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“I’m allowed by law.”
“Only if you get in a time machine and go back to 1348. Just make sure to avoid the Black Death.”
My lips curve up. “‘The wife’s body does not belong to her alone but also to her husband.’”
“‘Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife: and they shall be one flesh’? Yeah, I’ve already had Genesis quoted at me.”
We both laugh.
“All right,” she says softly. “I’m off. See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah. Good night.”
I watch her walk away. She’s taken off her sandals, and she’s barefoot. Her hips swing a little with each step. I sigh and turn the light off. I’m being tortured, and it’s all my own fault.
*
The week passes quickly. On Monday, I call Ethan and announce that I’m getting married at the weekend.
“Who’s the lucky lady?” he asked.
“Aroha Wihongi.”
“The one who’s looking after Leia?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Well, that should work in your favor. So, let’s talk about the prenup.”
It’s an extremely uncomfortable conversation. I know I have to be sensible, and I know the marriage is fake, but I feel like a heel to be implying that she’s going to try to fleece me for at least half of everything I own.
I realize that if I’d been marrying Cassie, I’d have been quite happy to sign a prenup. But I can’t even get Aroha to spend more than thirty dollars on lunch for herself. Accusing her of wanting half my fortune seems like an insult. Sure, I’m giving her a million dollars, but I still feel about an inch high.
But Ethan insists, and on Tuesday I bring Aroha to the office to sign the contract. She declines independent legal advice, and she sits quietly, holding Leia, while Ethan explains that the contract states she has no claim on my property or the majority of my fortune, apart from the million dollars I’ll be giving to her.
“I understand,” she murmurs, and signs it without further ado.
I sign it too, and then we head out to the Range Rover.
“I’m so sorry about that,” I apologize as she heads back to West Melton.
“Don’t worry,” she says brightly. “I expected it.”
“It wasn’t my idea,” I tell her, wondering why I feel the need to point that out.
She just laughs. “I’m not going to pout because I’m only getting a million dollars, James.” And she changes the subject, as if she’s trying to make it clear that she’s not offended.
It doesn’t make me feel any better, but there’s nothing I can do about it now.
We’re busy at work, finalizing everything for the conference. We call in a couple of members of staff to help with the handouts, read over the speeches multiple times, and by Friday, Tyson and Henry declare they can’t do any more, and they’re both ready.
“Good luck,” I tell them when we part at our cars that evening.
“Likewise,” Tyson says with a grin.
I realize he’s referring to the fact that I’m getting married tomorrow. “Yeah yeah.”
“Next time I see you, I expect you’ll be bald with a pot belly,” Henry states as we shake hands.
