(Liam's POV)
"Sign here."
My lawyer didn't raise his voice, didn't lean forward, didn't do anything dramatic — just that steady, almost bored tone, like we both already knew where this was headed.
The pen sat there in front of me, catching the light from the overheads. A thin sliver flashing like the quick edge of a blade when you tilt it just so.
It's ridiculous, really. How a thing that weighs almost nothing can feel heavy in your hand.
I've signed contracts that could've tipped the GDP of a small nation. Deals that sent stock tickers spinning and made seasoned analysts blink twice before believing the numbers. I've been in boardrooms where the room temperature dropped just because my name went on the page.
But this?
This wasn't that.
This was personal.
The stack in front of me wasn't just paper — it was a brick wall built from months of negotiating. Clause after clause, stitched together with the precision of someone who doesn't just draft documents, they wage wars in margins and footnotes.
Every line had been argued over, trimmed, reworded until it didn't breathe anymore. I'd read them all. Memorized them, even. The risks had moved into my head and made themselves comfortable — pacing the floor at 3 a.m., rattling the cupboards, refusing to leave.
And still, my gut… it didn't settle. It was too tight, too loud.
Was I making a calculated move, or just swan-diving off a cliff in a thousand-dollar suit?
This "marriage" — if you could even call it that — hadn't been born in candlelight and laughter. It was drafted in corporate silence, whispered between people who counted influence the way other people counted coins.
It would merge my company with hers, silence the scavengers sniffing around my brand, stabilize numbers that needed stabilizing.
For her — Ava Monroe — it would mean money. Enough to keep her dream from choking on debt.
Clean. Efficient. Clinical.
And absolutely without a pulse.
At least, that's how I'd been trying to think of it.
I reached for the pen before my mind could offer me one more warning. My name slid across the page in black ink, sharp and final. Not a second's hesitation.
Click. The pen closed.
And then — chaos.
Camera flashes cracked through the room like miniature lightning bolts. The pop of shutters sounded like distant gunfire bouncing off the polished wood. White light reflected off every flat surface until the air itself seemed to glare.
Polite applause followed, the kind that's more about etiquette than actual feeling.
To them, this was an event.
To me, it was a bear trap, teeth already sinking in.
I shook hands, said the right things, kept my expression exactly where I needed it. A small smile, no sharp edges. My face has been trained for this.
But inside, my pulse was loud enough to compete with the elevator's hum on the way down. The brushed steel doors gave me back my own reflection — eyes alert, mouth still, the mask of a man who could sell calm in a hurricane.
Masks crack, though. Under the wrong strain, they always do.
The city hit me like a wave when the doors slid open. Horns. Shouting. The splash of tires on wet asphalt. People weaving past each other without so much as a glance.
And me, standing still in the middle of it.
My phone buzzed. Oliver.
I answered without looking.
"Mr. Greyson, Ava Monroe has accepted your proposal."
Her name landed in me low and hard, like I'd taken a punch without bracing for it.
Ava Monroe.
I saw her again as she'd been the night of the gala. Not showy — not the kind of woman who relies on sequins to make a point. Her worth didn't need dressing up. It just was.
The merger, the deal, all the numbers — they suddenly seemed smaller.
Because now it wasn't just the numbers. It was her.
The car was already at the curb, dark and waiting. I slid in, leather swallowing the sound of movement, the faint smell of polish and something like cedar brushing against my nose.
Her address wasn't what I'd expected. No skyscrapers. No glass towers. Just a red-brick walk-up with paint curling away at the corners and a flickering street lamp leaning at a tired angle.
I liked it more than I should have.
The stairwell smelled faintly of coffee and rain — not the kind you buy in cafés, but the kind that lingers in old walls and wood. My hand ran along the banister. The varnish had been worn away in spots.
I knocked. My pulse picked up.
She opened the door.
Jeans. A soft gray sweater. Hair loose, falling just enough to shadow her collarbone. No makeup I could see. She looked exactly like herself, no performance.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi," I managed, and my voice came out rougher than I liked. "You ready?"
A nod.
The ride to the courthouse felt like walking a tightrope. Not tense — but not easy. The space between us was full of words neither of us touched.
She shifted once, like she was going to say something, but let it go. I kept my eyes on the window, letting the city blur into streaks.
Was I doing this because it made sense, or because admitting I wanted something else — something more — would've been harder?
The courthouse was what courthouses always are: beige, echoing, built without kindness.
The ceremony was short, stripped of anything soft. No romance, just recited words and signatures.
Until she looked at me.
The officiant said it: husband and wife.
Her lips parted.
"I need to tell you something," she said.
"What?"
My phone rang before she could answer. One glance at the number made my chest tighten.
"I'm sorry," I told her, stepping away.
Urgent voice on the other end. Bad news. The kind that doesn't need volume to hit hard.
When I turned back, she was watching me. Concern in the lines of her face.
"What happened?"
"Nothing," I lied, and even I didn't believe the smile that followed.
Outside, sunlight made her squint. The breeze pulled a strand of her hair across her cheek.
And just like that, I knew.
What we
'd built? It was standing on fractured ground.
And if I didn't move carefully, it would collapse — dragging both of us down with it.