The cold wind hit Kittie in the face the second they stepped onto the sidewalk. She pulled her trench coat tighter around her body, shivering.

Connor walked beside her, leading her toward a plain, dark gray Ford parked halfway down the block.

Before they reached the car, Kittie's phone started ringing again. The sound pierced through the street noise.

Connor took a step back, pulling his own phone from his pocket and pretending to check an email. His ears, however, were entirely focused on her.

Kittie hit the green button and pressed the phone to her ear.

"Mom, I cannot talk right now," Kittie said, her voice strained.

"You will listen to me!" Dolores's voice shrieked through the speaker, loud enough that Connor could hear the pitch. "Preston Finch was a catch! You humiliated me in front of the entire neighborhood!"

Kittie squeezed her eyes shut. Her fingernails dug so hard into the palm of her free hand that the skin threatened to break.

"He told me to wash his car," Kittie whispered, her throat burning.

"So what?" Dolores snapped. "Look at Beatrix! She just married into the Thorne family. A century-old Boston money family! She had a wedding at the Plaza! And you? You are throwing coffee at men who actually have a 401k. This is exactly why I always said adopting you was a risk. You have no drive to secure your future."

The words felt like a physical punch to Kittie's gut. The air rushed out of her lungs. Her eyes burned with hot tears, but she locked her jaw, refusing to let them fall.

Connor watched the muscles in her neck tighten. A violent, dark urge flared in his chest. He wanted to find Dolores and rip her vocal cords out. He forced his face to remain blank, pushing the rage down.

"I have to go," Kittie said, her voice completely dead.

She ended the call.

The silence between them was heavy and suffocating. Kittie stared at the concrete sidewalk, her chest heaving as she fought to control her breathing.

She forced a tight, plastic smile onto her face and looked at Connor.

"Sorry about that," she mumbled.

She needed to change the subject. Her brain scrambled for anything else to talk about. The name her mother mentioned sparked a thought.

"Hey," Kittie said, her voice shaking slightly. "You work in tech. Do you know anything about that crazy rich family in Boston? The Powers family? Mom is obsessed with old money right now."

Connor froze for a fraction of a second. A dark amusement flickered in his icy blue eyes.

"The Powers family?" he repeated.

Kittie hesitated. "I know you're also a Powers, but…" She gave his clothes a quick once-over. "Ahaha, just kidding."

She leaned against the side of the Ford. "Yeah, the CEO. Is he some bald, fat old guy sitting on a pile of gold?"

Connor bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing.

"Worse," Connor said, his tone dripping with fake disgust. "They are a bunch of bloodsuckers. The CEO is a ruthless workaholic. He has no life, no personality. Just a machine. He is probably a nightmare to deal with."

Kittie let out a genuine sigh of relief.

"See?" she said, shaking her head. "That sounds awful. The rich are miserable. I would rather sleep on the floor of my shop than live in some strict mansion with a guy like that."

Connor's chest expanded as he took a slow breath. The tension in his shoulders melted away. She did not care about money. She did not care about status.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, but he ignored it.

Kittie's phone pinged again. Another text from the family group.

She looked at the screen, her face dropping.

"If I show up to Thanksgiving alone," Kittie whispered, her voice cracking, "they will eat me alive."

Connor stepped closer. He reached out and opened the passenger door of the Ford.

"Then let us talk about that trade," Connor said softly.

Kittie looked at the dark interior of the car. Her pulse hammered in her throat. She slid into the passenger seat.

Connor shut the door, walked around the front, and got behind the wheel. He started the engine. The low hum of the motor filled the cabin. He gripped the steering wheel, a terrifying sense of victory rushing through his veins.

The Ford rolled smoothly over the asphalt, passing the dark waters of the river.

Kittie stared out the window. The trees blurred together. Her stomach felt hollow, gnawed raw by the anxiety of her mother's words and the looming threat of bankruptcy.

She turned her head to look at Connor. His profile was sharp, his jawline tense as he navigated the traffic.

"So," Kittie said, her voice breaking the silence. She forced a nervous laugh. "Since you are single, do you want to take on a freelance job?"

Connor kept his eyes on the road.

"Are you hiring a hitman for the Wall Street guy?" he asked, his tone flat.

Kittie smiled, the tension in her chest easing just a fraction.

"No," she said. "I want to hire you to be my fake boyfriend for Thanksgiving. I cannot pay you in cash, but I can offer a lifetime supply of pour-over coffee and VIP status at my flower shop."

Connor did not laugh. The silence stretched out, thick and heavy.

Kittie felt a hot flush of embarrassment creep up her neck.

"I am kidding," she said quickly, waving her hands. "Obviously. We barely know each other."

Connor hit the brakes.

The car swerved smoothly to the right, pulling into an empty, quiet parking spot along the riverbank. He shifted the gear into park and turned off the engine.

He unbuckled his seatbelt and turned his entire body to face her.

His blue eyes locked onto hers. The intensity in his stare made Kittie press her back hard against the passenger door.

"I am not playing your fake boyfriend," Connor said. His voice was a low rumble that vibrated against her skin. "It is amateur. Your mother will see right through it."

Kittie swallowed hard. Her throat felt like sandpaper.

"I can throw in some pastries?" she offered weakly.

Connor did not smile.

"We go to City Hall," Connor said, his words precise and sharp. "We get a marriage license. We do this for real."

Kittie's brain stopped working. The blood rushed out of her head, leaving her dizzy.

"What?" she gasped.

"A legal marriage," Connor stated, leaning closer. "It shuts your mother up permanently. A piece of paper holds weight. It gives you an untouchable status in your family."

"You are insane," Kittie breathed out, her chest rising and falling rapidly. "We have not even been on a date."

"Dates are irrelevant," Connor said coldly. "Marriage is a contract. Emotion is a sunk cost we do not need to factor in. I need a wife to satisfy the requirements of that overseas asset trust audit I mentioned, to mitigate the legal risks my firm is facing. You need a shield."

Kittie stared at his perfectly calm face. Her mind raced. Dolores's screaming voice echoed in her ears. The stack of unpaid bills flashed behind her eyes.

If she had a husband, Dolores could never call her a leftover again.

"I cannot afford a wedding," Kittie whispered, her voice trembling.

"I will handle the fees," Connor said smoothly. "And as your legal spouse, I will cover half the rent for your shop. Call it a husband's obligation."

Rent.

The word hit Kittie like a physical blow. Half her rent meant she could keep the shop open. It meant she could breathe.

Her fingers gripped the edge of her seat. Her knuckles turned white.

"We would need a contract," Kittie said, her voice shaking. "To protect both of us."

A dark, predatory gleam flashed in Connor's eyes.

"Absolutely," he agreed. "Business is business."

Kittie closed her eyes. Her heart pounded so hard she felt it in her teeth. She opened her eyes and looked at him.

"Okay," Kittie whispered.

The backroom of Kittie's shop smelled like roasted espresso beans and damp rose petals.

Kittie stood by the stainless-steel prep counter, her hands shaking as she pulled out a blank notepad and a cheap ballpoint pen. She felt like she was preparing for an execution.

Connor ignored her paper. He unzipped a sleek black leather messenger bag and pulled out a thin laptop. He set it on the counter, his fingers flying across the keyboard with terrifying speed.

Ten minutes later, a portable wireless printer he had brought with him whirred to life. It spit out three pages of dense, legal-sized text.

Kittie stared at the papers. Her stomach did a nervous flip.

Connor slid the documents across the metal counter.

"Read it," he commanded softly.

Kittie looked down. The legal jargon blurred together.

"Term of two years," Connor summarized, his voice steady. "Strict separation of assets. Absolute confidentiality regarding the nature of this arrangement. In public, we act like a married couple. Holding hands, attending events."

Kittie bit her bottom lip. It sounded clinical. Safe.

She scanned down to the middle of the second page.

"Mutual non-interference in private lives," Kittie read out loud. She let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. "Okay. That is good."

Connor picked up a silver fountain pen.

"Review the penalty clause on the last page," he instructed.

Kittie flipped the page. Her eyes widened.

"Five million dollars?" she choked out, her throat closing up. "If one of us breaks the contract?"

Connor met her panicked gaze with absolute calm. "This number is purely a deterrent," he explained, his voice low and reassuring. "It is designed to keep external threats-like the media or your family's relentless meddling-at bay. I give you my word, as long as you do not actively sabotage our public image, this clause will never be weaponized against you. It protects both of our reputations from a messy public fallout."

While Kittie stared at the massive number, her breathing slowly returning to normal as his explanation settled over her, Connor reached into his messenger bag. "I need to print a duplicate for my own records," he said smoothly. He turned his broad back to her for exactly three seconds to retrieve a second sheet from the portable printer. In that microscopic window of time, shielded entirely from her view, he dragged the tip of his silver pen across the middle of page two. A thick, black line struck right through the words Mutual non-interference in private lives. He scribbled his initials—C.P.— next to the deletion in a fraction of a second. He turned back around, his face a mask of perfect indifference, and set the papers back down on the metal counter.

"Sign," he instructed quietly.

Kittie picked up the cheap ballpoint. Her fingers were numb. The metal counter felt like ice against her skin. She pressed the pen to the paper and signed her name. The scratch of the ink sounded deafening in the quiet room.

Connor pulled the papers toward him. He stared at her signature. A slow, dark satisfaction settled deep in his chest.

He carefully folded the contract and slid it into the inside pocket of his jacket, right over his heart.

"So," Kittie said, rubbing her sweaty palms against her jeans. "When do we tell our families? Next week?"

Connor checked his watch.

"I will pick you up at two o'clock today," Connor said. "We are going to City Hall."

Kittie's jaw dropped. Her lungs seized.

"Today?" she gasped. "That is in two hours!"

"Rip the bandage off," Connor said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Be ready."

He turned and walked toward the back door. He paused with his hand on the knob, looking back at her over his shoulder.

"Thank you, Kittie," he said. His voice was thick with an emotion she could not decipher.

The door clicked shut. Kittie collapsed against the metal counter, her legs giving out. She stared at the empty space where he had stood, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs.