Borrowed Throne

The lawyer's office smelled like old money and older secrets. I perched on the edge of a leather chair that probably cost more than my rent, trying not to touch anything. My fingers were still stained with paint thinner from this morning's restoration work, and I was acutely aware that I didn't belong here. "Miss Voss, thank you for coming." The lawyer—Harrison Montgomery, according to the nameplate—slid a manila folder across his mahogany desk. Silver-haired, sixty-something, with a face that gave away nothing. "I understand you have questions." "I have about a thousand questions." I didn't touch the folder. "Starting with why a firm like yours would contact someone like me. Your assistant said it was urgent, but she wouldn't tell me anything else." "All will be explained. First, I need to confirm some information." He steepled his fingers. "You're twenty-eight years old. You run Voss Restoration, specializing in nineteenth-century oil paintings. You graduated summa c*m laude from NYU. Your mother passed away fourteen months ago from ovarian cancer." My throat tightened. "You could have gotten all that from Google." "You also have approximately two hundred thousand dollars in medical debt from your mother's treatment. Your business is three months behind on rent. Last week, you sold your mother's engagement ring to make payroll for your assistant." The air left my lungs. "How do you—" "My client is very thorough, Miss Voss." "Your client." I forced myself to breathe. "Who is your client, Mr. Montgomery?" "Someone who would like to help you with your financial situation." "I don't need help from strangers. If this is some kind of charity—" "It's not charity. It's a business proposition." I laughed, sharp and bitter. "What kind of business proposition could a person like me possibly offer someone who can afford this office?" Montgomery opened the folder, pulling out a single photograph. He placed it face-up on the desk between us. The man in the photo was beautiful in the way that dangerous things are beautiful. Sharp jawline, dark hair pushed back from his face, eyes that looked black even in the photograph. He wore a suit that probably cost more than my car, and he stood on what appeared to be a yacht deck, champagne glass in hand, looking at something beyond the camera with an expression of profound boredom. "Do you know who this is?" Montgomery asked. "Should I?" "Damien Ashford. His family owns Ashford Industries—shipping, real estate, technology. Worth approximately forty-seven billion dollars." I stared at the photograph. "And he wants to commission a restoration? Because I should tell you, I mostly work with small galleries and private collectors. I don't have the credentials for—" "He doesn't want a restoration, Miss Voss. He wants a fiancée." The words hung in the air like smoke. "Excuse me?" Montgomery pulled out another document. "My client needs to be engaged to be married before his thirty-fifth birthday, which is in six weeks. His grandfather's will stipulates that he cannot inherit full control of Ashford Industries until he is married or engaged to be married. It's an archaic clause, but legally binding." "That's insane." "That's family legacy." Montgomery's expression didn't change. "Mr. Ashford is prepared to offer you five million dollars to pose as his fiancée for one year. At the end of that year, you will part ways amicably. The engagement will be dissolved, you will sign a non-disclosure agreement, and you will never speak of this arrangement to anyone." My mouth had gone completely dry. "Five million dollars." "Paid in installments. One million upon signing the contract. The remaining four million at the conclusion of the year, provided you fulfill all terms of the agreement." "This is insane," I repeated, but my voice had lost its conviction. Five million dollars. I could pay off every debt, save my business, finally breathe. "Why me? He's a billionaire. He could have anyone." "You're right. He could have anyone." Montgomery leaned back in his chair. "Which is precisely why he needs someone like you. Someone who won't develop... expectations. Someone who understands this is purely transactional." "Someone desperate enough to say yes." "I wouldn't have phrased it that way, but yes." I looked at the photograph again. Damien Ashford stared past the camera, and I wondered what he'd been looking at. Or who. "What's wrong with him?" "I'm sorry?" "A man worth forty-seven billion dollars needs to pay someone to pretend to love him. So what's wrong with him? Is he abusive? Addicted to something? Secretly dying?" "None of the above. Mr. Ashford is simply... uninterested in traditional relationships. He's married to his work." "So he's a workaholic who needs a trophy girlfriend to satisfy a dead man's will." "If you want to oversimplify, yes." I pressed my fingers against my temples. This was crazy. This was absolutely, certifiably crazy. "What would I have to do?" "Attend social functions. Pose for photographs. Be seen with him in public. Convince his family and board members that the relationship is genuine." "Would I have to..." I couldn't finish the sentence. "Sleep with him?" Montgomery's tone was clinical. "That would be entirely up to you and Mr. Ashford. The contract stipulates only that you maintain separate bedrooms and that the engagement appear legitimate to outside observers." "I need to think about this." "Of course. Take twenty-four hours." "Twenty-four—" "The deadline is firm, Miss Voss. Mr. Ashford's birthday is in six weeks. We need time to establish the relationship narrative before then." I stood, my legs unsteady. "This is insane." "You've said that three times now." "Because it is." I grabbed my bag. "I'll call you tomorrow." "Miss Voss?" Montgomery's voice stopped me at the door. "My client asked me to tell you something." I turned back. "He said to tell you that your mother was an extraordinary woman who deserved better than to die worried about leaving her daughter in debt. He said she'd want you to accept the help." The words hit me like a physical blow. "How does he know anything about my mother?" "As I said, my client is very thorough." "That's not thorough. That's invasive." "Perhaps. But is he wrong?" I wanted to throw something at his calm, composed face. Instead, I walked out, my hands shaking so badly I could barely press the elevator button. The lobby was all glass and steel, like being inside a diamond. I pushed through the revolving doors onto Fifth Avenue, where the afternoon sun was too bright and the sidewalk was too crowded and everything felt surreal. Five million dollars. My phone buzzed. A text from David, my business partner: Landlord called again. We have until Friday or he's changing the locks. Friday. Three days away. I looked back at the building, up toward where Montgomery's office must be. Somewhere up there, a lawyer sat at his desk with a folder containing all my secrets, all my failures, all my desperation. And somewhere else—probably on a yacht or in a boardroom or somewhere I couldn't even imagine—Damien Ashford was living his life, completely unaware that he'd just turned mine upside down. Or maybe he was aware. Maybe he was sitting in his penthouse right now, looking at a photograph of me the way I'd looked at his photograph, wondering if I was desperate enough to say yes. My phone buzzed again. This time it was my bank: Insufficient funds for automatic payment. Transaction declined. I thought about my mother's last months. The way she'd apologized for being sick, for costing too much, for dying slowly instead of quickly. The way she'd held my hand and made me promise I'd be okay, even though we both knew I wouldn't be. I thought about the ring I'd sold last week. My grandmother's ring, passed down to my mother, meant for me. Gone to a pawn shop on Seventh Avenue for three thousand dollars that was already spent. I thought about a man I'd never met, offering me a way out of the hole I'd been digging for fourteen months. Your mother was an extraordinary woman who deserved better. "Damn it," I whispered. I pulled out my phone and dialed Montgomery's office before I could change my mind. His assistant answered on the first ring. "Montgomery & Associates." "This is Elena Voss." My voice was steadier than I expected. "Tell Mr. Montgomery I don't need twenty-four hours. Tell him I'll do it."