Theo's POV
The problem with being Theodore Callaghan was that people noticed when you left a nightclub at three in the morning.
To be fair, that probably wouldn't be a problem for most people.
Unfortunately, I was not most people.
For reasons that were still deeply confusing to me, the public seemed incredibly invested in what I did with my life. Where I went. Who I dated. How many drinks I ordered.
And, apparently, how many women happened to be walking beside me when I exited a building.
Tonight's answer was three.
Personally, I thought that number was perfectly reasonable.
But the paparazzi outside the club clearly disagreed.
Camera flashes exploded the moment the doors opened.
"Theo! Over here!"
"Theodore! Look this way!"
"Callaghan! Are you dating all three of them?"
"Your father's going to love this!"
I squinted against the sudden burst of light, raising a hand lazily to shield my eyes.
There were a lot of cameras.
Far more than seemed necessary for a man who had simply enjoyed a night out.
Then again, this city had a talent for turning relatively harmless decisions into national headlines.
Case in point: me.
The blonde hanging onto my left arm burst into delighted laughter.
"Oh my God," she squealed, glancing at the photographers. "There are so many cameras!"
"Yes," I said calmly. "They tend to appear when famous people do questionable things in public."
She blinked at me.
"Almost certainly."
The brunette on my right leaned against my shoulder, smiling brightly at the cameras like she had trained for this exact moment.
"You're terrible," she said.
"I've heard that before."
Truthfully, I wasn't entirely sure why this was considered a scandal.
It was a nightclub.
People went there to drink, dance, and make decisions they probably wouldn't defend in the morning.
Also, I'm twenty-seven! I want to have fun!
That was the entire purpose of the establishment.
Yet somehow, every time I participated in this very normal social activity, the media reacted like I had personally set fire to a national monument.
Perhaps it had something to do with my last name.
Callaghan.
Unfortunately for me, Callaghan wasn't just a name.
It was a political institution.
My father had spent the last twenty years building a reputation as one of the most disciplined, respectable, and morally upright figures in public office.
He was calm.
Strategic.
Impossibly careful with his image.
Which meant my lifestyle was… inconvenient.
Very inconvenient.
"Mr. Callaghan!"
A reporter pushed forward, microphone raised.
"Do you have a comment about tonight?"
I considered that.
The women beside me leaned closer, clearly entertained by the attention. The flashes intensified, cameras clicking rapidly as if they were documenting some historic moment.
"Yes," I said thoughtfully.
"This city really needs better nightlife."
Someone laughed.
Another reporter shouted, "Are these your girlfriends?"
"All of them?" another added.
"Let's not rush into labels," I replied.
The blonde giggled loudly.
I could practically hear my father's blood pressure rising from several miles away.
Before the reporters could ask anything else, my driver appeared beside the car, wearing the expression of a man who had accepted his fate long ago.
"The car is ready, sir."
Excellent.
I gently untangled myself from the women.
They protested mildly, but only in the way people protested when they already knew the evening had ended.
I kissed one cheek.
Then another.
"Ladies," I said, "it's been a pleasure."
"Already leaving?" the blonde pouted.
"Unfortunately."
"Call us tomorrow?"
"Possibly."
I slipped into the backseat just as another explosion of camera flashes lit up the street.
The door shut.
Instant silence.
The sudden quiet felt almost surreal after the chaos outside.
I leaned back against the leather seat and exhaled slowly.
All things considered, it had been a successful night.
Good music.
Good drinks.
Excellent company.
My phone vibrated.
I glanced down to see only to realize it was my father.
Right on schedule.
I stared at the screen for a moment.
There was something impressive about his timing.
It was three thirty in the morning, which meant he was either still awake working, or someone had already sent him the photographs.
Either option was deeply unfortunate for me.
So I answered the call anyway.
"Good morning."
"It is three thirty in the morning."
"Yes," I agreed. "Morning."
There was a long pause before he finally said my name.
"Theodore."
Ah.
That tone.
The tone that suggested disappointment, exhaustion, and a very strong desire to disown someone.
"Yes?"
"Have you seen the news yet?"
"I try not to watch myself on television," I said. "It feels narcissistic."
"You left a nightclub tonight with three internationally recognized models."
"That sounds accurate."
"My office has already received fifteen calls from journalists."
"Only fifteen?" I said. "That feels low."
"Theodore."
His voice had changed.
It was calmer now.
Which was significantly more concerning.
"You are aware," he continued slowly, "that I am announcing a major political campaign next month."
"Yes."
"You are also aware that the media currently describes my son as..." he paused in disappointment. "...a reckless womanizer with no sense of responsibility."
I considered that carefully.
It wasn't entirely wrong.
"They're exaggerating," I said.
"Are they?"
"Well… slightly."
Another silence followed.
Longer this time.
Then my father said something that immediately made me suspicious.
"I have a solution."
That was never a good sign.
"What kind of solution?" I asked.
"A simple one."
Worse.
"A respectable one."
Much worse.
"You're going to get married."
I immediately up from the seat.
"I'm sorry?"
"Your reputation is damaging my campaign."
"And your campaign is damaging my nightlife."
"This is not a negotiation."
Marriage.
That felt like an extreme response to one mildly controversial evening.
"You do realize," I said carefully, "that most people marry someone they actually like."
"You will learn."
"That's optimistic."
"The wedding will repair your public image."
"I doubt it."
"You will appear responsible."
"I won't be."
"You will appear stable."
"I'm not."
"That is irrelevant."
I stared out the window as the city lights blurred past.
Somewhere in the distance, dawn was probably approaching.
This was how it ended, apparently.
Not with a dramatic scandal.
Not with a political confrontation.
But with a wedding.
"You're serious," I said slowly.
"Completely."
"And the woman?"
"I'm arranging it."
Of course he was.
Because nothing said romantic commitment like a carefully planned political strategy.
"And if I say no?"
His voice turned dangerously calm.
"Then I will personally make sure every scandal you've ever been involved in becomes front-page news. Also, I'm taking everything I have given you and will no longer let you inherit whatever I have."
I leaned back in my seat.
That was impressive.
Blackmail from your own father.
Family bonding at its finest.
"Fine," I said.
"You agree?"
"I'm curious."
"When do you meet her?"
"Tomorrow."
Of course it was tomorrow.
Because apparently my freedom had a twenty-four-hour expiration date.
"There are conditions," he added.
"There always are."
"This will be a contract marriage."
That made me pause.
Interesting.
"Temporary," he continued.
Now that was significantly better.
"How temporary?"
"Until the campaign is secure."
I smiled slightly.
Temporary arrangements were something I understood very well.
"Alright," I said.
"You agree?"
"I'm intrigued."
My father exhaled slowly, clearly relieved.
"Good."
"Just one question though."
"Yes?"
"What kind of woman agrees to marry a stranger for a contract?"
There was a short pause before he answered calmly.
"Someone who has her own reasons."
Then he ended the call.
I stared at my phone for a moment.
Somewhere out there was a woman practical or desperate enough to sign a marriage contract with me.
I almost felt sorry for her.
Almost.
Because if she thought marrying Theodore Callaghan would be calm, sensible, and peaceful…
She was about to be very disappointed.