Kiana reached into a drawer and pulled out a thick gray folder. She tossed it onto the desk between us. That is a background check on you, Dne Martin, she said. Executed by my private security firm. The blood drained from my face.
You investigated me thoroughly. You are 34, widowed 3 years ago. You have a six-year-old daughter named Lily. You have zero criminal record, zero history of substance abuse, and you live an entirely uninteresting localized life. You are also $80,000 in medical debt.
And as of this morning, a collection agency initiated a wage garnishment that will render you homeless within 30 days. I shot to my feet, anger finally piercing through the panic. Who the hell gave you the right to look into my bank accounts? Sit down, she commanded, her voice not raising in volume, just in density. I didn't move.
If you're firing me, fire me. You don't get to humiliate me first. I am not firing you, Mr. Martin. I am proposing a transaction.
She tapped the folder. You are desperate. I am in need of a very specific controllable asset. I slowly lowered myself back into the chair, wary. What kind of asset?
A husband. The word hung in the cold air of the office. I waited for a punchline. I waited for her to smile. She did neither.
I need a legal spouse, Siana continued, her tone as clinical as a surgeon's. Someone I can present to the board to prove I am settled. It needs to be someone internally vetted, someone who won't leverage the media against me, and someone who won't try to extort me later. An ordinary, hardworking father with a tragic backstory is exactly the kind of PR narrative my board will eat out of the palm of their hands. "You want me to fake marry you? " I said flatly.
There will be nothing fake about the legal documents. We will be married in the eyes of the law. We will reside in my primary residence to satisfy any private investigators my uncle hires. We will attend public functions together. For how long?
One year. After the next fiscal quarter, my stock options vest and I will have the controlling shares to rewrite the bylaws and dissolve the board entirely. At the 365day mark, we divorce quietly, citing irreconcilable differences. This is insane. It's fraud.
It is a mutually beneficial contract. Tiana leaned forward. If you agree, your medical debt will be paid in full by end of business today. Your daughter's medical and educational expenses will be covered, and upon the finalization of the divorce next year, you will receive a lumpsum payment of $2 million tax-free. I stopped breathing. $2 million?
I looked at her. I looked for the catch. Why me? You're a billionaire. You could hire a Hollywood actor.
You could hire a model. Actors seek the spotlight. Models attract cameras, Tiana said dismissively. I don't want a partner, Mr. Martin.
I want a ghost. I want someone who understands the transactional nature of this arrangement and will stay entirely out of my way when the cameras are off. Your psychological profile indicates you are fiercely protective of your daughter, entirely pragmatic, and lacking in massive ego. You won't fall in love with me, and I certainly won't fall in love with you. She slid a pen across the desk.
It was heavy, silver, monogrammed. I have drafted a preliminary non-disclosure agreement. If you sign it, you take the job. If you walk out that door, you go back to the 14th floor. Your wages get garnished, and we never speak of this again.
I stared at the pen. I thought of the hissing radiator. I thought of the crunch of the $20 bill in my hand when I paid the daycare lady. I thought of Lily's cough shaking her tiny frame. I picked up the pen.
The metal was cold. If my daughter is involved, I said, my voice shaking slightly. I make the rules about her routine. No nannies raising her. I am her father.
Siana watched me. Acceptable. She will have her own wing in the penthouse. You will have full autonomy regarding her upbringing, provided she does not interfere with my work. I uncapped the pen.
I didn't read the NDA. It didn't matter what it said. She held the keys to my daughter's survival. I signed my name on the dotted line. "Excellent," Tiana said, taking the paper and slipping it into a drawer.
She didn't look relieved. She just looked like a woman who had successfully negotiated a bulk shipment of copper wire. We get married on Thursday. Clear your desk. Thursday was a blur of legal ink and sterile bureaucracy.
There was no church, no flowers, no music. We sat in a heavily soundproofed conference room at the offices of Hayes and Sterling, Kiana's legal hounds. Mr. Hayes, a man whose smile didn't reach his dead shark-like eyes, slid the prenuptual agreement across the mahogany table. It was the size of a phone book.
Clause four. Hayes droned, tapping a manicured finger on the page. Public displays of affection. To maintain the illusion of a genuine union, physical contact will be required at social events, handholding, brief physical embraces, and if absolutely necessitated by press presence, a closed mouth kiss. Are you clear on this, Mr.
Martin? I sat there in a rented suit, feeling like I was suffocating. Clear. Clause 7. Hayes continued.
Neither party shall initiate or attempt to initiate a genuine romantic entanglement. Intimate relations of a sexual nature are strictly prohibited. Breach of this clause by Mr. Martin will result in the immediate forfeite of the $2 million payout. I looked across the table at Siana.
She was reading an email on her phone, completely detached from the recitation of our marital boundaries. She wore a sharp white pants suit. She looked flawless and entirely unapproachable. "I I don't think that's going to be a problem, Mr. Hayes," I said dryly.
"Sign here, please. " I signed. My hand cramped by the 20th page. Then came the courthouse. A judge who was clearly on Kiana's payroll stamped the marriage certificate in a backroom, avoiding the public waiting area. When we stepped out into the humid afternoon air, a black SUV was waiting at the curb.
Siana stopped and turned to me. She opened her leather clutch and pulled out a small velvet box. She didn't open it. She just handed it to me. "Put it on," she said.
I popped the box open. Inside was a heavy brushed platinum band. No diamonds, no flash, pure brutalist functionality. I took it out and slid it onto my left ring finger. It fit perfectly.
Her security team really had done their homework. She held up her own left hand. A massive flawless emerald cut diamond sat on her finger. "My grandmothers," she stated, preempting any questions. "It adds to the narrative of tradition. " "Right," I muttered.
That evening a moving crew showed up at my apartment. It took them exactly 45 minutes to pack everything Lily and I owned. We didn't have much. Lily held my hand tightly as we rode the private elevator up to Tiana's penthouse on the Upper East Side. The numbers on the digital display climbed higher and higher, leaving the grit and noise of our old life far below.
"Daddy, is the lady going to be my new mom? " Lily asked, her voice small. I crouched down, ignoring the ache in my knees. No, sweetie. Siana is she's my boss, and we're going to live with her for a little while to help her out, but it's just you and me, like always. Okay, she said, clutching her worn out, stuffed rabbit, Barnaby.
The elevator doors opened directly into the penthouse. I stepped out and froze. The apartment was not a home. It was an architectural showcase. Everything was glass, polished concrete, and stark white marble.
There were no rugs to soften the floor, no throw pillows on the razor sharp Italian leather sofas. The view of Central Park was staggering, but the air inside felt sterile, climate controlled to the exact degree of human comfort without any of the warmth. Giana was sitting at a massive kitchen island that looked like a slab of solid iceberg, typing furiously on a laptop. She looked up as we entered. Lily stepped behind my leg, peering out nervously at the vast space.
The movers placed your belongings in the east wing," Ciana said, closing her laptop. She stood up and walked toward us. She stopped a polite distance away, looking down at Lily. "You must be Lily. " Lily nodded slowly. "You have a very big house.
It is efficient. " Kiana corrected mildly. "Your room is down that hall. There are heated floors. I was told you have asthma, so I had the HVAC system fitted with heaper filters this morning. You shouldn't have any dust triggers here.
I blinked genuinely surprised. I hadn't mentioned her asthma triggers the dossier. Right. Say thank you, Lily, I prompted gently. Thank you, Miss Boss, Lily whispered.