Page 36 of The Temporary Bride

I nod, captivated by the artwork’s intensity. “It’s stunning, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely,” Ivy agrees, her eyes reflecting the same admiration. “It’s like a whole universe on canvas.”

An idea sparks in my mind, aligning with Tristan’s open-ended offer. With a grin, I turn to Ivy. “I think I want this one for the house.”

She raises an eyebrow, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. “That’s a bold choice. Any idea how much it is?”

I check the small tag discreetly placed beside the artwork, then gesture to it, drawing Ivy’s attention to the sum written there—just over a million dollars.

She whistles, her eyes widening. She laughs, shaking her head. “You think Tristan will go for that?”

I grin. “Of course.” I turn my phone around to show her the text. “Looks like I can do whatever I want.”

A laugh escapes Ivy, and she claps her hands together in glee. “I’m one hundred percent certain he wasn’t expecting this, but… it’s not like he can’t afford it. I say go for it!”

Encouraged by her enthusiasm, I approach the gallery owner, a distinguished man in his fifties. “Excuse me, does Tristan Thorne have an account here?”

The man arches an eyebrow, clearly recognizing the name. “Yes, he does, madam.”

“Great. I’d like to purchase this piece,” I gesture toward the abstract marvel, “and put it on his account.”

“And you are…?”

“Chloe Dawson,” I say, drawing myself up to my full height. “His fiancée. I’d like this painting delivered to his house, please.”

There’s a brief hesitation in the proprietor’s eyes, a subtle surprise at the audacity of the request, but he regains his composure. “Certainly, Ms. Dawson. As you wish.”

As he begins the paperwork, Ivy and I share a triumphant glance. It’s a small rebellion against the constraints of this arranged marriage, a way to inject a bit of my own taste into the impending union.

Ivy giggles, whispering, “Damn, girl. Go you.”

I chuckle in response, feeling a lightness in my chest that I haven’t experienced in a while as the gallery owner finishes the transaction, assuring delivery of the painting to Tristan’s house.

If my soon-to-be husband wants to play, I can play. And I’m good at this game.

Chapter 12

Tristan

I sit at the head of the polished table in our conference room, reports and projections spread out before me. Long hours at the office have become routine in the wake of my father’s death, and the decisions ahead will affect the company for years. As my brothers file in and take their seats, I let the silence settle for a moment before I speak.

“We’ve been operating as separate entities for too long,” I begin, looking around at each of them. “That has to change. If Thorne Enterprises is going to keep its position in the market, we need to start functioning as a single company instead of five fiefdoms.”

Dominic leans back in his chair. “It hasn’t been a problem before.”

“It’s been a problem for years,” I reply evenly. “We just haven’t called it that. Combining our strengths and sharing information is how we outmaneuver our competitors. I don’t want the five of us competing against each other anymore. I want us to win together.”

“Our competitors,” Dominic says. “You mean MediaSphere.”

I keep my tone level. “I mean all of them. There’s been a shift in the industry, and we can’t afford to keep pretending we don’t see it.”

Dominic and Beckett exchange a brief look, but I can’t guess what they’re thinking. The distance between each of us has grown over the years, as if a gulf separates me from each of my brothers. I used to be able to read them all pretty well, but now they feel more like strangers sometimes—even Reid, who’s staring at me with a thoughtful expression.

“It makes sense,” he finally says, breaking the silence. “We have a lot to gain from collaborating. And honestly, it’s overdue. The departments shouldn’t have been allowed to splinter the way they have.”

Seated to my right, Gabriel inclines his head. “I agree. We’ve been too fragmented for too long, and it’s ultimately made things harder for all of us. This is the right call.”

I meet his eyes for a beat, acknowledging his words. I’m grateful he agrees with me, since I respect his opinion a lot. His daughter Peyton grew up without her mother, and Gabriel has somehow managed single fatherhood alongside everything else our father demanded of him—probably by burning the candle at both ends for years. I admire the hell out of him for it.