The waiting room at the City Clerk's office smelled like floor wax and nervous sweat.
It was packed. Couples of every age and demographic sat in plastic chairs, holding hands, arguing, or staring blankly at the digital number display. Grace stood near the wall, clutching her purse to her chest. Every time the door opened, she flinched, expecting her father or one of his lawyers to barge in.
Alaric stood behind her. He didn't touch her, but his presence was a solid wall of heat against her back. He effectively blocked the crowd from jostling her, creating a small, invisible perimeter of safety.
"Number 402," the automated voice droned.
"That's us," Alaric stated, his voice a low command.
They approached the counter. The clerk, a woman with tired eyes and chipped nail polish, didn't look up. "IDs."
Grace handed over her driver's license. Alaric produced his. Grace glanced at it. Alaric Alexander Hunter.
"Alexander," she murmured. "Sounds fancy."
"My mother had high hopes," Alaric deadpanned.
The clerk pushed a form toward them. "Sign here. And here."
Grace picked up the pen. Her hand was shaking so badly the tip hovered over the paper, making small ink dots. She couldn't breathe. This was it. The point of no return.
A large, warm hand covered hers. Alaric's fingers were long and smooth-manicured, not calloused. He steadied her hand.
"It's just a signature, Grace," he said, his voice low near her ear. "It's a contract, not a death sentence."
She took a shaky breath and signed. Grace Kirk.
The ceremony, if it could be called that, took less than two minutes. No rings. No flowers. Just a quick recitation of vows that sounded more like a legal deposition.
"I do," Grace said, her voice faint.
"I do," Alaric said, his voice firm and final.
When the clerk handed them the certificate, Grace felt a wave of dizziness. She leaned against the counter, closing her eyes. It was done. She was safe. Or at least, legally shielded.
Alaric took the paper. He looked at the embossed seal. It was a flimsy piece of paper, yet it was worth billions.
They walked out onto the steps of City Hall. The wind whipped Grace's hair across her face. She pushed it back, turning to Alaric. The "wife" mode vanished, replaced instantly by the "asset" mode. She pulled out her phone.
She typed into her notes app and showed it to him: Addendum to the agreement. We are roommates. We sleep in separate rooms. And unless absolutely necessary, we don't play couple in public.
Alaric nodded slowly. "That is already stipulated in Clause 7, but I appreciate your diligence. I don't want my... business rivals coming after you."
It was a smooth lie. He watched her face, looking for judgment, but found only relief.
"Good," Grace typed. She checked the time. "I have to go to my apartment. I need to pack my things before the assets are frozen."
Alaric started to say, "My security team can handle that-" but stopped himself. "My driver will take you. I need to head to the office. Check in with my legal team."
"Okay," Grace whispered. She dug into her purse and pulled out a single, crisp hundred-dollar bill. She shoved it into his hand.
Alaric looked down at the money. "What is this?"
"For the filing fee," she said firmly. "And your time. I pay my debts."
Alaric stared at the hundred dollars. He carried a black card in his wallet that could buy the entire building. But looking at Grace's earnest face, seeing the genuine pride in her eyes, he felt a strange tightness in his throat. This was probably her grocery money for the week.
"Thank you," he said. And he meant it.
"Text me the address of the penthouse," Grace whispered. She turned and walked toward the waiting Maybach, her heels clicking on the pavement.
Alaric watched her until she disappeared inside the car. Then, his posture changed. The slouch vanished. His shoulders squared. He turned and walked a block east, where a sleek black second Maybach was idling at the curb.
The driver scrambled to open the door. Marcus was in the passenger seat, looking pale. He handed Alaric a tablet immediately.
"To the office," Alaric commanded, ignoring the offered sanitizing wipes. "I need to speak with Ethelyn's lawyers."
"Sir," Marcus said tentatively, glancing at the crisp bill in Alaric's hand. "Should I... dispose of that?"
Alaric looked at the hundred dollars. He folded the bill neatly, creasing the edges, and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket, right next to his heart.
"No," Alaric said. "This is my seed capital. Don't touch it."
He pulled out his phone and dialed his grandmother's estate lawyer.
"It's done," he said when the lawyer answered. "You'll have the certificate tonight."
"Good," the old man's voice crackled, sharp as broken glass. "Remember, Alaric. If this is a sham, if you slip up, the trust stays frozen. You have to make it look real."
Alaric looked out the tinted window at the Manhattan skyline passing by. "Don't worry. I'm a quick study."
Inside the first Maybach, heading toward her soon-to-be-liquidated apartment, Grace's phone lit up. A voicemail from her father. She didn't listen to it. Instead, she took a picture of the marriage certificate, carefully cropping out Alaric's middle name and signature details, leaving only Hunter visible.
She texted it to Richard Kirk.
I'm married. The lawsuit is your problem now.
She hit send, blocked his number, and pressed her forehead against the cold leather seat. The car glided through traffic, hurtling her toward a future she hadn't planned for.
