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But the money she’s offering is life-changing. There’s no point in denying I’ve hadthe itchagain. A lingering desire that I didn’t expect to feel after starting my first company, Plastech. The plans for my next venture are already drafted, and this could be my chance to start EcoDrones off on the right foot.
“Are you sure about that? You just met my mother.”
Sure, Vivian was frightening, but she’s nothing I can’t handle.
I nod. “We tie the knot. You receive your trust, wire half to me, and we get divorced.”
Our arrangement will only take a few months. A year, tops. A low-stakes marriage with no chance of us falling for each other.
Maybe in another life, our office jokes would lead to something more. But I haven’t let my thoughts go there since our first year of working together.
She was only twenty-three then—far too young—and I had sworn off dating.
The latter is still true. Only difference now is that Molly needs my help, and I have a way to fund my project.
“Okay,” she says. “I’ll try to convince my parents we’re a love match. It may work.”
“Sounds logical to me.”
She inhales, looking flustered. “Let’s talk tomorrow. I really have to try to fix whatever is going on out there.” Molly reaches for the door.
“Tomorrow,” I confirm.
How hard can it be to fake a marriage to a woman like her anyway?
Chapter3
Molly
My finger hangsat the doorbell outside the white French doors of the Greene Estate. I hesitate, briefly considering fleeing the nineteen-acre Scarsdale property instead of facing either of my parents, but I press the button.
Last night I was in a possessed fit, tossing and turning in bed while contemplating Matthew’s marriage proposition and the agreement we made in the library.
Could it work?
Unlike my marriage to Matthew, my union with Lance would be trickier to unravel. Ending the engagement now is a better PR strategy than a messy separation.
The worst-case scenario would be getting stuck with that sleazeball until the day I wither away—’til death, or possibly tragic golfing accident, do us part.
If Matthew can endure a few months of being married to me before we file for a separation, I may be able to keep my trust and end up a divorcée. We’ll call it aconscious uncoupling eventlike I read about on Goop.
This meeting must go perfectly.
The door locks click open.
A housekeeper stands in the doorway. An unfamiliar stout woman with graying hair, in a simple black uniform, whom I haven’t seen before.
My mother is peculiar about almost everything, which makes it hard to retain staff. Hiring employees for the Estate is a full-time job.
“Hi, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Molly.” I give the woman a quick wave.
She returns a smile and gestures for me to come in. “Welcome, Miss Greene. Your mother is waiting for you on the back patio.”
I read the name tag on her uniform. “Thank you, Caty.”
As I step into the foyer, a chill runs down my spine. My eyes take in the familiar surroundings—the spotless, winding staircases, the glittering crystal chandelier suspended from the center of the ceiling, and the gilded mirrors that reflect the vast space.
The house is painfully silent, as always, save for my clattering J’Adior slingback heels. Passing through the first kitchen, which is perpetually filled with year-round peonies, I enter the southern kitchenette that leads to the backyard. The doors are already open, linen curtains picking up the fall breeze.
