The inside of the car was silent. It smelled of leather and something citrusy. It was cool, the air conditioning humming a low, soothing note.
Dawn sat on the edge of the seat, her hands clutched in her lap. Gerhard was typing on his phone, his thumbs moving with rapid precision. He didn't look at her. He reached into a small cooler between the seats and pulled out a glass bottle of Evian water. He handed it to her without breaking his rhythm.
"Drink," he said.
Dawn took it. Her mouth was dry as dust. She took a sip, the cold water shocking her system.
The car didn't go to City Hall. It stopped in front of a glass skyscraper in Midtown. Sterling Capital.
"I thought we were getting married," Dawn said, her voice small.
"Contract first," Gerhard said. He put his phone away and opened the door. "Then the ring."
They took a private elevator to the 40th floor. The doors opened directly into a conference room. The walls were glass, overlooking the city. A man with silver hair and a sharp suit was waiting for them. He had a stack of documents on the table.
"Gerhard," the lawyer said, nodding. He looked at Dawn. His eyes flicked over her cheap dress and frizzy hair. He didn't say anything, but his eyebrows lifted a fraction of an inch.
"Sterling," Gerhard said. He pulled out a chair for Dawn. "Sit."
Dawn sat. The table was enormous. She felt like a child sitting at the adults' table.
"The terms are standard," Sterling said, sliding a thick document toward her. "Confidentiality agreement. You cannot discuss Mr. Holcomb's business, his family, or the nature of this arrangement with anyone. Not even your aunt."
Dawn nodded. She picked up a pen.
"Wait," Sterling said. "Clause 14. The heirship clause."
Dawn looked at the page. No Issue Clause.
"For the duration of the two-year contract," Sterling recited, "there will be no children produced from this union. Any pregnancy will be considered a breach of contract."
Dawn felt her face burn. The heat started at her neck and went all the way to her hairline. She stared at the words. It felt so clinical. So invasive. It wasn't just a business term; it was a negation of her, of her body, reducing her to a function with strict operational parameters. A cold knot of humiliation formed in her stomach.
"It's asset protection," Gerhard said. His voice was devoid of emotion. "I don't want complications. I don't want anyone fighting for shares of the company."
"I understand," Dawn whispered. She couldn't look at him.
"Clause 15," Sterling continued. "Upon dissolution of the marriage after two years, Ms. Roth will receive a lump sum of two million dollars."
Dawn's head snapped up. "Two million?"
"Tax-free," Gerhard added. "Enough to open your own studio. Or buy a house. Or disappear."
Dawn looked at him. He was watching her closely. He knew exactly which button to push. He was buying her dreams.
Her phone buzzed in her bag. It was a loud, jarring vibration against the glass table.
Lydia.
Dawn reached for the bag, panic flaring. "I..."
Gerhard reached over. He took the phone from her hand. He looked at the screen-Aunt Lydia calling-and then he held the power button down until the screen went black.
He slid the dead phone back to her.
"Sign the paper, Dawn," he said. His voice was low, almost intimate. "Sign it, and you never have to answer that phone again."
Dawn looked at the dead phone. Then she looked at the pen.
She thought of the iron box under her bed at Lydia's. The one thing she had left of her parents. If she had two million dollars, she could build a vault for it. She could be safe.
She took a deep breath. She pressed the pen to the paper.
Dawn Roth.
She signed her name. It looked shaky, but it was legible.
Gerhard watched the ink dry. His eyes darkened. He took the pen from her fingers. His hand brushed hers, and again, that jolt of electricity went through her.
He signed his name next to hers. Gerhard Holcomb. His signature was jagged, aggressive.
"Done," Sterling said, pulling the papers away. "Legally, you are now financial partners."
Gerhard stood up. "Let's go get the license."
Dawn stood up. Her legs felt like jelly.
"Wait," Gerhard said. He looked out the window. The sky had turned a bruised purple. Heavy clouds were rolling in over the Hudson. "It's going to pour."
He walked to a coat rack in the corner and grabbed a trench coat. He walked back to Dawn and draped it over her shoulders. It was heavy and smelled like him-cedar and rain.
"Don't get wet," he said. "Mrs. Holcomb can't look like a drowned rat."
The name hit her in the chest. Mrs. Holcomb.
She pulled the coat tighter around herself. It felt like a shield. Or a cage. She wasn't sure which yet.
