**POV: Dominic**

The conference room at Sterling & Associates was designed to intimidate. Mahogany walls, leather chairs that cost more than most people's cars, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Elliott Bay. I'd been in this room dozens of times over the years, usually on the winning side of negotiations.

Today felt different.

Harrison's lawyers sat across from me-Gerald Morrison, senior partner, and two associates whose names I'd already forgotten. They'd been stalling for twenty minutes, shuffling papers and exchanging meaningful looks while I waited.

"Just tell me," I said finally. "Whatever conditions Harrison put in the will, I can handle it."

Gerald cleared his throat. "Mr. Cross, your mentor's estate is... substantial. As you know."

"Three billion, give or take. I helped him build most of it."

"Indeed. And he wanted to ensure it went to the right hands." Gerald slid a leather portfolio across the table. "However, there are conditions."

I opened it. Legal language filled the first page, dense and impenetrable. I skipped to the summary section.

Then read it again,like I knew nothing about the deal.

"This is a joke."

"I assure you, it's not."

"He's requiring me to get married? Within six months?" I looked up, waiting for the punchline. "That's insane. It has to be illegal."

"Actually, testamentary conditions regarding marriage are quite legal, provided they don't violate public policy. Mr. Sterling had every right to attach conditions to his bequest."

"Harrison died six months ago. You're telling me this now?"

"The will required a six-month waiting period before the marriage condition became active. That period ended yesterday." Gerald folded his hands. "As of today, you have exactly six months to marry, or the entire estate-including your controlling shares in Cross Industries-will be dissolved and donated to various charities."

The words blurred on the page. Marry or lose everything.

"There has to be a loophole."

"We've examined the will thoroughly. It's airtight."

I stood, pacing to the windows. Seattle spread below me, gray and drizzling. Somewhere down there, people were living normal lives. Dating without billion-dollar ultimatums. Marrying for love instead of inheritance clauses.

"Why?" I asked. "Why would Harrison do this?"

Gerald's expression softened. "He left a letter. Would you like me to read it?"

"Yes."

The lawyer pulled out an envelope, Harrison's distinctive handwriting on the front. *For Dominic, when he's ready to listen.*

Gerald began reading.

"Dominic, if you're hearing this, I'm gone and you're angry. Good. Be angry. But also listen. I made a fortune, built an empire, collected everything money could buy. And I died alone in a house with twelve bedrooms, surrounded by objects instead of people. You're headed down the same path, son. I've watched you work yourself to death for a decade, keeping everyone at arm's length, treating relationships like business transactions. A man with everything and no one to share it with has nothing. This condition isn't punishment-it's salvation. Find someone real. Build something that matters more than money. Don't end up like me."

The room fell silent.

"That's it?" My voice came out hoarse.

"There's more legal language, but that's the essence." Gerald closed the envelope. "He truly cared about you, Mr. Cross. This was his way of ensuring you didn't repeat his mistakes."

I returned to my seat, staring at the will. Six months. One hundred eighty-two days to find a wife or lose everything Harrison and I had built together.

"What are my options?"

"You could contest the will, but I don't recommend it. The language is solid, and litigation could take years. By then, the six-month deadline would have passed anyway."

"So I marry someone."

"Yes."

"Anyone?"

"The will doesn't specify particular qualities. Just that the marriage must be legal and in good faith-no arrangements that would obviously constitute fraud."

My mind raced through possibilities. There were women who would marry me in a heartbeat. Socialites, actresses, entrepreneurs who saw me as a means to an end. I could have my pick.

The thought made me sick.

"I've dated hundreds of women," I said quietly. "Dinners, galas, charity events. Not one of them was real."

Gerald raised an eyebrow. "Surely some of them-"

"They dated Dominic Cross, the billionaire. The name in the Forbes list. The man who could open doors and write checks." I thought of E.A.'s letters, her words from last night. *Do you ever feel like you're drowning in a room full of people?* "Not one of them wanted to know who I actually was."

"Perhaps this is an opportunity to find someone who does."

"In six months."

"People have married faster for worse reasons."

I laughed bitterly. "You're suggesting I find true love on a deadline."

"I'm suggesting you take Mr. Sterling's advice seriously. He knew you better than most."

The associates started gathering their papers, clearly eager to escape the tension. Gerald stood, straightening his suit.

"We'll need to schedule regular check-ins," he said. "To monitor your progress."

"You make it sound like a project."

"In a sense, it is. The estate is substantial, Mr. Cross. There are many parties interested in its disposition. If you fail to meet the terms, there will be considerable... complications."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning your competitors will be watching. Waiting. The moment that deadline passes, Cross Industries becomes vulnerable."

Perfect. Not only did I have to get married, I had to do it while sharks circled, waiting for me to fail.

After they left, I sat alone in the conference room, Harrison's letter on the table.

*Find someone real.*

My phone buzzed. Email notification. E.A. had written back.

*Dear D.C.,*

*Kids do make things less heavy. I hope your complicated choice gets easier. Whatever it is, I trust you'll do the right thing. You always seem to, even when it's hard.*

I stared at her words. Here was someone who knew me-really knew me-and thought I'd do the right thing. She had more faith in me than I had in myself right now.

She didn't know my net worth. Didn't know my name or face. Just knew my words, my thoughts, my fears. And somehow, that was enough for her to trust me.

*Find someone real.*

I typed a response.

*Dear E.A.,*

*I've dated hundreds. None of them were real. Except you.*

I deleted it. Too honest. Too revealing.

Besides, E.A. was a fantasy. A connection built on anonymity and distance. I couldn't marry someone I'd never met, whose name I didn't even know.

Could I?

The thought was absurd.

I closed my laptop and looked out at the city, six months stretching ahead like a prison sentence.

Somewhere out there was a woman I could marry. Someone suitable, appropriate, willing to play the part.

All I had to do was find her and convince both of us this was anything other than a business arrangement.

The rain picked up, streaking down the windows, and Harrison's words echoed in my head.

*Don't end up like me.*

**POV: Isla**

The clock on my nightstand read 2:47 a.m. I should have been asleep. I had a twelve-hour shift starting in five hours. But sleep felt impossible after the dinner at my parents' house, after watching my sisters shine while I faded into the wallpaper.

I sat cross-legged on my bed, laptop balanced on my knees, the glow of the screen the only light in my studio apartment. Outside, Seattle was finally quiet, the usual traffic noise reduced to an occasional car passing below my window.

This was my favorite time. When the world slept and I could exist without apologizing for it.

D.C.'s last email was still open. *I have something complicated coming up. A choice to make. I'll probably need your wisdom before it's over.*

I wondered what kind of choice kept a man like him awake. From his letters, I knew he was successful-wealthy, even-but lonely in a way that money couldn't fix. We'd never exchanged specifics. No last names, no companies, no details that would shatter the safety of our anonymous connection.

Maybe that's why this worked. We couldn't perform for each other because we didn't know what roles we were supposed to play.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard. I should write something hopeful, something that would help with whatever decision he was facing.

Instead, I wrote the truth.

*Dear D.C.,*

*I went to family dinner tonight. I shouldn't let it bother me anymore-I'm twenty-five, old enough to know better-but it does.*

*My mother spoke over me three times. Not interrupting, exactly. Just talking like I hadn't been speaking at all, like my voice was white noise she'd learned to tune out. My father asked my sister about her work while I was mid-sentence about mine. And my sisters... they don't do it on purpose, but they take up so much space that there's none left for me.*

*I've spent my whole life being background noise in other people's stories. The supporting character who exists to make everyone else look better by comparison.*

I stopped, deleting the last sentence. Too bitter. Too self-pitying.

But wasn't that what these letters were for? Being honest in a way I couldn't be anywhere else?

I retyped it.

*The worst part is wondering if this is just who I am. If some people are meant to be invisible. If I'm one of them.*

*Do you ever wonder if you'll ever be someone's first choice? Not their backup plan or their last resort, but the person they choose before anyone else?*

*I wonder that all the time.*

My eyes burned. I wiped them roughly with my sleeve, annoyed at myself for crying over something so familiar it shouldn't hurt anymore.

*Sorry. That got darker than I meant it to. Ignore me-I'm just tired.*

*Your complicated choice, whatever it is-I hope you find clarity. You deserve good things. You deserve to be happy.*

*Sleep well.*

*E.A.*

I hit send before I could second-guess myself, then immediately regretted it. Too much. Too vulnerable. He'd think I was pathetic.

My phone buzzed with a text from Elena, my coworker and closest friend.

**Elena:** *You awake?*

**Me:** *Unfortunately*

**Elena:** *Bad dinner with the family?*

**Me:** *The usual*

**Elena:** *Your family is the worst. Come over tomorrow after your shift. I'll make margaritas and we can trash talk them properly*

I smiled despite myself. Elena had been trying to adopt me since we started working together three years ago. She insisted my family was emotionally abusive, that I should set boundaries, maybe get therapy.

She wasn't wrong. But knowing something intellectually and feeling it emotionally were different things.

**Me:** *I'll be there*

I set my phone aside and closed my laptop, sliding under the covers. The twinkle lights above my bed cast soft shadows on the ceiling. I'd bought them because they reminded me of stars, and stars reminded me that there was a whole universe beyond my small, invisible life.

My laptop chimed. New email.

I told myself not to check it. I needed sleep. But D.C. never wrote back this fast unless-

I grabbed the laptop.

*Dear E.A.,*

*I just got home from the worst meeting of my life. I'm standing in my apartment that costs more than most houses, looking at a city I helped shape through investments and development, and all I can think is: what's the point?*

*Then I read your email.*

*I wish I could tell you that you're wrong about being background noise. But I think I understand exactly what you mean. I'm surrounded by people constantly-meetings, dinners, events-and I feel invisible too. They see my money, my name, what I can do for them. They don't see me.*

*Except you. Somehow, you see me.*

*To answer your question: yes. I wonder all the time if anyone will ever choose me for who I am instead of what I have. I've dated dozens of women who would marry me tomorrow, but not one of them knows my favorite book or what I'm afraid of or what I dream about at three in the morning.*

*You know all of those things.*

*I don't think you're meant to be invisible. I think you've been surrounded by people who are too blind or too selfish to see what's right in front of them. Their failure to see you doesn't make you less visible. It makes them less observant.*

*You asked if you'll ever be someone's first choice. E.A., you're already someone's first choice. You're mine. In two years of writing to you, I've never wanted to write to anyone else. I check my email compulsively hoping you've responded. Your letters are the best part of my day.*

*You matter. You've always mattered.*

*I'm sorry your family can't see that. But I do.*

*Get some sleep. Dream of better things than background noise.*

*Yours,*

*D.C.*

I read it three times, tears streaming down my face.

He saw me.

A stranger whose face I'd never seen, whose real name I didn't know, whose life existed in some parallel universe to mine-he saw me in a way my own family never had.

I wanted to write back immediately, to tell him that his letters kept me alive some days, that he was my first choice too, that I'd rather have this anonymous connection than any real relationship I'd ever attempted.

But my eyes were too blurry to see the keyboard, and my chest ached with something that felt like hope and hurt tangled together.

Instead, I saved his email in the folder where I kept all his letters. Two years of correspondence. Two years of being seen.

I turned off the lights and lay in the darkness, his words echoing in my mind.

*You're already someone's first choice. You're mine.*

Across the city, in some expensive apartment I'd never see, D.C. was probably still awake, dealing with whatever complicated choice he was facing.

I hoped he knew that he was my first choice too. That if we ever met in real life, I'd choose him. Always.

Though we'd never meet. That was the nature of our connection-safe because it was distant, honest because it was anonymous.

My alarm would go off in four hours. I needed sleep.

**POV: Vivienne**

I arrived at Cross Industries at eight forty-five, fifteen minutes before my scheduled meeting. Punctuality was power, and I never gave that up.

The building was downtown, all glass and steel rising into the gray Seattle sky. The kind of architecture that announced wealth without apology. I'd researched the property over the weekend-Cross Industries owned the entire building, twenty-three floors of prime real estate.

The lobby was predictably impressive. Marble floors, modern art installations that probably cost six figures each, a reception desk that looked like it belonged in a spaceship. I gave my name to the receptionist, a polished woman who checked her computer and smiled.

"Ms. Ashford. Yes, Mr. Cross is expecting you. I'll let his assistant know you're here."

I took a seat in the waiting area, smoothing my navy Armani suit. I'd chosen it carefully-expensive enough to command respect, conservative enough to project competence. My hair was pulled back in a sleek chignon, makeup perfect, pearl earrings that had been my mother's.

I looked every inch the senior partner I was.

Patricia had sent over preliminary information Saturday evening: unusual inheritance matter, high-profile client, significant estate involved. The kind of case that could define a career. The kind of opportunity I'd spent ten years working toward.

I'd spent Sunday reviewing what little information I had, preparing questions, anticipating complications. By the time I went to bed, I had three pages of notes and a strategy for the initial consultation.

I was ready for anything.

Or so I thought.

"Ms. Ashford?"

A woman in her thirties approached, perfectly professional in a slate gray dress. Everything about her screamed competent executive assistant-tablet in hand, confident stride, warm but not too warm smile.

"I'm Katherine, Mr. Cross's executive assistant. He's ready for you now."

I stood, gathering my briefcase. "Thank you."

She led me to the elevators, making polite small talk about the weather and Seattle traffic. The elevator was mirrored on all sides, and I caught glimpses of myself from every angle. Composed. Professional. In control.

The doors opened on the twentieth floor-executive offices, clearly. The reception area here was smaller, more intimate. Soft gray carpet, abstract paintings on the walls, floor-to-ceiling windows offering views of Elliott Bay.

"Can I get you anything before the meeting?" Katherine asked as we walked down a hallway. "Coffee? Water?"

"I'm fine, thank you."

"Mr. Cross is just finishing up a call." She gestured to a corner conference room with glass walls. "He'll be right with you."

Through the glass, I could see a man standing at the windows, phone pressed to his ear. His back was to the hallway-tall, dark suit, broad shoulders. The posture of someone used to authority.

Katherine opened the door and I stepped inside. The conference room was stunning-massive table that could seat twelve, modern chairs, more of those expensive abstract paintings. But the real showpiece was the view. Windows on two walls overlooking the city and the bay beyond.

The man at the window was still on his call, gesturing slightly as he spoke. His voice was low, controlled.

"I understand the timeline," he said. "But I'm not making that decision today. We'll discuss it Wednesday."

Something about his voice tickled my memory, but I dismissed it. I'd never met Dominic Cross. I would have remembered.

I set my briefcase on the conference table, pulling out my legal pad and pen. First impressions mattered. I wanted to appear organized, prepared, already in control of whatever legal matter he needed to discuss.

"Mr. Cross will be just a moment," Katherine said from the doorway. "He's very much looking forward to meeting you."

"Thank you."

She closed the door softly, leaving me alone with the man who was still on his call.

I glanced at my watch. Eight fifty-nine. Right on time.

He said something else into the phone-something about quarterly projections-then ended the call. Slipped the phone into his pocket.

And turned around.

The world stopped.

Time fractured.

Everything I'd prepared, every professional word I'd planned to say, evaporated.

Dark brown hair, shorter and more styled than he used to wear it. A face that had lost its boyish softness, sharpened by age and success into something striking. The scruff he used to wear was gone, replaced by clean-shaven perfection. His suit probably cost more than I made in a month.

But the eyes.

God, the eyes were the same.

Deep brown, almost black in certain light. The eyes that used to look at me like I was his entire world. The eyes I'd seen in my dreams for years after I left.

We locked gazes across the conference room.

Recognition slammed into me like a freight train. My breath caught. My grip on my pen faltered and it clattered to the table.

No.

It couldn't be.

It wasn't possible.

But it was.

"Ms. Ashford." His voice was steady, professional, giving absolutely nothing away. "Thank you for taking this meeting."

I couldn't speak. My throat had closed. My heart was hammering so hard I was sure he could hear it.

This was Dominic Cross. The billionaire. The Forbes 400 list. The man whose foundation funded half the city's arts programs.

This was Dominic Santos. The boy I'd loved. The man I'd left. The choice I'd regretted every single day for ten years.

"I..." I started, then stopped. My voice sounded strangled. "I didn't..."

He moved toward the conference table, his movements controlled, measured. Nothing like the impulsive, passionate person I'd known. This man was contained. Careful. Changed.

"Please, sit." He gestured to a chair.

I couldn't move. Couldn't process. My mind was racing, trying to reconcile past and present, trying to understand how the struggling entrepreneur I'd known had become this.

How had I not known? How had I not made the connection?

Because Dominic Santos doesn't exist anymore, I realized. He'd erased himself. Become someone new.

"You..." The word came out as barely a whisper. I tried again, forcing strength into my voice. "I didn't know it was you."

"Clearly." His expression was unreadable. Professional mask firmly in place.

My legs felt weak. I grabbed the back of a chair to steady myself. "The files just said Dominic Cross. I never... I didn't..."

"Why would you?" He moved to the windows, putting distance between us. His hands slipped into his pockets, and he looked out at the city. "That was a long time ago."

Ten years. Ten years since I'd walked away. Ten years since I'd chosen a job offer in New York over the life we'd been building together.

Ten years, and he'd become this.

"When did you..." I couldn't finish the question. There were too many questions. When did you change your name? When did you become a billionaire? When did you stop being the person I knew?

He turned back to face me, and his expression was still perfectly neutral. But I knew him-or I used to know him-well enough to see the tension in his shoulders, the slight tightness around his eyes.

This was costing him something too.

"We're both professionals, Ms. Ashford." The formal address felt like a slap. "I assume we can conduct this meeting accordingly."

Ms. Ashford. Not Vivienne. Not Viv, like he used to say, soft and intimate in the dark.

"Of course," I managed, though my voice shook slightly. "Of course we can."

But I couldn't sit. Couldn't move. Couldn't do anything but stare at this stranger who wore a familiar face.

His jaw tightened-the only crack in his composure. "If you'd prefer to refer this case to another attorney-"

"No." The word came out too quickly, too desperate. I straightened my spine, reaching for the professional armor I'd spent a decade building. "No, that won't be necessary."

"Good." He moved to the table, pulled out a chair, sat down with the easy confidence of someone who owned the room. "Then let's begin."

But I couldn't begin. Couldn't think. Couldn't function.

Because all I could see was the boy I'd loved, the man I'd left, sitting across from me in a thousand-dollar suit with a new name and a fortune I couldn't even comprehend.

"Dominic Santos," I whispered, the old name feeling strange and familiar on my tongue. "You changed your name."