Chapter One
Sebestian's pov
Sebastian,
If you're reading this, you're considering whether to dance to my tune one last time. You always were predictable,too much of your mother's softness, not enough of my spine. Marriage will either make a man of you or prove what I've always known: you're too weak for the empire I built.
Choose wisely. Choose quickly. And remember love is for fools who can't afford better options.
—Richard Wolfe
I methodically tore the letter into precise squares, depositing them in James Whitmore's trash can. The attorney watched, horrified, as my only inheritance from my father became confetti.
Three days. My father had been dead for exactly three days, and he was still finding ways to control my life from beyond the grave.
"I'll need a complete asset breakdown by tomorrow morning," I said, keeping my voice devoid of emotion. "And a list of legal requirements for marriage in New York State."
Whitmore cleared his throat, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses with trembling fingers. "Of course, Mr. Wolfe. Might I ask,do you have someone in mind?"
My lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "I have twenty-seven days to find a wife, Whitmore. I built a venture capital empire from nothing in less time than that."
"Sir, with all due respect, a marriage isn't a business acquisition."
I locked my ice-blue eyes onto the attorney, and Whitmore physically recoiled from their coldness. My father's eyes. Everyone said I had my father's eyes,cold, calculating, impossible to read. They weren't wrong.
"Everything," I said softly, "is a business acquisition. You just have to find the right price."
I stood from the leather chair in Whitmore & Associates' mahogany-paneled office, my six-foot-three frame unfolding with controlled precision. My charcoal Tom Ford suit was immaculate, not a dark hair out of place, exactly as my father had taught me. Appearance is armor, Sebastian. Never let them see weakness.
I moved to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan, hands clasped behind my back. Below, the city sprawled in organized chaos,millions of people living their small, emotional lives, making decisions based on feelings rather than logic.
My father had taught me better than that.
"Just to clarify," I said without turning around, "the will states I must be married within thirty days of his death, or the entire estate transfers to the Richard Wolfe Foundation for Corporate Excellence?"
"That's correct, sir. Three point two billion dollars, contingent upon legal marriage within the specified timeframe. Should you fail to meet this requirement, or should you divorce within the first year, the inheritance is forfeit."
Of course. My father's final test. His last opportunity to prove I was exactly what he'd always said I was,too weak, too soft, too much like my mother to deserve the empire he'd built.
I learned three things by the age of twelve: emotion was weakness, love was a lie people told themselves to justify poor decisions, and my father would never be proud of me no matter what I achieved.
At thirty-four, standing in that office with my father three days dead, I was learning a fourth lesson,that Richard Wolfe's cruelty didn't end with his last breath.
"Thank you, Whitmore. Send everything to my office by morning."
I left without shaking his hand, took the private elevator down forty-three floors, and slid into the back of my black Maybach where my driver waited without greeting me. He knew better.
Thirty days to find a wife.
The city blurred past my window as I considered my options. I could let the inheritance go,walk away from my father's empire and everything it represented. The thought was tempting. I'd built my own fortune, made my own name separate from Richard Wolfe's shadow. I didn't need his money.
But I'd be damned if I let his foundation carry his name forward, celebrating the man who'd systematically destroyed every soft thing he'd ever touched.
No. I'd marry. I'd claim the inheritance. And then I'd dismantle every piece of my father's legacy until nothing remained but ashes.
I just needed to find someone desperate enough to play along.
At 2:47 AM, I sat in my penthouse office overlooking Central Park, reviewing the financial documents Whitmore had sent over. The estate breakdown was extensive: real estate holdings, investment portfolios, controlling interests in seventeen companies, art collections, offshore accounts.
All of it contingent on a marriage certificate.
My phone rang. Klaus Klein, my head of security and the closest thing I had to a friend,though I would never call it that.
"It's three in the morning," I answered.
"You're awake. I'm awake. Stop pretending you sleep like normal people." Klaus's voice carried a hint of humor that I'd never quite learned to replicate. "I heard about the will. That's some posthumous manipulation even for your father."
"I don't need a therapy session, klaus I need a wife."
"There are apps for that now, you know."
"I need someone who won't complicate things. Someone who needs money and won't develop inconvenient expectations about the arrangement."
"So you want to buy a wife."
My jaw clenched. "I want a business transaction with clearly defined terms and a mutually beneficial outcome."
"Right. Because that's totally different from buying a wife." Klaus sighed, and I could picture him running his hand through his perpetually messy hair. "I'll run background checks on anyone you're considering. Try not to pick someone who'll sell the story to tabloids."
"That's why I'm paying you."
"You're paying me to keep you alive, not to enable your terrible life choices. But sure, add 'wife vetting' to my job description."
After hanging up, I stood at the window, looking out at the sleeping city. Somewhere in those millions of lights was someone desperate enough, practical enough, and mercenary enough to marry me for money.
I just had to find her.
My phone lit up with an email notification. Another hospital bill forwarded from my father's estate,Mount Sinai Hospital, for Richard Wolfe's final two weeks of hospice care. I'd visited four times, stayed precisely fifteen minutes each visit, and felt nothing when he finally stopped breathing.
He would have been proud of that, at least.
I scanned the charges, then paused on one line item: Primary night nurse: H. Brooks, RN
I pulled up the detailed billing records, cross-referencing them with my memory of those final hospital visits. Night shift. That meant she'd been there during my late visits, the ones I made when I couldn't sleep, when I'd sit in that sterile room watching my father die by inches and feeling absolutely nothing.
I remembered her now,average height, tired eyes, honey-blonde hair always pulled back in a practical ponytail. She'd moved quietly, efficiently, and once, when my father had been particularly cruel during a moment of consciousness, she'd looked at me with something that made my skin crawl.
Pity.
I'd hated her for it.
I pulled up the hospital's employee directory and found her profile. Hannah Brooks, twenty-eight, hospice nurse, five years with Mount Sinai. Professional photo showing warm brown eyes and a genuine smile,the kind of smile that suggested she actually cared about people.
I was about to close the file when I noticed a note flagged in the billing system: Emergency contact listed for patient L. Brooks, Room 847, ongoing treatment.
Curious, I accessed the hospital's patient database,easy enough when you'd made significant donations to their research wing. Lily Brooks, sixteen, admitted six months ago following a severe car accident. Treatment ongoing. Experimental surgery recommended. Estimated cost: $340,000.
Insurance coverage: $102,000.
Outstanding balance: $238,000.
Status: Payment required before surgery can be scheduled.
I leaned back in my chair, a plan forming with the cold precision that had built my empire.
Hannah Brooks needed a quarter million dollars. I needed a wife. Neither of us needed to pretend this was anything more than a transaction.
I drafted an email to Marcus: Run a complete background check on Hannah Brooks, RN, Mount Sinai Hospital. I want everything by morning.
Then I had Whitmore call her, setting up a meeting for 10 AM at the coffee shop across from the hospital. Public, neutral, convenient.
Thirty days to find a wife.
I'd just found her.
At 9:45 AM, I sat in the back corner booth, my navy suit immaculate, my leather briefcase positioned precisely beside me. I'd already consumed two espressos and declined the waitress's attempts at small talk three times.
The door chimed at 9:47.
Hannah Brooks entered looking worse than her employee photo,exhausted, with dark circles under those warm brown eyes and damp blonde hair that suggested a recent, hurried shower. She wore worn jeans and a simple sweater that probably came from a discount store, and she moved with the cautious awareness of someone who'd learned to expect bad news.
She spotted me immediately, and I watched her first instinct play across her expressive face: run.
But she didn't. Curiosity,or desperation,won out.
I stood as she approached. Up close, she was shorter than I'd estimated. Maybe five-six, curvy in a way that suggested she prioritized feeding others over herself.
"Miss Brooks. Thank you for coming." I kept my voice neutral, professional. "Please, sit."
She slid into the booth across from me, and I caught the faint scent of generic soap and hospital antiseptic. Her fingers twisted together on the table,nervous, but trying to hide it.
"Mr. Wolfe, I'm not sure why,"
"I have a business proposition for you." I pulled the leather folder from my briefcase, placing it on the table between us. "One that I believe will solve a significant problem you're currently facing."
Her expression shifted to confusion, then wariness. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Your sister, Lily. Sixteen years old, severe nerve damage from a car accident six months ago. She needs experimental surgery that costs $340,000, of which you still owe $238,000. The hospital requires payment before they'll schedule the procedure, and your window for the surgery is closing." I kept my tone matter-of-fact, watching her face pale. "You've been denied by every financing company you've applied to. Your parents have already mortgaged their home. You're out of options."
"How do you…," She swallowed hard, her hands trembling. "You have no right to,"
"I have every right. You were my father's nurse. That makes you part of his estate's billing records, which makes you my business." I opened the folder, revealing the contract my lawyers had drafted at 6 AM. "I'm prepared to pay all of Lily's medical expenses, plus an additional five hundred thousand dollars, in exchange for a simple service."
Her brown eyes, which had been filling with tears, suddenly sharpened with suspicion. "What kind of service?"
"Marriage."
The word hung between us like a grenade with the pin pulled.
Hannah stared at me, her mouth opening and closing twice before words emerged. "You're insane."
"I'm practical. My father's will requires me to be married within thirty days, or I lose my inheritance. You need money desperately enough that you're working double shifts and haven't slept properly in months. This is a mutually beneficial transaction."
"This is…," She pushed the folder back toward me with shaking hands. "This is insane. You can't just buy a wife."
"I'm not buying a wife. I'm proposing a temporary contractual arrangement with clearly defined terms and compensation." I pushed the folder back to her with one finger. "Read it before you refuse."
"I don't need to read it. The answer is no."
"Your sister needs surgery within six weeks, or the nerve damage becomes permanent." I let the statement hang there, watching her face crumple slightly before she forced it back to composure. "Can you get $238,000 in six weeks through any other means?"
Her silence was answer enough.
"That's not fair," she whispered.
"Life isn't fair, Miss Brooks. But sometimes we get opportunities to make the best of unfair situations." I leaned forward slightly, noting how she instinctively leaned back. "I need a wife for legal purposes. After the marriage, you're free to leave after one year,the choice is entirely yours. The contract stipulates that you can terminate the arrangement at any time with no penalties. You'll receive full payment regardless of duration."
"Why me?"
"Because you're desperate, practical, and have no social connections that would complicate a quiet divorce. Because you need exactly what I'm offering, and I need exactly what you can provide." I held her gaze, refusing to look away first. "Because neither of us needs to pretend this is anything more than a business transaction."
Hannah stared at the folder like it might bite her. Her hands trembled as she opened it, scanning the first page of dense legal text.
"This is…" She looked up at me, those brown eyes searching for something,humanity, maybe, or evidence that this was a cruel joke. "This is real?"
"Completely."
"And you'd really pay for Lily's surgery? All of it?"
"The money would transfer to the hospital's account the moment we sign the marriage certificate. No delays, no conditions beyond the marriage itself."
She bit her lip, and I watched the war happening behind her eyes,pride versus desperation, morality versus necessity, fear versus hope.
"I need to think about it," she finally said, her voice barely above a whisper.
"You have until tomorrow at 10 AM. After that, I'll find someone else." I pulled out my card, sliding it across the table. "My personal number is on the back. Call me with your answer."
Hannah took the card with shaking fingers, then gathered the folder to her chest like a shield. She stood abruptly, nearly knocking over the water glass the waitress had left.
"This is crazy," she whispered.
"Yes," I agreed, allowing the faintest hint of something,not quite sympathy, but acknowledgment,to enter my voice. "But sometimes crazy is the only logical option left."
She turned and walked toward the door, moving quickly like she was afraid she might change her mind if she stayed. I watched her go, noting the way her shoulders curved inward, the exhausted shuffle of her steps, the protective way she clutched that folder.
My phone buzzed. Klaus: Background check complete. She's clean. Also, she's drowning. Are you sure about this?
I typed back: She'll say yes.
How do you know?
I looked out the window, watching Hannah Brooks stand on the sidewalk, staring at my business card like it held all the answers to questions she was too afraid to ask.
Because she loves her sister more than she hates desperate choices, I replied.
Twenty-seven days to find a wife.
I gave Hannah Brooks twenty-four hours to decide.
She'd call in twelve.