Sierra:Did you meet Mountain Man? Still alive? Details!
I type back.
Me:Very much alive. Very much a mountain man. Built like a redwood and twice as rigid.
Her reply is immediate.
Sierra:But is he hot?
I laugh despite myself.
Me: Irrelevant.
Sierra: So that's a yes. TAKE PICTURES.
Me: I'm not marrying him for his looks.
Sierra:No, you're marrying him to escape your psycho ex and his daddy's lawyers. But eye candy doesn't hurt.
Sierra isn't wrong.Four weeks ago, I was planning my dream wedding to Marc. Then I discovered he'd been systematically embezzling from our joint business account to cover gambling debts. When I confronted him, threatening to go to his father with evidence, his charm evaporated. The threats began immediately.
"Nobody will believe you over me," he'd said, his handsome face twisted with rage. "You're nothing but an opportunistic gold digger. I'll make sure everyone knows it."
I might have weathered the character assassination if that's all it was. But Marc has resources, connections, and most importantly, a prenuptial agreement I'd signed that included a morality clause. If I broke the engagement for any reason besides his infidelity, I'd be liable for a million-dollar penalty. A penalty his father's lawyers were already preparing to enforce.
Unless I marry someone else first.
The loophole had been Sierra's discovery. The contract specifically becomes void if either party marries someone else before the specified wedding date. Marc father had insisted on the contract, he probably added the clause assuming it would be an out for them should they decide someone was ‘better for their company’s image’.
I betthey never even considered that I'd find a loophole nor use it to my benefit.
Our wedding was scheduled for December 27th. If I can stay married to someone else until December 26th, the contractbecomes null and void. All I need is a husband willing to sign an ironclad NDA and walk away when it's over.
Enter Dario Wallace, conveniently seeking a temporary wife until precisely the date I need.
I spread his contract on the bed alongside my own, comparing terms. His is impressive in its thoroughness, detailing everything from financial arrangements to privacy expectations. The house rules section makes me smile despite myself. Who puts house rules in a marriage contract?
A man accustomed to control, that's who. A man who exudes dominance from every pore. A man whose penetrating gaze saw more than I wanted to reveal across that table.
I pull out my laptop and begin drafting a counter-proposal. If we're doing this, we're doing it on terms that protect us both. By midnight, I've completed my revisions, added my own requirements, and scheduled a background check on Dario Wallace through a private investigator friend.
Sleep comes fitfully, interrupted by dreams of ice-blue eyes and commanding hands.
Morning bringsconfirmation that Dario Wallace is exactly who he claims to be. Grandson of the late Edwin Wallace, whose substantial mountain property is the subject of a contested will. Owner of a successful custom furniture business specializing in hand-crafted pieces that sell for small fortunes in upscale Vancouver galleries. No criminal record. No marriages. No apparent reason not to trust him beyond the fact that he's a virtual stranger who lives in isolation on a mountain.
I shower, dress carefully in jeans, a soft sweater, and practical boots—still stylish but less obviously "city"—and prepare to call the mountain man.
He answers on the second ring.
"Wallace."
"Good morning, Mr. Wallace. It's Judith Mars."
"Have you made your decision?" Direct, as expected.
"I'm prepared to accept your proposal, with some modifications." I keep my voice equally businesslike.
A pause. "What modifications?"
