chapter 2

Alison made it exactly four hours before she had to leave the building.

She told herself it was just for lunch. That she needed air, needed space, needed to think anywhere that wasn’t within fifty feet of Eric Harrison and his insane proposal.

Marriage. He’d said it like he was suggesting they grab coffee.

She walked three blocks to the small park near the office, the one with the fountain and the old oak tree that had probably been there longer than the skyscrapers surrounding it. Her usual bench was empty. Mrs. Mary was there too, feeding the pigeons like she did every Tuesday.

“Alison!” The old woman’s face lit up. “You’re early today. Usually you come at one thirty.”

“I needed some air.” Alison sat down on her usual spot, pulling out the salad she had no intention of eating.

Mrs. Mary had been a fixture in this park for as long as Alison had been working in the area. Retired, widowed, living in the rent controlled apartment building across the street. They’d struck up a friendship two years ago when Alison had helped her chase down a purse snatcher. Now they had lunch together most Tuesdays, when Alison’s schedule allowed.

“You look troubled.” Mrs. Mary tossed another handful of seeds to the pigeons. “Man trouble?” Despite everything, Alison almost laughed. “Why does everyone assume it’s man trouble?”

“Because I’m eighty three years old and I’ve seen that look on a thousand faces. It’s always man trouble.” She settled onto the bench with a small grunt. “So. Tell me.”

Alison had never intended to say anything. But something about Mrs. Mary ’s calm presence, the way she listened without judgment, made the words spill out.

“My boss proposed to me this morning.”

Mrs. Mary’s eyebrows shot up. “The handsome one? The one who works you too hard?” “He doesn’t work me too hard.”

“You’re here every Tuesday at one thirty because it’s the only break you get.” Mrs. Mary waved her hand. “But go on. He proposed. And you said?”

“I didn’t say anything. Because it’s not a real proposal.” Alison stared at her untouched salad. “He needs to be married for his inheritance. I need a visa to stay in the country. He suggested we get married to solve both problems.”

Mrs. Mary was quiet for a long moment. A pigeon landed near her feet and she shooed it away absently.

“A marriage of convenience,” she said finally. “Like in the old days.” “It’s fraud.”

“Is it? You’d be legally married. You’d live together, yes?”

“He has a penthouse with four bedrooms. We’d have separate rooms.”

“Ah.” Mrs. Mary smiled slightly. “Separate rooms. Very proper. Very sensible.” She paused. “Very lonely.”

“It’s a business arrangement.”

“Business arrangements don’t make your hands shake, dear.” She nodded toward Alison’s lap, where her fingers were twisting the edge of her skirt. “When does your visa expire?”

“Three months.”

“And you’ve tried everything else?”

“Four different lawyers. They all said the same thing. I’m out of options.”

Mrs. Mary fed the pigeons in silence for a moment. Then she spoke, her voice softer. “I came here from Shanghai in 1968. I was twenty years old, spoke almost no English. My aunt sponsored me, said she’d help me find work. She died three weeks after I arrived.”

Alison had heard pieces of this story before, but never the whole thing.

“I was illegal for two years,” Mrs. Mary continued. “Living in a basement room, working under the table at a restaurant. Terrified every day that someone would find out, that they’d send me back. There was nothing for me in Shanghai. My parents were gone, the cultural revolution had destroyed everything. I had to stay.”

“What did you do?”

“I met my husband. He was a customer at the restaurant. Asked me out six times before I said yes. Married him four months later.” She smiled at the memory. “Everyone said it was for a green card. Maybe it started that way. I was practical, he was kind. But we were married for fifty two years, Alison. Fifty two good years.”

“I’m not going to fall in love with Eric Harrison.”

“Maybe not. But maybe you already have, a little bit, and that’s what’s scaring you.”

The words hit harder than they should have. Alison shook her head. “I barely know him outside of work.”

“You know how he takes his coffee. You know when he’s stressed before he does. You know which calls to put through and which ones to redirect. You know him, dear. Maybe better than you think.”

A pigeon landed on Alison’s shoe. She didn’t move.

“What if it goes wrong?” she asked quietly. “What if we get caught, or it ruins my career, or—”

“What if you get sent back to Shanghai and spend the rest of your life wondering what might have happened if you’d been brave enough to try?”

Mrs. Mary stood up, brushing seeds off her coat. “I’m not telling you what to do. But I will say this. Sometimes the safe choice isn’t really safe at all. Sometimes the crazy choice is the only one that makes sense.”

She patted Alison’s shoulder. “Think about it. And come tell me what you decide next Tuesday. If you’re still in the country.”

She walked away, leaving Alison alone with her thoughts and a dozen pigeons hoping for food.

Alison sat there for twenty more minutes, watching office workers hurry past, watching the fountain spray water into the air and catch the sunlight.

Mrs. Mary had been illegal for two years. Had married a stranger. Had built a whole life from that one desperate choice.

Maybe Alison could too.

Or maybe she’d ruin everything.

She checked her phone. Two missed calls from the office, three texts from Eric’s afternoon appointments wondering where she was. Reality came crashing back.

She threw away her uneaten lunch and headed back.

***

Eric was in a meeting when she returned. She could see him through the glass walls of the conference room, tie loosened, jacket off, gesturing at something on the screen while four executives watched. He looked focused, controlled, every inch the billionaire CEO.

Not like a man who’d proposed a fake marriage four hours ago. Her phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.

Coffee at 7? We should talk details. - EH

She stared at the message. He’d never texted her from his personal phone before. She wasn’t even sure how he got her number until she remembered she’d put it on her employment paperwork four years ago.

‘I haven’t decided yet.’

Three dots appeared immediately. ‘I know. Coffee anyway?’

She should say no. Should tell him this whole thing was crazy and she needed more than four hours to process a life altering decision.

‘Where?’

The place on Fifth. Near your apartment.

Of course he knew where she lived. He’d sent her home in his car enough times when she worked late.

Okay. 7.

She put her phone down and tried to focus on the stack of contracts waiting for her signature verification. But her mind kept drifting.

Marriage. To Eric Harrison. Living in the same space, sharing a life, pretending to be in love in front of his family and the world.

The thought terrified her.

The thought also, in some small way she didn’t want to examine too closely, made her heart race for entirely different reasons.

She was still thinking about it at six forty five when she packed up her desk. Eric had left the office twenty minutes earlier without a word, just a brief nod in her direction.

Now she stood in front of her bathroom mirror at home, having changed out of her work clothes into jeans and a sweater. Casual. This wasn’t a date. This was a business meeting about a business arrangement.

She tried three different lip colors before realizing what she was doing and wiping them all off. It didn’t matter what she looked like. This wasn’t about attraction. This was about survival.

She grabbed her coat and headed out the door.

The coffee shop was warm and crowded, full of the after work crowd. She spotted Eric immediately, sitting at a corner table, two cups already waiting. He saw her and stood, that ingrained politeness that probably came from his expensive upbringing.

“You came,” he said. “You asked.”

“I wasn’t sure you would.” He gestured to the chair across from him. “I got you a latte. Vanilla, one sugar. Right?”

He remembered her coffee order. She didn’t know why that surprised her.

She sat down, wrapped her hands around the warm cup. “We should talk about the rules.” “Rules.” A slight smile crossed his face. “Of course. You want everything outlined.”

“If we’re doing this, and I’m not saying we are, then yes. I want everything outlined. In writing. With a lawyer present.”

“Agreed.” He pulled out his phone, opened a notes app. “Go ahead. What do you want?” She took a breath. This was really happening.

“First,” she said. “We tell no one the real reason. Not friends, not family. No one.” “Agreed.”

“Second. This is purely business. We maintain separate lives as much as possible.” He nodded slowly. “Separate bedrooms?”

“Separate bedrooms. Separate bathrooms if possible.”

“My penthouse has four bedrooms. That won’t be a problem.”

His penthouse. Right. She’d be living in Eric Harrison’s penthouse. “How long?” she asked.

“Minimum one year for the inheritance terms. After that, we can reassess.” “And when it ends?”

“Clean break. Divorce filed quietly, we both walk away.” It all sounded so simple. So clinical.

“What about at work?” She met his eyes. “How do we handle that?”

“Nothing changes at work. You’re still my secretary, I’m still your boss. We keep it professional.” “And outside of work?”

“We’re married. We act like it.” He leaned forward slightly. “Public events, family dinners, anything where people might be watching. We sell it.”

Her stomach flipped. “Define sell it.”

“Hand holding. The occasional kiss if necessary. Acting like we’re in love.” His voice was steady, matter of fact. “Nothing that makes either of us uncomfortable. But enough to be convincing.”

Kissing Eric Harrison. Acting like she loved him. This was a terrible idea.

“There’s one more thing,” he said. “A penalty clause.” “A penalty clause?”

“If either of us breaches the contract. Catches feelings, acts on them, anything that compromises the arrangement.” He met her eyes. “Two billion dollars.”

Her brain stuttered. “Two billion.”

“It protects both of us. Ensures we keep this professional. Business only.”

Two billion dollars. An impossible sum. A sum that would destroy her but barely dent his fortune. “That’s not equal,” she said. “I could never pay that.”

“Then don’t breach the contract.” His voice was calm. “Neither of us will. That’s the point.”

She should walk away. Should tell him this was insane, that penalty clauses on feelings were dystopian and controlling and wrong.

But two billion dollars meant he was serious. Meant he wouldn’t cross lines either. Meant they’d both stay safe.

“I need twenty four hours,” she said. “To think about it. Really think about it.”

“Take the time you need.” She stood up. He stood too.

“Alison.” His voice stopped her. “Whatever you decide, I meant what I said this morning. Your job is safe. I’m not trying to pressure you.”

She believed him. That was the dangerous part. “I’ll let you know tomorrow.”

She left before she could change her mind, before she could see the look in his eyes that made her think maybe this wasn’t just business for him either.

Ninety days left.

Or possibly, the beginning of the strangest year of her life.