THE VOW WE NEVER MADE

POV : Isla I've always hated the smell of leather and old money. The law office reeks of both—expensive leather chairs, mahogany everything, and that particular scent of privilege that clings to places where people discuss inheritances and estates like they're discussing the weather. I shift in my seat, the leather squeaking beneath me, and try not to think about how out of place I am here. My grandmother would have laughed at this. At me, sitting in a downtown Manhattan law office, surrounded by men in suits that probably cost more than my rent. "Ms. Sterling, if you could just sign here." The attorney—Mr. Pembroke, silver-haired and stern—slides another document across the glossy table. I've signed so many already that my hand cramps, my signature getting progressively messier with each page. Grandmother's estate, her house in Brooklyn, her savings, all the little pieces of her life that I'm supposed to sort through now that she's gone. I blink hard, refusing to cry. Not here. Not in front of strangers. "This is the final document," Mr. Pembroke says, his voice professionally sympathetic. "Once you sign, the estate will be transferred to you, pending—" "Pending what?" The words come out sharper than I intend, but I'm exhausted. It's been three weeks since the funeral, three weeks of paperwork and condolence casseroles and sleepless nights in my too-empty apartment. Mr. Pembroke clears his throat, exchanging a glance with the younger lawyer beside him. That's when I noticed the third person in the room for the first time—a man sitting in the corner, half-hidden in shadow. Tall, dark-haired, perfectly still. Watching. My stomach drops. I know that silhouette. "Ms. Sterling," Mr. Pembroke continues, "your grandmother's will includes a... stipulation. Regarding the main bequest." "What kind of stipulation?" "The house and the primary funds—approximately 1.2 million dollars—will be transferred to you on your twenty-seventh birthday, provided you are married by that date." The words don't make sense at first. They bounce around in my head like marbles, refusing to settle into anything coherent. "I'm sorry, what?" "Your grandmother specified that you must be legally married by your twenty-seventh birthday, which is..." He consults his notes. "June fifteenth. Six months from today. If you are not married by that date, the estate will be donated to charity." The room tilts. "That's insane." "It's unusual," Mr. Pembroke admits, "but not unprecedented. Your grandmother was quite clear in her wishes. She believed—and I'm reading directly from her letter here—that 'Isla needs someone to lean on, even if she's too stubborn to admit it.'" That sounds exactly like her. Meddling even from beyond the grave. "She can't do this." My voice cracks. "She can't just—this is my inheritance. She raised me. That house is my home." "I'm afraid the will is ironclad, Ms. Sterling. I advised your grandmother against this clause, but she was adamant." The younger lawyer—Patterson, I think—leans forward. "You could contest it, but that would take years and significant legal fees. And there's no guarantee you'd win." Six months. I have six months to get married or lose everything—the house where I grew up, where Grandmother's paintings still hang on the walls, where I can still smell her lavender perfume in the curtains. The money that would let me finally quit freelancing and open my own design studio. All of it, gone, unless I find someone to marry. "This is ridiculous." I stand abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. "I need air." "Ms. Sterling, there are still documents to—" "Email them." I grab my bag and head for the door, vision blurring. I will not cry in front of these people. I will not. The hallway is blessedly empty, all glass and steel and cold winter light filtering through floor-to-ceiling windows. I press my forehead against the glass, trying to breathe, trying to think. Get married in six months. To who? I haven't been on a successful date in over a year. The last guy I saw seriously was David, and that ended when I caught him kissing his "study partner" in his apartment. Before that, there was Marcus, who decided three months in that he wasn't "ready for commitment." And now I'm supposed to find someone, fall in love, and get married in half a year? Grandmother, what were you thinking? "Isla." The voice behind me is low, familiar, and entirely unwelcome. I don't turn around. "Go away, Adrian." "I think we should talk." "I don't want to talk to you." "Nevertheless." Of course he's here. Adrian Blackwell, my dead best friend's older brother, apparently sitting in on my humiliation. Because this day couldn't get any worse. I finally turn to face him, and God, it's still unfair how good he looks. Six-three of tailored suit and sharp edges, dark hair perfectly styled, gray eyes that see too much. He's thirty-two but looks younger, except for the hardness around his mouth, the permanent tension in his shoulders. We haven't spoken since Sophie's funeral six months ago. "What are you doing here?" I ask. "The Blackwell Foundation handles some of your grandmother's charitable interests. Mr. Pembroke thought it would be appropriate for me to attend." "How thoughtful." His jaw tightens. "I'm sorry about the will. The stipulation. It's..." "Insane? Cruel? A joke?" "I was going to say difficult." I laugh, but it comes out bitter. "Difficult. Right. That's one word for it." We stand there in the hallway, tension crackling between us like it always does. It's been this way for years—ever since Sophie introduced us at her college graduation and I felt that immediate, unwelcome pull toward her older brother. The one person who was completely off-limits. Not that it mattered. Adrian never looked at me as anything but his little sister's friend. The girl who was always around, always in the way. "Look," I say, "I appreciate your... concern, or whatever this is. But I need to go." "Where?" "Anywhere but here." I start walking toward the elevators, but his voice stops me. "I have a solution." Something in his tone makes me pause. I turn slowly. "What?" Adrian steps closer, and I catch the scent of his cologne—something expensive and cedar-like that makes my traitorous heart skip. His expression is unreadable, that careful mask he always wears. "Come to dinner with me," he says. "Tonight. We'll talk." "Talk about what?" "About how I can help you." I should say no. I should walk away, call Natalie, get drunk on cheap wine and figure this out on my own like I always do. Adrian Blackwell is dangerous territory—always has been. Too handsome, too complicated, too wrapped up in grief and guilt and memories I'd rather forget. But desperation makes people stupid. And I am very, very desperate. "Fine," I hear myself say. "Dinner. But you're paying." The corner of his mouth lifts—not quite a smile, but close. "I assumed as much." He hands me a business card with an address scrawled on the back in sharp, precise handwriting. "Eight o'clock. Don't be late." Then he's walking away, footsteps echoing in the empty hallway, leaving me standing there with a card in my hand and a very bad feeling in my chest. The rest of the day passes in a blur. I walk for hours, trying to process everything. Six months. Married. Or lose it all. By the time I get back to my apartment in Brooklyn—a tiny one-bedroom that I can barely afford—I'm exhausted. Natalie calls twice, but I ignore her. I'm not ready to explain this yet. Not ready to hear her well-meaning advice about how "everything happens for a reason" or "maybe your grandmother just wanted you to be happy." Because this isn't about happiness. This is about control. About Grandmother thinking she knew what was best for me, even in death. At seven-thirty, I force myself into the shower. Blow-dry my hair until it falls in soft waves around my shoulders. Pull on the one nice dress I own—dark green, fitted, appropriate for whatever restaurant Adrian has chosen. Add minimal makeup, small gold earrings. I look at myself in the mirror and barely recognize the woman staring back. "What are you doing, Isla?" I whisper. But I already know the answer. I'm going to listen to whatever insane plan Adrian Blackwell has, because I'm out of options. Because I can't lose Grandmother's house. Because six months isn't enough time to do this the normal way. The restaurant is in Tribeca—of course it is—one of those places with no sign, just a discreet door and a hostess who looks like she stepped out of Vogue. She shows me to a private corner table where Adrian is already waiting, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, looking at his phone with that intense focus he brings to everything. He stands when I approach. Always the gentleman, even when he's being an arrogant ass. "You came," he says. "You said you had a solution. I'm listening." We sit. A server appears immediately with wine—something red and probably obscenely expensive. I take a large sip, needing the courage. Adrian watches me over his glass, those gray eyes calculating. Finally, he sets down his wine and leans back. "I need to ask you something first," he says. "How badly do you want to keep your grandmother's estate?" "What kind of question is that?" "A necessary one." I meet his gaze, refusing to look away. "It's everything. That house, that money—it's all I have left of her. Of my family. So yes, I want it. Badly." He nods slowly, like I've confirmed something. Then he pulls out his phone, types something, and sets it face-down on the table. "Then I have a proposition for you." My heart pounds. "I'm listening." Adrian leans forward, elbows on the table, voice low and serious. "Marry me." The restaurant spins. "I'm sorry, what?" "Marry me," he repeats, like he's suggesting we split an appetizer. "It solves your problem. You need a husband to secure your inheritance. I need..." He pauses, jaw tightening. "I need to repair my public image. The press has been brutal since Sophie died. They think I'm cold, heartless, that I didn't care about my own sister." "That's not true—" "It doesn't matter what's true. It matters what people think. An engagement, a marriage—it humanizes me. Shows I'm capable of caring about someone." I'm shaking my head before he finishes. "This is crazy." "Is it? You need to be married in six months. I need positive press and a way to honor Sophie's memory by protecting her best friend. It's practical." "It's insane." "It's a solution." I drain my wine glass, barely tasting it. Adrian signals for another bottle without breaking eye contact. "This is your big plan?" I finally ask. "A fake marriage?" "Yes." "And you just expect me to... what? Pretend to be in love with you for six months?" "Longer, ideally. A year, perhaps. Long enough to be convincing. Then we can quietly divorce, you'll have your inheritance secured, and I'll have accomplished what I needed." The server arrives with more wine. I wait until she's gone before speaking. "You're serious." "Completely." "Adrian, we barely tolerate each other." "That's not true." "We haven't spoken in six months." His expression flickers—something like pain, quickly buried. "Because it hurt too much. Because every time I saw you, I saw her." The honesty catches me off-guard. I look away, throat tight. "This is a terrible idea," I whisper. "Probably." "People will know. They'll figure it out." "Not if we're convincing." "And if we're not?" He's quiet for a moment, swirling his wine. "Then we both lose. You lose your inheritance, I lose the last chance to make things right. But if we do this properly—if we commit to the fiction—it could work." I should say no. Every rational cell in my body is screaming to walk away. But desperation is a powerful thing. And sitting across from Adrian Blackwell, watching him watch me with those storm-gray eyes, I realize something terrifying: A part of me wants to say yes. Not for the inheritance. Not for the practical reasons. But because some small, stupid part of me has always wondered what it would be like to be close to him. To crack that careful control. To be someone he cares about, even if it's all pretend. "I need rules," I hear myself say. Adrian's shoulders relax slightly. "Of course." "This is business. A contract. Nothing more." "Agreed." "Separate bedrooms." "Done." "No..." I hesitate, then force myself to continue. "No physical intimacy beyond what's necessary for appearances." Something flashes in his eyes—disappointment? Relief?—but he nods. "Understood." "And when this is over, we walk away clean. No drama, no complications." "You have my word." He extends his hand across the table, formal and businesslike. I look at that hand—strong, capable, with a thin scar across the knuckles from some childhood accident Sophie once told me about—and now I'm about to make either the best or worst decision of my life. I take his hand. His grip is firm, warm, and sends an unwelcome jolt up my arm. "So," Adrian says, a hint of something almost like a smile on his lips. "Fiancée. When should we make the announcement?" And just like that, I've agreed to marry Adrian Blackwell. God help me.