The alleyway behind the hotel smelled of stale beer and rain.

Aisha leaned against the brick wall, her knees finally giving out. She slid down until she was crouching on the wet pavement, not caring about the ruin of her dress.

She pulled out her phone. Three missed calls from her father. Zero from Kelton.

She dialed Kelton's number. Her fingers knew the pattern by heart.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

"You've reached Kelton. Leave a message."

Aisha squeezed her eyes shut. "Kelton," she whispered into the voicemail. "Please. I don't know what happened. I woke up in a hotel. I think... I think Gretta drugged me. Please call me back. I need you."

She hung up, hugging her knees to her chest.

A sleek black sedan rolled past the mouth of the alley. It slowed down as it approached the traffic light.

Aisha's breath caught. It was her father's car. The Bentley.

She started to stand up, desperate to run to it, to bang on the window and beg her father to listen.

But then the rear window rolled down.

Gretta's voice drifted out, sharp and clear in the morning air.

"Useless idiots. They didn't get a clear shot of her face."

Aisha froze. She shrank back into the shadows behind a dumpster.

"It doesn't matter, Mom," Cathie's voice replied. It was light, airy, amused. "The rumor is enough. 'Bartlett Heiress in Drug Scandal.' Daddy is already furious. He's talking about the morality clause."

"Good," Gretta said. "Once she's cut off, the trust defaults to the next of kin. You."

"And Kelton?" Cathie asked.

"Kelton is a pragmatist, darling. He's already agreed to release a statement distancing himself from her. He'll be announcing his engagement to you by the end of the month."

Aisha clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the scream that clawed at her throat.

The light turned green. The Bentley purred and glided away, disappearing into the New York traffic.

Aisha stayed crouched in the filth for a long time.

Kelton wasn't just silent. He was in on it. Or at least, he had been turned.

And her father... her father was letting it happen.

She stood up slowly. Her legs felt like lead, but her mind was suddenly, terrifyingly clear. The shock had burned away, leaving behind a cold, hard rage.

She walked out of the alley and into a 24-hour diner across the street. She ignored the stares of the patrons as she marched into the restroom.

She splashed freezing water on her face, scrubbing at her skin until it turned red. She looked at herself in the cracked mirror. Her mascara was smeared. Her hair was a bird's nest.

She looked like a victim.

"No," she said to her reflection.

She pulled out her phone again and pulled up the PDF of her mother's trust fund document. She scrolled past the legalese until she found Paragraph 14, Section B.

The Morality Clause.

...in the event of a public scandal involving substance abuse or sexual impropriety, the Beneficiary shall forfeit all rights to the Principal...

But there was a sub-clause. Her mother, god bless her paranoia, had added a safety net.

...unless the Beneficiary can demonstrate a stable domestic partnership through legal marriage within thirty (30) days of said incident, thereby proving a commitment to rehabilitation and family values.

Marriage.

She needed to be married. Immediately.

But to who? Kelton was gone. Her social circle would be closed off the moment the story broke. No man in her zip code would touch her now.

She needed someone who didn't care about her reputation. Someone who needed something she still had-cash flow. Someone desperate.

Her mind flashed back to the hotel room. The towel. The stack of cash on the table. The way he had taken her three hundred dollars without hesitation.

Dominic.

He was handsome. He could pass for high society if he kept his mouth shut. And he was clearly in a line of work where money was the only object.

Aisha checked her bank app. Account Frozen.

Of course. Barry didn't waste time.

But she had a secret stash. Cash in her apartment safe. And jewelry.

She dried her face with a rough paper towel. She didn't have time to cry. She didn't have time to heal.

She had a business deal to make.

The coffee shop was one of those pretentious places in SoHo where the menu was a chalkboard and the baristas wore suspenders.

Aisha stood outside, adjusting the oversized sunglasses she had bought from a street vendor. She had changed into jeans and a sweater she kept in her gym locker, looking slightly less like a runaway debutante.

She spotted him through the glass.

Dominic was sitting at a corner table. He was wearing a t-shirt that was tight in all the right places and a leather jacket that looked distressed enough to be either very old or very expensive.

Across from him sat an older woman. She had silver hair pulled back in a severe bun and was wearing a Chanel suit.

Aisha ducked behind a newspaper stand.

The woman reached across the table and patted Dominic's hand. It looked... affectionate? No, patronizing.

She slid a thick manila envelope across the table.

Dominic took it. He didn't look inside. He just gave the woman a charming, practiced smile. The kind of smile that made women open their checkbooks.

He's working, Aisha thought, a wave of disgust warring with relief. That's his sugar mama.

The woman stood up, smoothed her skirt, and left.

Dominic stayed. He slumped back in his chair, staring out the window, looking strangely tired.

Aisha took a deep breath. She pushed open the door. The bell chimed.

She marched straight to his table and sat down in the empty chair.

Dominic blinked, pulling his gaze away from the street. Recognition dawned in his gray eyes.

"The runaway," he said. "Come back for your three hundred bucks?"

"I have a proposition," Aisha said. She didn't waste time with pleasantries.

A waiter appeared. "Can I get you something?"

"Two large coffees. Black. And the check," Aisha said.

She turned back to Dominic. She took off her sunglasses.

"I saw that woman," she said softly. "I know what that envelope was."

Dominic's expression shifted. The boredom vanished, replaced by a razor-sharp focus. "Do you?"

"It's payday," Aisha said. "She's your client."

Dominic stared at her for a long moment. Then, the corner of his mouth twitched. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.

"You think I'm a gigolo," he stated. It wasn't a question.

"I don't judge," Aisha lied. "But I need your services."

Dominic laughed. It was a rich, genuine sound that made heads turn. "Honey, I don't think you can afford my rates."

Aisha reached into her bag and pulled out a napkin. She grabbed a pen and wrote a number on it.

$50,000.

She slid it across the table.

"That's a down payment," she said. "I need you for a month. Maybe two."

Dominic looked at the number. He looked at her.

"What exactly does fifty grand buy me?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave.

Aisha felt heat rise in her cheeks, but she held his gaze. "A husband. A legal, paper-signed husband."

Dominic choked on his water. He coughed, thumping his chest. "Excuse me?"

"I need to get married. Today. It's... a legal matter regarding a trust fund. I need someone who looks good in a suit, can memorize a backstory, and won't ask questions."

She leaned in closer. "I know you need money. I saw you take that cash this morning. I can give you a monthly stipend. Five thousand a month, plus expenses. You get to live in my apartment. You get access to a car."

Dominic studied her. He looked at the napkin, then at her desperate, determined eyes.

He was Dominic Fields. He made fifty thousand dollars every time the stock market ticked up a point. He didn't need her money.

But he was bored. He was tired of the board meetings, the fake smiles, the endless pursuit of more power. And this woman... this woman who thought he was a prostitute... she was the most interesting thing that had happened to him in years.

"I have debts," he lied smoothly. "Big ones. Sharks looking for me."

Aisha didn't blink. "I'll handle them. Once I get my trust fund unlocked, I can pay them off. Within reason."

"Within reason," he repeated, hiding a smile.

"Do we have a deal?" She extended her hand across the table. Her fingers were trembling slightly.

Dominic looked at her small hand. He looked at the fire in her eyes.

He reached out and engulfed her hand in his. His palm was warm, rougher than she expected.

"Deal," he said. "Mrs. Bartlett."

They walked out of the coffee shop into the drizzle.

Aisha stopped abruptly at the corner, her boots splashing in a puddle.

"Wait," she said. She turned to face him, hugging her arms around herself. "I need to know something. Before we go to City Hall."

Dominic stopped, hands in his pockets. "What?"

"Last night," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Did we... did you...?"

She couldn't finish the sentence. The thought that she might have slept with him-transactionally-made her skin crawl. Not because of him, but because she had no memory of it.

Dominic's face softened. The arrogance vanished.

He pulled his phone out of his leather jacket. He tapped the screen a few times and turned it toward her.

"I figured you might ask," he said, his voice low. "I know a guy on the security staff here. Owed me a favor."

It was a video. Grainy, black and white security footage.

Aisha watched as a woman-her-stumbled down a hotel hallway. She pushed open a door that was slightly ajar. She collapsed onto the bed, face down, fully clothed. The footage sped up slightly. It showed her tossing and turning, kicking off her heels. At one point, she sat up, groaning, and clumsily started tugging at the zipper of her gown, clearly uncomfortable. She managed to wriggle out of it, leaving it in a heap at the foot of the bed before collapsing back onto the mattress.

A minute later, Dominic walked in. He stopped, looked at her, looked at the hallway. He closed the door.

He walked over to the bed, pulled the duvet out from under her, and draped it over her. Then he grabbed a pillow and went to the sofa on the far side of the room.

The video ended.

Aisha let out a breath she felt like she'd been holding for ten hours. Her shoulders slumped.

"You slept on the couch," she whispered.

"I have a strict code of ethics," Dominic said, pocketing the phone. "I don't touch intoxicated clients."

It was a lie-the "client" part-but the sentiment was true.

"Thank you," she said. She meant it.

"Don't get used to it," he quipped. "Now, about this marriage. I assume you want a prenup?"

"Yes," Aisha said automatically. "My lawyer-"

"No lawyers," Dominic interrupted.

Aisha frowned. "What? Why?"

"Lawyers mean background checks. Background checks mean my... creditors... find me." He stepped closer, towering over her. "If we do this, we do it my way. No paper trail that leads to my past."

Aisha bit her lip. It was risky. Insanely risky. But she didn't have time for a lawyer anyway.

"Fine," she said. "But we write a memorandum of understanding. Right now."

She marched him to a park bench. The wood was damp, but she sat down and pulled a notebook from her purse.

"Clause One," she said, writing furiously. "No intimacy. We sleep in separate rooms."

"Agreed," Dominic said, sitting next to her. He stretched his long legs out. "Clause Two: You pay for my suits. I can't look like a trophy husband in rags."

"Fine. Clause Three: You have to attend family events and act like you adore me."

"I'm a great actor," he said, winking.

"Clause Four," she continued, ignoring the flutter in her stomach. "Monthly allowance. Five thousand."

Dominic looked at the number she wrote. He suppressed a laugh. That was less than he spent on wine in a week.

"Six thousand," he countered. "Inflation."

Aisha glared at him. "Fine. Six. But you do chores. Dishes. Trash."

"I don't do trash," he said.

"Then no six thousand."

He groaned. "Fine. Trash."

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He glanced at it. A text from Chester: Board meeting in 20. Where are you?

Dominic hit Ignore.

"Who was that?" Aisha asked sharply.

"Debt collector," he said.

Aisha's expression softened. She reached out and touched his arm. "We'll fix it. I promise."

Dominic looked at her hand on his jacket. He felt a strange twinge in his chest. Guilt? No, he didn't do guilt.

"Let's go get hitched," he said, standing up abruptly.