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.

At exactly two o'clock, the dark gray Ford pulled up to the curb outside the shop.

Kittie stood on the sidewalk. She wore a simple navy-blue dress, the best thing she owned. The autumn wind bit through the thin fabric, making her shiver violently.

The passenger window rolled down. Connor sat in the driver's seat, wearing dark sunglasses. He gave her a single nod.

Kittie opened the door and slid into the car. The interior was spotless. There was no trash, no personal items, just the smell of leather and a faint hint of cedarwood.

"Is this car new?" Kittie asked, rubbing her cold arms. "It looks retro."

Connor kept his eyes on the road.

"Used lot," he lied effortlessly. "Boston parking is a nightmare. No point in ruining a good car. Plus, I am still paying off my student loans."

Kittie's shoulders dropped. The tight knot of anxiety in her chest loosened. Student loans. He was just a normal guy drowning in debt, just like her.

"I get it," she said softly, a wave of genuine affection washing over her.

Connor turned the steering wheel, taking a sharp left. Kittie frowned, looking out the window.

"This is not the way to the main entrance of City Hall," she pointed out.

"We are using the underground VIP parking," Connor said.

He drove down a concrete ramp, bypassing the public lot, and pulled into a secluded, brightly lit section.

"VIP?" Kittie asked, her heart rate picking up. "How?"

"A college buddy is a lawyer," Connor explained smoothly. "I paid him to grease the wheels. We skip the line. No chance of running into anyone we know."

Kittie looked at him, her chest aching with sympathy. He was already in debt, and he was spending extra cash just to protect her from her mother's spies.

They got out of the car. Connor walked around the hood and stopped in front of her. He reached out and wrapped his large, warm hand around hers.

Kittie gasped softly. The heat of his skin sent a shockwave up her arm.

"Getting into character," Connor murmured, his thumb brushing over her knuckles.

He led her to a private elevator. When the doors opened, a man in a sharp suit was waiting for them. He bowed his head slightly.

"Right this way, sir," the man said, his voice dripping with extreme deference.

Connor reached into his pocket and handed the man a thick white envelope.

Kittie's eyes widened. She squeezed Connor's hand, leaning in close.

"Connor," she hissed, her stomach twisting not with gratitude, but with a sudden, sharp spike of dread. "You do not have to tip him that much. Save your money."

Connor looked down at her. His blue eyes softened.

"Efficiency costs money, Kittie," he said quietly.

The man opened a heavy oak door. They stepped into a room that looked nothing like a government office. It had plush carpets, leather chairs, and a massive mahogany desk covered in white roses.

Kittie stopped breathing. The sheer luxury of the room made her head spin. She looked at Connor, her pulse hammering in her throat. None of this added up. The story about the 'used Ford' and 'student loans' suddenly felt like a flimsy, paper-thin excuse stretched over a terrifyingly opulent reality. Who was this man, really?

The door behind the desk opened. A tall man in a tailored suit walked in, holding a leather binder.

"Connor," the man said, grinning.

"Kittie," Connor said, his hand tightening around hers. "This is Clarence Dover. Our witness."

Kittie forced a smile, completely unaware she was shaking hands with one of the most powerful corporate fixers in the state.