"Do you want to marry me?"
His head tilted slightly, dark eyes narrowing as he studied me. For a moment, I thought he wouldn’t answer, but then a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." My voice was steadier than I expected. Maybe it was the whiskey or maybe the raw anger still burning in my chest, but I felt braver than I had in years.
His smirk faltered, replaced with genuine confusion. "Do you even know who I am?"
"No," I said simply.
"Then why are you offering to be my wife?"
I crossed my arms, lifting my chin. "Because you need a wife. I need a groom. It’s a win-win situation."
He chuckled, a low, rough sound that sent a shiver down my spine. "Why do you need a groom?"
"My fiancé cheated on me," I said, the words tumbling out before I could second-guess them. "I need someone to show him he’s nothing. A revenge marriage, if you will."
The man stared at me. His silence stretched between us, and for a moment, I wondered if I’d crossed a line. Then, he leaned in. "Are you sure you want to be my wife?"
"Yes," I said firmly.
His eyes glinted with something I couldn’t place—amusement, curiosity, maybe both. "If that’s what you want, then I’m Reagan Collins."
I blinked, the name sparking something in my memory. "Collins?" I repeated, my voice wavering slightly.
His brow arched. "Why? Does it ring a bell?"
"It’s familiar, but I’m not sure where I’ve heard it before," I admitted, shaking my head. "Anyway, if you agree, should we talk about the deal? I’m Stephanie Brown.”
His smirk returned. "Sure, we can. But I’d like to show you my conditions first, and we’ll see if you still agree to it."
"I agree," I said quickly, the alcohol dulling any caution I might have had.
Reagan nodded, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a folded piece of paper. He motioned to the bartender, who handed him a pen without hesitation. Reagan unfolded the paper, smoothing it out on the bar counter before sliding it toward me.
"Read it carefully," he said. "This isn’t your average marriage contract."
I barely glanced at the document. My vision swam slightly, and my head felt light, but I didn’t care. All I knew was that I wanted this—needed this. Without hesitation, I grabbed the pen and scrawled my name across the bottom.
"There," I said, pushing it back to him. "Done."
Reagan’s smirk widened, but I barely noticed. The edges of the room began to blur, and my head grew heavier by the second. I vaguely registered him folding the paper and slipping it into his jacket before everything went black.
When I woke, the world felt too bright and too loud. My head pounded, and my mouth was dry as sandpaper. I squinted against the sunlight streaming through the large windows of an unfamiliar hotel room.
Groaning, I sat up, clutching my head. The events of the previous night were a hazy blur—Kiero, Arielle, the bar, Reagan...
My gaze landed on the table near the window. A folded piece of paper sat neatly on top, along with a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin. I grabbed the paper first, my heart pounding as I unfolded it.
It was the contract. My signature stared back at me, bold and final. I skimmed the text, my eyes catching on one particular clause near the bottom.
"The undersigned agrees to produce an heir within one year of marriage."
I stared at the words, my stomach twisting. An heir? What kind of deal had I signed?
Before I could process further, my phone buzzed on the nightstand. I reached for it, my hand shaking slightly. The screen lit up with Kiero’s name.
Taking a deep breath, I answered.
"Baby," Kiero’s voice came through, smooth and familiar. "Did you come by my office yesterday?"
