Eve’s POV

I woke to the smell of tea and the distant sound of someone rummaging through my kitchen cabinets.

For a moment I just lay there, wrapped in the blanket Devin must have draped over me at some point during the night. The couch cushions were still warm and the pillow still smelled faintly of the cologne I had given him for his birthday three years ago and that he apparently still wore. I made a mental note to buy him more. The man was loyal to a fault, even to his grooming products.

The morning light was pale and thin, filtering through the windows in that quiet way light does when the city has not yet woken up enough to fill the streets with noise. I pushed myself upright and found Devin in my kitchen, moving around with the comfortable ease of someone who had done this a hundred times before. Which he had. He knew where I kept my mugs. He knew I took my tea with exactly half a teaspoon of honey and a splash of milk. He knew I needed two minutes of silence before I could form coherent sentences in the morning.

He turned when he heard me stir and held out a steaming mug. "You're predictable," he said.

"Good morning to you too."

"I made eggs and toast. The bread was questionable but I toasted it aggressively enough to kill anything that might have been growing."

I wrapped my hands around the mug and let the warmth seep into my fingers. "What time did you get up?"

"I didn't really sleep." He shrugged, already turning back to the stove. "I T ook a few showers instead to clear my head."

I nodded and did not give it a second thought. Devin was a restless sleeper. He had been that way since college, when exam stress would have him pacing the dorm halls at three in the morning. The showers were just his way of dealing with a bad night. I had shared hotel rooms with him enough times over the years to know his habits, and a midnight shower was far from the strangest thing he did.

What I did not notice was the way his eyes flickered away from me when he said it. What I did not catch was the almost imperceptible tension in his shoulders, the way his grip tightened briefly on the spatula before he relaxed it again. I was too tired and too heartbroken to read between the lines, and Devin had spent seven years making sure I never learned to read between them with him.

So I just sipped my tea and let him cook for me, I was grateful in the uncomplicated way I had always been grateful for him. He was my best friend. My safe harbor. The one man in the world who had never looked at me like I was a target or a prize or a stepping stone to something better. He was gay, which meant he was also the one man in the world who would never complicate things with feelings I could not return. At least that was what I believed.

The tea was perfect. Half a teaspoon of honey, splash of milk and steeped for exactly four minutes. I had not even seen him check the time.

We ate at the small table by the window, the city stretching out below us in shades of gray and gold. The eggs were fluffy. The toast was, as promised, aggressively toasted. We ate in comfortable silence for a while, and then Devin set down his fork and looked at me with an expression that made my stomach tighten.

"There's something I need to tell you."

My mind immediately jumped to the worst conclusions. Delphine was pregnant. Ambrose had already moved on. The wedding vendors were refusing to refund my deposits. "If this is about the cake tasting, I already canceled it."

"It's not about the cake." He paused. "It's about your father."

My father was not a topic that came up often between us. Devin knew what Gerald Lovelace was. He knew about the years of neglect after my mother died, the eighteen month timeline from funeral to remarriage, the way my father had let Delphine and her mother walk into our home and treat me like furniture they were waiting to replace. He knew all of it, and he had spent years biting his tongue because I asked him to.

"What about my father?"

Devin leaned back in his chair. His eyes were steady on mine, and I recognized the careful patience in them. It was the same look he got before he delivered bad news to a boardroom. "Do you remember last year, when I mentioned that your father's business dealings looked a little too complicated for comfort?"

"Vaguely."

"I wasn't vague about it. You just didn't want to hear it."

Fair point. My father's business was the last thing I wanted to discuss over brunch, or ever. "What is it, Devin?"

"Gerald is in significant debt. And the person he owes the money to is Martin Lovelace."

The world tilted. I set my mug down very carefully, afraid I might drop it. Martin Lovelace was my mother's cousin. He had been circling the family fortune since before I was born, positioning himself as the rightful heir if anything ever happened to the bloodline. He was the man Delphine had probably called last night after I walked out of the cottage. I believe he was the reason my mother had written that clause into her will in the first place.

"How much debt?" I asked.

"Enough that he cannot pay it back without your inheritance."

My stomach turned over. "So my own father has been betting against me. He owes money to the man who stands to inherit everything if I fail, and he just conveniently let me waste a year planning a wedding to a man who was never going to marry me."

"Your father might not have known about Ambrose."

"He might not have. But he knew about the deadline, and he never warned me." I stared at my half eaten eggs and felt the betrayal settle into my bones like a chill. "He never once told me he was in trouble. He never asked for help. He just let me walk toward the edge of a cliff while he stood there holding hands with the people who wanted me to fall."

Devin did not say anything. He just reached across the table and covered my hand with his, his palm warm and steady. It was such a small gesture, but it anchored me in a way I could not explain.

"I have thirty days," I said, my voice quieter than I meant it to be. "Thirty days to get married or I lose my mother's whole legacy. Every single thing she built all goes to Martin."

"We will figure it out." He said it with absolute certainty, like it was a fact as solid as the table between us.

"How? Ambrose is gone. My father is compromised. The entire board is probably already placing bets on my failure. I have no options left, Devin."

His jaw tightened. "There is always an option."

"Name one."

He was quiet for a moment. The morning light caught the edge of his jaw and I noticed, fleetingly, that he looked exhausted. The kind of exhausted that went deeper than a single sleepless night. I wanted to ask him what was really going on behind those steady eyes, but I was too afraid of the answer.

"There's something else I need to tell you," he said. "About your father's finances. The debt to Martin is just the surface. I have been digging into this for a few months now, and I think there are things Gerald has been hiding from you for a very long time. Things that go back to when your mother was still alive."

I went cold. "What about my father?"

Devin looked at me and I could tell he was holding back.

"It's worse than you think," he said quietly. "And I need you to be ready for it."

Eve’s POV

The morning had already delivered one gut punch. I saw no reason to stop at a single blow.

After Devin dropped the revelation about my father's debt to Martin, I sat at the breakfast table for a long time, staring at the cooling eggs and trying to rearrange the shattered pieces of my life into something resembling a plan. Devin cleaned the kitchen quietly, giving me space. He knew when to push and when to hover, and right now hovering was the correct call. I could feel his presence behind me like a wall between me and the abyss.

Finally I stood up and reached for my phone. "I'm calling Marguerite Chen."

Devin turned from the sink, drying his hands on a towel. "The family judge?"

"She's the executor of my mother's will. If anyone can tell me whether that marriage clause has any flexibility, it's her." I was already scrolling through my contacts. "Maybe there's a loophole. Maybe the deadline can be extended. Maybe I can petition the court for an adjustment based on extenuating circumstances, like my fiancé being a douchebag"

"Extenuating circumstances. That's one way to put it."

"I'm being diplomatic."

Marguerite's assistant answered on the second ring. I explained who I was and what I needed, and within five minutes I had an appointment for later that morning. The speed of it should have reassured me, instead it made my stomach knot tighter. Efficient people were efficient for a reason. She knew I was coming and she had probably been expecting my call.

I hung up and found Devin watching me with that steady gaze of his. "Do you want me to come with you?"

"I think I need to do this alone."

He nodded without argument. He never pushed, never insisted. That was one of the thousand reasons I trusted him completely. "I'll be here when you get back. If you need me."

"I always need you," I said, and the words came out more honest than I intended. I grabbed my bag and headed for the door before either of us could acknowledge what I had just admitted.

Marguerite Chen's office was in a building that had been old when my mother was young. It smelled of leather and floor wax and something faintly floral that I could not identify. The walls were lined with law books that looked like they had not been opened in decades, their spines perfectly preserved, their contents probably irrelevant to anything happening in the modern world. Marguerite herself was seated behind a massive oak desk that might have been older than the building. She was a small woman, silver haired and sharp eyed, with the kind of posture that suggested she had never slouched in her life.

"Miss Lovelace," she said, gesturing to the chair across from her. "I was sorry to hear about your engagement. The circumstances were unfortunate."

"Unfortunate is a gentle word for it."

"Yes. It is." She folded her hands on the desk. "You asked about flexibility in the marriage clause. I'm afraid there is none. The will is ironclad. You must be legally married before your twenty-fifth birthday, or the entirety of your mother's estate transfers to a trust controlled by Martin Lovelace."

"Martin, my father's creditor."

Marguerite's expression did not flicker, but something in the air between us shifted. "I see you've been doing your research."

"I've been doing my surviving. There's a difference."

She leaned back in her chair and studied me with those sharp eyes. For a long moment she did not speak, and I had the uncomfortable sensation of being measured against some invisible standard.

Finally she said, "Your mother was a dear friend of mine. I have been the executor of her estate for over twenty years, and I have watched Martin and your father and a parade of lesser vultures circle your inheritance like it was already theirs. I tell you this not to frighten you, but to make something very clear."

She leaned forward. "The marriage clause is not a punishment. It is a shield. Your mother knew what would happen if you were left unprotected. She built the deadline into the will because she believed that the right partner when chosen carefully, would be your best defense against the people who want to take everything from you."

I absorbed this slowly. "So the clause was never about controlling me. It was about making sure I had someone in my corner."

"Yes, someone legally bound to protect your interests. A husband, not a boyfriend."

"Ambrose was supposed to be that person."

"Ambrose was a mistake." She said it without malice, just clinical precision. "He was a mistake your mother's will anticipated. The clause requires marriage, but it does not dictate to whom. You still have thirty days to make a better choice."

Thirty days. The number sat between us like a ticking clock. "And if I fail?"

"Martin's trust takes everything. The estate, the company, the liquid assets, all of it. You would retain a small allowance, but control would pass to him permanently. There is no appeal and no second chance."

I felt the cold certainty of it settle into my bones. This was not a negotiation. This was a gauntlet my mother had thrown down from the grave, and I was standing at the starting line with no partner, no plan and no time left to waste.

Marguerite watched me process this. Then she said, very quietly, "There is more to the will than the marriage clause. Additional protections your mother put in place. Things that will become clear when the time is right."

I frowned. "What does that mean?"

"It means your mother was a very thorough woman. She did not trust easily, and she did not leave anything to chance. The marriage deadline is not the only piece of the puzzle. But the rest is for another day."

She stood up and smoothed her jacket, a clear signal that the meeting was ending. "For now, focus on finding a partner you can trust. Someone who will stand beside you when the storm comes."

I rose from my chair, my mind already spinning with questions she clearly had no intention of answering. "Why are you telling me all this? The executor of a will is supposed to be neutral."

"I am neutral about the estate. I am not neutral about you." Marguerite's expression softened by a fraction of a degree. "Your mother would not forgive me if I failed you now. I suggest you do not fail yourself either."

I walked to the door, my hand on the brass handle, when her voice stopped me.

"Miss Lovelace."

I turned back.

"Choose your partner very carefully." Her eyes were dark and unreadable. "Not all poison comes labeled."

I stepped into the corridor and the door clicked shut behind me. The hallway was empty and silent, the old carpet muffling my footsteps as I walked toward the elevator.

My phone felt heavy in my pocket, full of people I could call and none I could trust. I had thought I had chosen carefully. I had thought Ambrose was safe, steady, unremarkable enough to be harmless but he had been a knife waiting for my back the entire time.

The elevator doors slid open and I stepped inside. My reflection stared back at me from the polished brass walls, a woman with thirty days to find a husband and no idea where to start looking. Devin would be at the apartment when I got back, ready with tea and steady reassurance and that unshakeable belief that we would figure this out.

He was the one person I could always count on. The one person who had never lied to me or let me down or asked for anything in return. The one person I could never marry, because he was gay. The idea was impossible and I was not yet desperate enough to ask that of him.

But as I kept turning Marguerite's words over in my mind, I couldn’t help but wonder what other protections my mother had hidden in that will, and what it would cost me to find out.

Eve’s POV

Scratch what I said about not being desperate. I was desperate enough but not shameless enough to ask Devin to marry me.

I spent the rest of the day doing what any reasonable woman in my position would do. I walked into every boutique between the judge's office and the river, tried on seven dresses I did not need, bought a pair of shoes that cost more than my first car, and pretended I was not circling the inevitable conclusion that had been waiting for me since the moment I walked out of that cottage.

Devin was the only man I trusted and the only man who had never let me down. My gay best friend who would rather eat glass than complicate our friendship with anything as messy as romantic feelings.

He was the perfect solution to my problems but it was impossible ask this of him.

He called twice in the afternoon. The first time I let it ring until voicemail. The second time I picked up just long enough to tell him I needed time alone to clear my head. He said okay without hesitation. He never pushed or demanded explanations. It was one of the thousand things I loved about him.

By seven o'clock I had exhausted every distraction the city had to offer and found myself in a dimly lit bar on the wrong side of midtown, the kind of place where the wine came by the glass and nobody blinked if you ordered three in a row. The bartender was a tired looking man in his fifties who had seen enough drunk women on barstools to know when to pretend he was not watching. I appreciated his discretion.

I was halfway through my second glass of something red and unpretentious when a man slid onto the stool beside me. He was handsome in a generic way, dark hair, decent jawline, a smile that suggested he had used it successfully before. "You look like someone who's had a rough week," he said.

"It's Tuesday."

"Rough month then."

I swirled my wine and considered him. He was tall and well dressed and entirely forgettable. Under different circumstances I might have been flattered. Tonight I was just exhausted. "I'm not interested," I said. "But thank you for the effort."

He did not move. "You haven't even heard my pitch."

"I don't need to hear your pitch."

"It's a good pitch. Very convincing."

I turned on my stool and looked at him properly. The wine had loosened something in my brain, a filter I usually kept firmly in place. "What's your name?"

"Eric."

"Eric, do you want to get married?"

He blinked. "Excuse me?"

“ Do you want to marry me I n the next thirty days. It's a business arrangement. You'd get a generous allowance and a quick divorce once the terms are met. No strings or expectations, just a signature on a piece of paper and a year or two of pretending." I tilted my head. "Still interested?"

Eric stared at me for a long moment. Then he laughed, a little nervously, and stood up. "You're insane," he said.

"Probably, but the offer stands."

He walked away without looking back. I could not blame him. I had just proposed a marriage of convenience to a complete stranger in a dive bar, and the only reason I was not more embarrassed was that the wine had reached the part of my brain responsible for shame and gently turned it off.

Two glasses later, Marguerite's warning came floating back to me. Not all poison comes labeled. Eric the stranger could have been anyone: A con man, a mole sent by Martin or another Ambrose with a better poker face.

I could not afford another mistake. The only person I could trust was already in my apartment, probably pacing the living room and pretending he was not worried about me.

I pulled out my phone and stared at Devin's contact photo. He was smiling in it, one of those rare unguarded moments I had captured last summer when we were on the roof of his building and the sun was setting and he had not noticed me pointing the camera at him. He looked happy. He always looked happy when he was with me.

I could not ask him. I could not take the one good friendship in my life and turn it into a transaction. And yet I had no other options. Ambrose was gone, Eric the stranger was gone and T he deadline was not going anywhere.

I ordered another glass of wine and stared at the ruby liquid like it might offer up a solution. It did not. But it did give me an idea, which was that if I was going to ask Devin Cresswell to marry me, I needed to be drunk enough that the words could actually leave my mouth.

By the time I finished my fourth glass, the bar had gotten blurry around the edges. The bartender was wiping down the counter with a rag that had seen better days, and he glanced at my phone when I set it down beside my glass. "Do you have someone who can pick you up?" he asked.

“Yes, my friend Devin. He always picks me up."

"Want me to call him?"

I nodded and pushed the phone toward him. "Tell him I have a question for him. A very important question."

The bartender scrolled through my contacts with the patience of a man who had done this exact thing for hundreds of drunk patrons before me. I watched him step aside and speak quietly into the receiver. A few minutes later he returned the phone. "He's on his way."

"He's always there for me. That's the thing about Devin." I rested my chin on my hand and felt the room tilt pleasantly. "He's the only reliable man in the world. Did you know that? The only one."

The bartender made a noncommittal sound and went back to wiping the counter.

Devin arrived faster than should have been possible in city traffic. One moment I was contemplating the dregs of my wine, and the next he was standing beside my stool, his hand gentle on my back, his voice low and steady as he thanked the bartender and settled my tab. He looked perfect in that rumpled way he always looked when he had been pulled away from something important, his shirt sleeves rolled up and his hair slightly disheveled and his eyes full of concern.

"Eve." He crouched beside me so we were at eye level. "What are you doing?"

"Drinking. Strategically."

"Strategically."

"For courage." I turned to face him and the world swayed, but he was solid, always solid. "Devin, I need to ask you something. It's insane and you're going to think I've lost my mind."

"I already think that. What is it?"

I took a deep breath. The bar was spinning gently around us. The bartender had retreated to the far end of the counter. "Marry me."

He went very still. His hand was still on my arm, his thumb resting against the inside of my wrist. "What?"

"Marry me, not for real. Well, legally real, but not romantically real and you're the only person I trust. The only one who never wanted anything from me and I have thirty days to find a husband or I lose everything. I know it's insane but you're gay so it's not like things would get complicated between us. We could just sign the papers and pretend for a while and then when the inheritance is safe we can go back to normal. Please…"

He said yes before I finished the sentence.

He said it so fast I almost missed it. Just one quiet syllable while I was still rambling, and then I stopped and stared at him and a laugh bubbled up out of my chest before I could stop it.

"Really?"

"Really."

"You'll marry me? Just like that?"

"Just like that."

I threw my arms around his neck and almost fell off the stool. He caught me, as he always did, and I laughed into his shoulder with the giddy relief of a woman who had just been handed a lifeline. "You're perfect," I said. "You're the perfect solution. My safe, perfect, uncomplicated solution."

"Uncomplicated," he repeated quietly.

"Exactly." I pulled back and beamed at him, drunk on cheap wine and sheer exhausted relief. "You're never going to fall in love with me. That's what makes it perfect. No drama, no heartbreak and no messy feelings. Just us, the way we've always been."

Devin smiled. The corners of his mouth lifted in all the right ways, but something behind his eyes did not move with them. In the dim light of the bar, with my vision blurred and my judgment thoroughly pickled, I did not notice.

"Right," he said quietly. "Never."