All Chapters of Wife for Hire: Chapter 11 - Chapter 16

Rowan Why did you marry me? The real reason, please.I looked at her for a moment, unsure. I knew why, and I knew why not, and I had decided it since the day I saw those words. My jaw set, and I put my hands into fists so that I wouldn't burn the world for what happened to my family because...no.I saw my father's handwriting. Not the words themselves. Not at first, just the shape of them. The ends of his sentences would lean more angled towards the right when he was writing something he didn't want to write. I found the journal among his possessions three months after burying him, and I hadn't opened it for over a year. Touching it meant opening it, and opening it meant being able to do nothing because he was already gone.Marco sat across from me today. He lied to my face with the same composure he's used for six years.Camilla wasn't going to get the truth tonight. She wasn't going to get it for a long time. She will learn everything when I ruin her the way her father ruined my

RowanI was at the kitchen table working when I heard footsteps coming my way. Camila.I was up early at six today, as I had a meeting. I like to be prepared, even if that isn't what most CEOs do. They rely on someone to do their work; I like to do my work on my terms. I generally worked from my office but somehow walked to the dining table.Camila stopped in the doorway when she saw me. She looked a bit stunned but covered it quickly. Her shoulder squared, and she looked me in the eye. We held the contact for a second, and I went back to my papers."You're up early," she said. She was wearing a powder blue dress I hadn't seen yet, a bit worn but professional enough. The dress looked great on her. I ignored the thought and filed it away."So are you," I replied without looking up from the papers.She crossed to the fridge, pulled a bottle of water, gulped it, then came to the dining table. We occupied opposite ends of the kitchen in silence that had too much in it to be comfortable an

RowanMarcus was already at the office when I got there, and before he said a word, I knew whatever this was couldn't wait until morning.He laid three documents across my desk, printed, which he rarely does. He prints when he wants me to understand the weight of the situation and to create something he can physically hold.“Talk,” I said.“Whitmore is a name. Not a company, not a shell, a person. Or was. Gerald Whitmore. Worked in financial consulting for about eleven years, most of it independent, specializing in corporate restructuring.” Marcus sat across from me, no tablet tonight, just his hands folded on the desk. “He died four years ago. Heart attack. But the email address is still active, which means someone is using it, and has been using it since before he died.”“How long before?”“First logged use we can trace is about eight years ago.” He tapped the first document. “That’s an email thread. Whitmore’s address, corresponding with a law firm that handled incorporation filing