The wind on the street was a slap in the face.
She stood on the curb, hugging her arms. The cold bit through her thin wool dress.
Something warm and heavy settled over her shoulders. It smelled of cedar and tobacco. Expensive tobacco.
She tried to shrug the jacket off. "This is ridiculous. I don't even know your full name."
He didn't take the jacket back. He opened the rear door of a black sedan idling at the curb. The glass was thick. Bulletproof thick.
"Get in," he said. "Unless you want your aunt's spy to see us chatting."
She froze. She looked toward the corner. A rusted Honda was parked there. She knew that car. It belonged to one of Lydia's 'associates'.
Panic was a cold fluid in her veins. She ducked her head and scrambled into the sedan.
The door thudded shut. The silence was instant. The city noise was cut off as if someone had flipped a switch.
He slid in beside her. There was a respectful distance between them, but the air in the car felt charged. Pressurized.
He reached into a leather briefcase and pulled out a document.
"This is a contract," he said, his tone all business. "A civil union, supplemented by a rather comprehensive non-disclosure agreement."
She stared at the papers. "You carry marriage contracts with you?"
"I work in venture capital," he said. His face was a mask of calm. "I carry templates for every contingency. Efficiency is life."
She took the papers. Her hands were still shaking. She scanned the text. It was... fair. Shockingly fair. The NDA was brutal, a cage of silence, but the financial terms were a lifeline.
She pointed to paragraph four. "You agree to absorb all 'existing liabilities'? Do you have any idea how much debt Lydia has pinned on me?"
He glanced at the paper. He didn't blink. "Whatever it is, I can cover it."
"What do you want?" she asked. She turned to face him. "If you aren't a loan shark, and you aren't a pervert, why do you want to marry a... problem?"
He turned his head. His eyes locked onto hers.
"I need a wife who is vetted, quiet, and won't interfere with my private life. I have a board vote coming up. They want a family man. You need to get away from your aunt."
It was cold. It was transactional.
It was perfect.
If he had said he believed in love at first sight, she would have opened the door and jumped out. But a business deal? That, she understood.
Her phone buzzed against her thigh. A text from Lydia.
If you run, I break Mason's legs.
Her chest tightened. The air in the car suddenly felt too thin. She gasped, clawing at the leather seat.
He moved. His hand closed over her wrist. His fingers found her pulse point. He wasn't holding her down; he was grounding her.
"Sign this," he said softly. "And legally, you become my responsibility. Lydia can't touch you."
She looked at him. She saw a wall. A fortress.
She needed a fortress.
"I need to finish school," she said.
"Done. I'll fund your PhD."
"Separate bedrooms."
"My apartment is large. You'll have your own wing."
Wing? She ignored the word. She dug a cheap Bic pen out of her purse. She pressed the tip to the paper.
Amelie Blankenship.
She signed her life away.
He watched the ink dry. For a second, a flash of something intense-possessiveness?-flared in his eyes. Then it was gone.
He took the papers.
"Tomorrow morning. Nine a.m. City Hall. Bring your ID."
