The ceiling of the motel room had a water stain shaped like a grimace. Aria stared at it, the springs of the mattress digging into her back. Her phone on the nightstand had been vibrating for an hour.
Forty-two missed calls. Twenty from her father. Ten from Julian. Twelve from unknown numbers-probably reporters.
She ignored them all. She sat up, her head pounding from a sleepless night, and opened her laptop. The screen glowed in the dim room, illuminating the PDF document she had memorized but refused to accept until now.
The Rose Young Trust.
Clause 4.1: The beneficiary, Aria Young, shall be granted full access to the principal sum of five million dollars upon the presentation of a valid marriage certificate.
Aria let out a dry, humorless laugh. She had just ended an engagement, and now her financial survival depended on finding a husband. Her father had cut her off months ago to pressure her into submission. Without this trust, she was destitute.
She closed the laptop. She needed a drink.
An hour later, Aria pushed open the heavy wooden door of "The Rusty Anchor." It was a dive bar in the Lower East Side, the kind of place where the floor stuck to your shoes and the air smelled of stale beer and bad decisions. Each step sent a sharp pain shooting up from her ankle, a painful reminder of Julian's shove.
She pulled the hood of her grey sweatshirt up. She didn't look like a Young. She looked like a ghost.
She ordered a whiskey, neat. The cheapest one they had.
She took a sip, the liquid burning her throat, grounding her. She scanned the room. It was mostly empty, except for a man sitting in the back corner booth.
He was staring at a glass of amber liquid, not drinking it. He wore a leather jacket that looked like it had survived a war, the elbows worn smooth and grey. His dark hair was messy, falling over his forehead. There was a smudge of something on his cuff-paint? Grease?
He looked tired. He looked broke. He looked perfect.
Aria watched him for a minute. He wasn't on a phone. He wasn't waiting for anyone. He had the posture of a man carrying the weight of the world but lacking the funds to pay the toll.
She finished her drink in one gulp. The alcohol gave her a surge of reckless courage.
She walked over to his booth, trying not to limp.
He didn't look up until she slid into the seat opposite him. When he did, Aria felt her breath hitch. His eyes were dark, intelligent, and startlingly intense.
"Can I help you?" his voice was deep, rough like gravel.
"Do you need money?" Aria asked.
He blinked. A corner of his mouth twitched. "Excuse me?"
"You look like you need money," she said, placing her hands on the table to stop them from shaking. "I need a husband. Just on paper. For a year."
The man leaned back. He studied her face, his gaze dissecting her. He looked at her hoodie, then down to her hands, noting the pale band of skin on her ring finger where the diamond used to be.
"You're the girl from the news," he said. It wasn't a question. "The one who pushed her sister into a pool."
"I didn't push her," Aria said automatically. "And yes. I'm her. Which means you know I have access to money. Or I will, once I'm married."
He tapped his fingers on the table. He looked at the smudge on his cuff, then back at her. "And what makes you think I'm for sale?"
"Everyone is for sale," Aria said. "I can pay off your debts. I can fund your... art? Is that paint on your sleeve?"
He glanced at the cuff. "Sure. Art."
"I'll give you fifty thousand dollars," she said. "A retainer of five thousand now. The rest when the trust clears."
He laughed. It was a low, dry sound. "Fifty thousand. You think I'm worth that much?"
"I'm desperate," she admitted. "And you look like you don't have anywhere else to be."
He went quiet. He seemed to be calculating something, his eyes narrowing slightly. For a second, he looked dangerous. Predatory. But then the mask slipped back into place-the tired, broke artist.
"I want a prenup," he said.
Aria blinked. "What?"
"A prenuptial agreement," he said. "Strict. If we split, we walk away with what we came with. No alimony. No claiming my... paintings."
Aria almost laughed. He was worried she would take his easel? "Fine. Done. I don't want your things."
"And an NDA," he added. "Nobody knows who I am or where I live. You don't talk about me to the press."
"Deal," she said. She reached into her bag and pulled out a stack of cash-the last of her savings. Two thousand dollars. "This is part of the down payment. It's all I have on me right now."
He looked at the money, then at her. He didn't touch the cash.
"Keep it for now," he said. "Pay for the license. I'm not worried about the rest. You're good for it."
He stood up. He was taller than she expected. Broad-shouldered.
"I'm Harland," he said, extending a hand.
Aria took it. His palm was calloused, warm and rough. "Aria."
"City Hall opens at eight thirty," Harland said. "Don't be late."
He turned and walked out of the bar. Aria watched him go, her heart hammering against her ribs. She pulled out her phone, her fingers trembling as she typed a note to herself.
Get married tomorrow.
Outside, Harland Wheeler pulled a sleek, black phone from his inner pocket. It was encrypted.
He typed a message to his head of legal.
Draft a prenup. Ironclad. Standard Wheeler protocol. I'm getting married tomorrow.
