o save myself from a predatory debt collect

ir Wolfe. And the phone has been silent for what feels like hours now.

"I don't want your money. Once the baby is born, we can file for divorce. The only

e to count the cracks in the hallway floorboards. I'm about to em

certificate, your passport, and every piece of identification you own. My lead a

nst the cool wallpaper, closing my eyes. This isn't the wedding I spent my girlhood dreaming about. There are no peonies, no cathedral veils,

urtains, I pull myself out of bed, take a short shower, and reach for a simple navy blue wrap dress. It's professional, modest, and hides the fact that I'v

astic chairs and the constant, dull drone of a printer somewhere in the back. A man in a charcoal suit stands near

ile. "I'm Markson, Mr. Wolfe's personal counsel. We

ect it was prepared weeks before. But that's not possible because this marriage was my idea. It outlines the duration of the marriage, the post-divorce property arr

ruly mine. But then I remember the alternative. If I stay in that house, my stepmother will drag me to marry a man wh

e in order," Markson s

listair Wolfe walks in, and almost everyone in the room turns to lok at him. He isn't wearing a full suit today. He has on a white shirt with the sleeves rol

oesn't offer a greeting. He looks at the signed papers, then back at me. For a split second, his eyes dr

?" Alistair a

sir," Marks

s get this

re ushered into a private office where a clerk with a tired expression processes the expedited ser

, and I feel a jolt of something that isn't quite fear but feels just

London immediately. There's an acquisition that need

lfe. It looks wrong. It looks

eight," he continues. "You'll move into my estate. For the duration of this contra

listair," I say, trying to re

ike sandalwood. "You're carrying my child, Emily. That m

by a fraction of a millimete

nightmare. Lydia would have a heart attack, and Thomas would probably try to ask him for a loan bef

isive movement. "Thursday. Eight

of the lobby, clutching my marriage license to my chest. My heart is a steady, heavy thud. I've

and stepmother are sitting in the foyer, dressed as if they're going to a funeral. Lydia is wearing a sharp, black suit, her

for two hours. We have someone expecting us at the St. Regis for lunch. You need to go upstairs and put

eet?" I ask, pretendin

ne imp

yes. "Emily, please. Just cooperate. It's a simple lunch

that burns away the last of my fear. "I know it's Silas Reed we're going to meet. And you want to see

ward me. "You're a Vance. You have a respon

out the marriage license. I hold it up, the g

ore," I say. "I got m

loses like a fish gasping for air. My father's face g

stammers. "Married? To who? Jul

"To Alistair Wolfe. I'm his wife now. Which means I'm his responsibility. So, y

em toward the stairs, my head held high, leaving the ruins of their plans scattered o

a wh