Chapter 4 – Nicholas
NICHOLAS
An Hour Later
“For the umpteenth time, Mr. Saint, I’m not committing a felony for you…” The notary shook his head.
“How the hell is what I’m asking for a felony?” I asked.
“Because you’re requesting that I lie on a federal document,” he said. “Not only that, but you’re asking me to make up an entire human being who doesn’t exist.”
“It’s a bullshit marriage license.” I waved a hand. “No one checks into these things.”
“You don’t think Nicholas Saint—i.e., the wealthiest man in this state—getting married to a ‘Jane Ashley Smith’ will draw intrigue from anyone?”
“Not anyone who matters.”
“What about thirsty reporters who are constantly tracking everything you do?”
“Surely you can recommend some decent hitmen, given your profession.”
“That’s it.” He shut his briefcase and stood up from the chair. “Please tell your assistant that she’s the loveliest person I’ve ever met, and whenever you have something I can legally do, give me a call. Goodbye.”
“I’m not validating your parking.”
“Miss Dawson already did.” He didn’t bother shaking my hand. He just left my office.
This was such bullshit.
I paced the floor, dragging a hand through my hair, resisting the urge to pull down every painting and hurl them across the room one by one.
I’d been looking forward to this date for years.
Fucking years, and I’d developed the kind of patience that slowly grows into entitlement.
I assigned my in-house legal team to literally reread the terms and conditions every three months, and not once did any of them send up a red flag about this newest clause that my father somehow sent from his grave.
They’re fired…
Furious, I walked over to my desk and picked up the phone.
I knew someone who actually would break the law to help, but I wasn’t sure if it was worth it.
Yet.
I dialed the number I knew by heart, and the line didn’t even get a chance to ring.
“This is Damien Carter of Hamilton & Associates,” my private and personal lawyer answered. “What do you need?”
“I need you to start answering my calls with a greeting,” I said. “I believe I pay you enough for that, so ‘Hello, Nicholas,’ ‘Happy holidays, Nicholas,’ and ‘How are you, Nicholas,’ are a few you can choose from.”
“I charge by the minute, but since you’re in the mood to spend money on me today—hello, Nicholas. Sit back, relax, and tell me all about your childhood…”
“Point taken,” I said. “I need advice on an inheritance issue. It was due to me, but there’s been a hiccup in processing.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that,” he said. “A consummation clause was added within the past two years, and you’re still not married.”
“How did you know that?”
“I’m your lawyer.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about this shit sooner?”
“I tried to,” he said. “I called your assistant and tried to get through to you about it for months. She gave me the same excuse every time: Mr. Saint says he’ll deal with this matter later.”
“Did I get billed for these phantom phone calls and messages?”
“Absolutely.” There was a smile in his voice. “You’re getting billed right now.”
Of course.
“I need a workaround for the consummation clause,” I said. “Surely there’s some way I can get out of it, some type of ‘client is allergic to marriage’ rule so that way it doesn’t apply to me.”
“You can fake your death and sign over the money to me, if you like.”
“Then how would I get access to it?”
“I’d give you half.”
“I’m being serious, Damien.”
“You want a legal answer, or a ‘what I would do if I were you’ answer?”
“Aren’t they the same thing?”
“Not at all.”
I hesitated for a few seconds. “What’s the legal answer?”
“You take the ‘L’ right now and bide your time until the next opportunity to receive your inheritance comes, which is five years,” he said.
“You take care of your business, take some time off to fall in love, and before you know it, you’re married to some girl you met in traffic and she gets to partake in your inheritance with you. ”
“Yeah, no.” I shook my head. “What would you do?”
“I would find a woman who could pretend to be my wife for a few weeks, get through all the paperwork and checkpoints, and then get everything annulled.”
“That sounds shady as hell, Damien.”
“Your contract says you have to be married within the calendar year of your birthday, which is what? Three days after Christmas?”
“Yes.”
“So, you still have a little under two weeks to get that done, and then the firm will take no longer than thirty to sixty days to process everything—depending on how busy things are—and then you’re two hundred million dollars richer and officially a billionaire.”
I shook my head. “You’re missing something. It sounds too good to be true.”
“I thought it sounded shady…”
“It’s that too, but—” I paused, thinking long and hard about it. “Has something like that ever worked for anyone you know?”
“I have a twenty out of twenty record on this type of case,” he said, without hesitation. “It works, as long as you commit and don’t try to overdo it.”
“I’ll have to sleep on it and get back to you.”
“Sounds good. This call will be five thousand dollars.”
“For asking a few simple questions?”
“For asking the best lawyer in New York a few simple questions,” he said. “I’m assuming you have at least ten more.”
“I do.”
“Then start asking.”