his hair, looking at me with open disbelief. “Um...have you met yourself?”
“Yes,” I said sweetly. “I am extremely lovable.”
“Hm. Maybe to someone with absolutely no standards.” He rubbed a hand over his immaculately trimmed beard, already mentally checking out of the back-and-forth tussle.
“But since you seem worried—no, Lillian. Even if you were the last woman on earth, I’d still manage to resist.” He paused, eyes raking me from head to toe, lips quirking.
The look alone sent an unwelcome flush racing up my spine. “I have excellent taste.”
My first instinct was to punch him. My second was to remind myself that assault probably wasn’t the best way to begin a professional marriage arrangement, so I leveled him with a death glare instead.
“Then I guess I’m in.”