Sloane I called Dara from the street. She answered on the first ring which meant she had been sitting with her phone in her hand waiting since I had texted her that I was going into the building. "Well," she said. "I signed," I said. Silence. Long silence. "Sloane." "I know." "You signed a contract to pretend to be Beckett Rowe's wife." "A performance arrangement," I said. "The distinction matters apparently." "The distinction does not matter at all," she said. "Sloane what are you doing." I stood on Fifth Avenue and watched the city move around me and thought about eleven pages of legal precision and a man who had agreed to every condition I presented without hesitation and a message on my phone from an unknown number that I had not told her about yet. "I am protecting my mother's house," I said. "There had to be another way." "I looked for three weeks," I said. "There was not." She was quiet for a moment. "Tell me everything," she said. So I told her. The boardroom
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