Chapter 7 #2
“Including that board seat on the Reynolds Foundation,” she adds, “which I know you’ve expressed admiration for in the past.” She glances between us. “It’s a position that could give you significant influence in shaping the future of journalism ethics.”
I feel Lucas’s eyes on me, but I can’t look at him. I can’t look at anything.
Twelve million dollars. A seat at the table I’ve dreamed of. And my mom…my mom built this. She built it for me. It’s like she’s reaching out from the grave, not just with a check but with a whisper: I see you. I see the path you chose. I believe in it.
I swallow hard, and my fingers curl into my lap. My chest is tight, not from the money but from the meaning underneath. The weight of what I thought I’d had to prove for all these years just lifted.
After she died, it was like the world around me calcified.
Austin and I stayed close, since we were the two kids left at home who lost the same person and were trying to pretend we didn’t.
Dad was good, steady, warm. He made it through somehow.
But Garrett left for college and never really came back in the same way.
He got his share, I assume. He never said a word. I don’t blame him.
Maybe Mom always knew I’d need something different. Not just money, not just freedom, but proof. That I mattered. That the choices I made by following her into journalism instead of sports, using my voice instead of my swing, weren’t wrong.
“This trust,” Lucas says, his voice careful, “requires her to stay married for at least six months?”
Victoria nods. “At that point, even if you divorce, the assets transfer permanently to Jessica.”
And just like that, my heart riots in a swirl of gratitude, disbelief, and sheer panic.
Six months. With Lucas Carmichael.
Six months of pretending, of playing house with the one man who challenges me, contradicts me, drives me absolutely insane, and sees right through me.
“We need a moment,” I tell Victoria, finally looking at Lucas. “Alone.”
She graciously steps out and closes the door behind her.
“Did you know about this?” I demand as soon as we’re alone.
“About your secret trust fund? No, Jess. Contrary to what you might think, I don’t spend my free time investigating your financial situation.”
I pace the office. “This is insane. We can’t stay married.”
“Why not?”
I stop and stare at him. “Because we’re not actually in love? Because you work for a studio I regularly scrutinize? Because your father wants you to marry someone else for his political gain? Take your pick.”
“Look,” Lucas says, his voice surprisingly gentle, “I’m not suggesting we actually…you know. But if we played along for six months, you’d secure your inheritance, and I’d get my father off my back about Madeline.”
“You sound like you’ve been thinking about this,” I say suspiciously.
Lucas shifts in his chair. “I had a meeting with Grant this morning. He had some thoughts about the situation.”
I groan, burying my head in my hands. “I can’t believe Grant Hall knows about our marriage.”
“Yeah. Just him. And a few million other people the world over.”
Damn social media. Damn champagne.
I sit up, folding my arms. “And what did the great and powerful studio head have to say?”
Lucas hesitates. “He knows I’ve been dealing with some pressure from my father. About Madeline. Grant suggested the documentary might actually be good for both of us.”
“So, your boss thinks we should stay married?”
“Six months,” Lucas says, ignoring my sarcasm. “We do the documentary, make public appearances when necessary, and then part amicably. You get your inheritance and that board seat, I get some peace from my family situation, and we both get exposure from Dylan’s project.”
“This is absolutely crazy,” I mutter, but I’m already running calculations in my head. Six months isn’t that long. I could handle half a year of occasional appearances with Lucas. I see him at most of the events I attend already.
“We could live separately,” I suggest. “Just meet up when we need to film or make appearances.”
“That could work.” Lucas nods. “Professional collaboration with a contractual end date.”
I’m about to respond when both our phones buzz simultaneously.
I glance at the screen.
DYLAN
Excited to start filming! When can we schedule the moving-in footage? I want to capture the full “newlywed nesting” vibe. Let me know your availability!
I slowly look up and meet Lucas’s eyes across the table. He’s already staring at me with a mix of resignation and determination that mirrors my own.
“So much for living separately,” I mutter.
“Six months,” he confirms. “Then we go our separate ways. And we can discuss where we’ll live.”
“Agreed. And no actual…relationship stuff.”
A corner of his mouth twitches. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Scoop. I know it’ll be hard for you to keep your hands to yourself when we live together, but try to show some restraint.”
My mouth drops open. “I’d rather go back to Vegas and let that seventy-year-old Elvis impersonator kiss me on the mouth.”
Unbothered, Lucas shrugs. “Your loss. But while we’re on the topic, maybe we also agree there are no outside parties.”
I squint. “Meaning?”
“We don’t date other people. Can’t risk a cheating scandal getting attached to our fairytale romance.”
It’s logical, smart, totally reasonable, yet the thought of Lucas Carmichael dating someone else during these six months sparks a pain in my chest that I don’t have the time, or emotional bandwidth, to unpack.
“Fine,” I say with a huff. “No dating.”
I push off the table and walk to his end, where I lean my hip against the edge with my arms crossed. He shifts in his seat to face me more fully, his knee bumping mine lightly as he moves. Neither of us apologizes.
Then Lucas stands, slowly, purposefully, and just like that, we’re facing each other head on, close enough that I can feel the heat rolling off him.
I extend my hand between us. “Deal.”
He steps in, just enough that our shoes nearly touch, and slides his much larger hand into mine. His palm is warm and solid, and the roughness of his calloused fingertips surprises me. He doesn’t shake, just holds. Steady. Strong.
Then his thumb starts to move in slow, rhythmic strokes across the back of my hand, like he’s trying to hypnotize me into forgetting how much I claim to hate him.
My brain forgets a lot of things in that moment.
Lucas’s smirk is infuriating. “Let’s make some magic, Mrs. Carmichael.”
I pull my hand back, hoping to break whatever spell he just cast, but my fingers still tingle, like his touch left a signature I can’t quite scrub off.
Six months. That’s all.
Then this whole thing will be behind us.