chapter 3

Alison called him the next morning at eight am. “I’ll do it.”

Silence on the other end. Then, “You’re sure?”

“No. But I’m out of options and you’re offering me one. So yes. I’ll do it.”

“Okay.” He sounded almost surprised, like he hadn’t expected her to say yes. “I’ll have my lawyer draw up the contract. We can review it together tomorrow.”

“Fine.”

“Alison.” He paused. “Thank you.”

She hung up before she could respond, before she could second guess herself into changing her mind.

Three days later, she signed a forty page contract that outlined every detail of their arrangement. Separate bedrooms. Separate finances except for shared household expenses. Public appearances as needed. Duration of one year minimum. And that penalty clause, two billion dollars, staring at her from page thirty two like a warning.

Two weeks after that, they stood in a courthouse on a gray Wednesday morning.

Alison had taken the day off work. Eric had cleared his schedule, told his assistant he had personal business to handle. They’d told no one except James Clarke, Eric’s best friend and the only witness they needed.

She’d met James twice before, both times briefly when he’d stopped by the office. He was warm where Eric was reserved, easy with a smile, the kind of person who made everyone around him relax. When Eric told him about the arrangement, James had laughed and said it was the most Eric thing he’d ever heard.

“You’re really doing this,” James said now, standing in the courthouse hallway. “Actually going through with it.”

“We’re really doing this,” Eric confirmed.

James looked at Alison. “You know he’s terrible at sharing space, right? Leaves his coffee cups everywhere. Works until three am and then acts confused when people need sleep.”

“I’m his secretary,” Alison said. “I already know all his worst habits.”

“Fair point.” James grinned. “Well, congratulations on your fake marriage. May it be sufficiently convincing and minimally awkward.”

The clerk called their names.

Alison’s hands were shaking as they walked into the small room. It was nothing like she’d imagined a wedding would be, the few times she’d let herself imagine such things. No flowers, no music, no guests. Just fluorescent lights and government issued furniture and a bored looking clerk who’d probably done this same ceremony fifty times already this week.

She wore a white dress. She’d bought it yesterday, standing in a department store dressing room having a minor crisis about whether it mattered what she wore to a fake wedding. In the end she’d chosen something simple. Knee length, fitted at the waist, cap sleeves. Nothing dramatic. Nothing that screamed bride.

But it was white, and it was new, and it was the closest thing to a real wedding dress she’d ever own.

Eric wore a suit. He always wore suits. But this one was different somehow, charcoal gray instead of his usual navy, no tie. The collar of his white shirt was open, and she could see the line of his throat, the edge of his collarbone.

She forced herself to look away.

The clerk droned through the legal requirements. Eric answered in that steady voice he used in board meetings. Alison’s voice shook slightly on her responses and she hated herself for it.

This was business. Just business. “Do you have rings?” the clerk asked.

Alison’s stomach dropped. They’d forgotten rings.

“Yes,” Eric said. He pulled a small box from his pocket, opened it. Two platinum bands, simple and elegant, caught the fluorescent light.

When had he bought rings? How had she not known?

He took her left hand. His fingers were warm, steady. Hers were ice cold.

The ring slid on perfectly. Of course it did. Eric Harrison didn’t do anything without planning every detail.

She took the other ring with trembling fingers, reached for his hand. He held it out, palm up, and she slid the band onto his finger. It looked strange there, this symbol of something they weren’t.

“By the power vested in me by the state of New York, I now pronounce you husband and wife.” The clerk looked up from her papers. “You may kiss.”

Alison’s heart stopped.

They hadn’t talked about this part. Hadn’t planned for it. The contract said occasional kisses for public appearances, but this wasn’t public. This was just them and James and a clerk who didn’t care.

Eric’s eyes met hers. She saw the question there. She gave the smallest nod.

He stepped closer, one hand coming up to cup her face. His palm was warm against her cheek. His thumb brushed just below her ear, a touch so gentle it made her breath catch.

Then he leaned in and kissed her.

It was soft. Brief. The kind of kiss you’d give at a courthouse wedding when a bored clerk was watching. Nothing dramatic. Nothing that would make either of them uncomfortable.

But his lips were warm and he smelled like expensive cologne and coffee and something uniquely him. And for just a second, just one second, Alison let herself forget this was fake.

Then he pulled back and the moment shattered. “Congratulations,” the clerk said, already reaching for the next file.

They signed the marriage certificate. James signed as witness, clapped Eric on the shoulder, hugged Alison and whispered, “Good luck.”

And just like that, she was married.

They walked out into the gray morning. The courthouse steps were crowded with other people, other lives, other stories. Alison felt dizzy with the unreality of it all.

“I should get back to the office,” she said. “You took the day off.”

“So did you.”

Eric’s jaw tightened. “We should at least have lunch. It’s our wedding day.”

Our wedding day. The words sounded wrong in his mouth, too intimate for what this was. “James,” Eric said. “Join us.”

It wasn’t a question. James raised an eyebrow but nodded. “Sure. Where?”

They ended up at a small Italian place two blocks away. The kind of restaurant with checkered tablecloths and candles in wine bottles. It should have felt romantic. Instead it felt like a business lunch where everyone was pretending not to notice the elephant in the room.

James ordered wine. Eric ordered scotch. Alison ordered water and immediately regretted not asking for something stronger.

“So,” James said, raising his glass. “To the happy couple. May your fake marriage be moderately less painful than a real one.”

“James,” Eric warned.

“What? I’m being supportive.” He grinned at Alison. “Seriously though. Welcome to the family, such as it is. Eric’s mother is going to lose her mind when she finds out.”

“We’re not telling her yet,” Eric said. “When then?”

“When we have to.”

Alison had been trying not to think about Victoria Harrison. The few times she’d met Eric’s mother, the woman had looked at her like she was furniture. Useful but unremarkable.

Now she was going to be family.

The thought made her want to throw up.

Food arrived. Alison pushed pasta around her plate. Eric ate mechanically, the way he did when he was working through a problem. James kept the conversation going, talking about his latest project, some building renovation downtown.

Alison barely heard him. She was too aware of the ring on her finger, the weight of it foreign and strange. Too aware of Eric sitting across from her, his own ring catching the candlelight every time he reached for his glass.

They were married.

She was married to Eric Harrison.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Mrs. Mary.

*Well? What did you decide?*

Alison looked at Eric, at James, at the remains of their strange wedding lunch.

*I got married this morning.* Three dots appeared immediately.

*Oh my dear girl. Congratulations or condolences?*

*I’m not sure yet.*

*Come see me Tuesday. I want to hear everything.* Alison put her phone away. Eric was watching her. “Everything okay?”

“Fine.”

The lie sat between them like all the other lies they’d be telling from now on.

James paid the bill over Eric’s protests, said it was his wedding gift since he hadn’t had time to buy them a toaster. They stood on the sidewalk outside the restaurant, the lunch crowd rushing past them.

“I should go,” Alison said.

“I’ll have a car take you home,” Eric offered. “I can take the subway.”

“Alison.” His voice was patient. “You’re my wife now. Let me send a car.” My wife. The words sounded unreal.

She let him call the car. Stood next to him in silence while they waited. James had already left, promising to call Eric later.

The car pulled up. Black, expensive, driver in a suit. The kind of car she’d called for Eric a hundred times but never ridden in herself.

“I’ll have your things moved to the penthouse this weekend,” Eric said. “Unless you’d rather do it yourself?”

Her things. In his penthouse. This was really happening. “I can handle it.”

“I’ll help.”

She looked at him, this man who was now legally her husband. His face was unreadable, that mask he wore in business meetings firmly in place.

But his eyes. Something in his eyes looked almost vulnerable. “Okay,” she said quietly. “You can help.”

He nodded. Opened the car door for her.

She got in, the leather seat soft and cool. He closed the door gently. Through the tinted window she watched him stand there, hands in his pockets, watching her car pull away.

Alison looked down at her ring. The platinum gleamed in the afternoon light streaming through the window.

Mrs. Mary was right. Sometimes the crazy choice was the only one that makes sense. She just hoped she hadn’t made a terrible mistake.

The car merged into traffic, carrying her toward her apartment, toward the life she’d be packing up and leaving behind.

In three days she’d move into Eric Harrison’s penthouse. In three days this fake marriage would really begin.

She touched her lips, remembering the kiss. Brief, professional, meaningless. Except it hadn’t felt meaningless.

And that, Alison thought, was going to be a problem.