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Her mouth gives an amused twitch. “I can’t see you as a Byronic hero somehow.”
“I know, my disposition is far too sunshiny for Mr. Rochester.”
At this, she gives a cackling laugh. “I don’t know what mirror you have hanging on your wall.” But then she straightens, and the air between us immediately cools. “We’re getting off track. I just meant any way he might try to keep my trust from me dissolves if I have a husband. That I’m no longer his problem.”
“You’ll be mine,” I retort.
“I’m not a problem, I’m the solution. My plan is much more solid than yours.”
“And the till-death-do-us-part bit?”
“Now who’s being Gothic?”
“Okay, but if I did consider this, and I’m not saying I am, but it’s not without some fucking deep pitfalls.”
“Which is why we’ll both sign a prenup.”
“This isn’t just about money, Clara.”
“Look, you wanted a few dinners, some carefully placed exits. Some PDAs, I’m assuming.” Color tinges her cheeks. “Well, the only way any of that is happening is if you help get my dad off my back.”
No bargaining and no pleading. Just a resolute kind of calmness that makes it impossible to guess if she’s scared shitless of the prospect of being married to me or entirely certain of her plan.
I lean back in my chair as I study her. Fuck if I can make it out.
Being hitched to Clara would undoubtedly be a superior narrative to the outside world. Marriage speaks of permanence and the market would eat that shit up. Which, in turn, would help the share price and, ultimately, our stability.
A newly public company is a little like a boat just outside the harbor—we’re past the dock but not yet beyond the breakwater. The place where every swell hits harder than it should and every gust threatens to knock the boat sideways. It takes time before the water smooths and the real journey begins. Marriage, and a wife called Clara Forbes, could negate a lot of those knocks and buy us that much-needed time.
There would be costs, sure. Costs to me. But I’ve endured a lot in the name of success. I’ve sat through meetings with people I despise, taken shit from men who I wanted to crush. I’ve sacrificed sleep and forfeited relationships, gone without time and money and peace for the longest time.
This should be no different, this sacrifice.
Yet it feels different. More dangerous.
Because it’s her.
Chapter 11
Troy
“Two years.” Cue a needle-scratch moment. Or maybe not as Clara looks on, confused.
“Two years for what?”
“For this marriage of convenience.” I can’t believe I’m even saying this. “We need a timeline. And an exit plan.”
“You want to stay married for two years?” she demands incredulously. “To me?”
“Want is a strong word, Clara.”
“Two years isn’t a marriage of convenience. It’s . . . it’s a prison sentence.”
I almost ask which of us gets to be the jailer, except quips are no part of a hardball negotiation.
“You weren’t expecting to date me for two years. Were you?”
“Fake date you,” I amend.
