Chapter 2

Victoria Blackwell moved fast.

Within a week, I received an invitation to a "private family dinner."

Mara prepped me like a handler prepping an agent for a covert op.

"His younger brother, Lucas, is the wild card. He's observant. Don't try to charm him — he'll see through it. Just be boring around him."

"And Ethan?"

"Ethan responds to competence disguised as softness. He doesn't want a stupid wife. He wants a smart wife who acts manageable. Give him glimpses of intelligence, then pull back. Make him think he's discovering you."

I nodded. "So I'm a locked box he gets to open."

"Exactly. Men like him don't want what's handed to them. They want what they figure out."

...

The Blackwell estate was absurd — a sprawling manor outside the city, old money dressed in modern architecture.

At dinner, I sat between Victoria and Lucas.

Ethan sat across from me.

The first course was served in silence. Victoria made small talk about the charity gala. I responded warmly but briefly. Every answer ended with a soft smile and a redirect back to her.

Make them feel like the center. Disappear into the background. Let them project whatever they want onto you.

Lucas broke the pattern. "So, Iris. What do you do?"

"I work in pharmaceutical consulting." True enough — it was part of my cover. "Small firm. Nothing exciting."

"Pharmaceuticals." Lucas tilted his head. "Interesting industry."

My pulse didn't change. "It can be. Mostly paperwork, though."

Ethan hadn't spoken to me directly all evening. But I caught him watching me when I reached for the salt — the way my fingers moved, the way I paused mid-reach when Victoria started speaking, deferring to her.

He was studying me.

Good.

After dinner, Victoria guided me to the garden for tea. The air was crisp, the hedges immaculate, the setting designed to make guests feel both welcomed and trapped.

"Iris, I'll be frank." Victoria set down her cup. "My son needs to marry within four months. I've introduced him to dozens of women. He's rejected them all."

"I can understand why he'd be selective—"

"He's not selective. He's avoidant." Her smile thinned. "But his grandfather's will is clear. No marriage, no shares. And without those shares, the board will eat him alive."

She leaned forward. "I need someone who won't cause problems. Who won't bring rival families into our affairs. Who will sign what needs signing and stand where she needs to stand."

I let my eyes widen, just slightly. Innocent shock. "Mrs. Blackwell, are you suggesting—"

"A contract marriage. Two years. Generous compensation. And when it's over, you walk away with more money than your consulting firm will ever generate."

I looked down at my tea. Bit my lip.

Inside, fireworks were going off.

"I... I need to think about it."

"Of course, dear. Take a few days."

...

I didn't need a few days.

I needed Ethan to believe I was reluctant.

Because the moment a man like him sensed eagerness, he'd run.

So I waited five days. Then I called Victoria and said, with just the right amount of hesitation, "I'll do it."

The prenup was forty pages long.

I read every line.

Clause 12 caught my eye: In the event of pregnancy, both parties agree to...

I stopped reading and signed.

Because I had no intention of following their rules.

The wedding was small, private, efficient — like a business merger with a dress code.

Ethan wore a black suit. I wore white. We said our vows in front of forty people, none of whom were mine.

When the officiant said, "You may kiss the bride," Ethan leaned in.

His lips brushed mine — barely a touch, clinical, performative.

But his hand on my waist pressed firm, and for half a second, his breath hitched.

Interesting.

At the reception, Ethan's college friend, drunk on champagne, slapped his back. "Never thought I'd see the day! She must be something special."

Ethan glanced at me across the room. "She's convenient."

He didn't know I could read lips.

Convenient.

I smiled into my glass.

So were the documents that destroyed my family, Ethan. So were those.