OWNED BY SIGNATURES

CHAPTER TEN — TERMS

Emma arrived precisely when I expected her to.

There was a knock—measured, not hesitant—and when I told her to come in, she stepped into the room with the same composed professionalism she’d maintained all day. Jacket removed. Sleeves neat. Hair still pulled back. She carried a tablet against her chest, as though she might need it to shield herself.

I gestured toward the seating area near the window rather than the desk.

“Sit,” I said.

She did.

The city stretched behind her, Chicago lights cutting through the glass. For a moment, neither of us spoke. Silence has its uses. People reveal themselves in it.

“I asked you to be available,” I began, “because this conversation shouldn’t happen in the office.”

She nodded once. “I assumed as much.”

Good. She was already adjusting.

“This is not disciplinary,” I continued. “And it’s not about your performance.”

Her shoulders relaxed slightly—only slightly.

“Then what is it about?” she asked.

I didn’t answer immediately. I reached for the folder on the table between us—plain, unmarked—and placed it closer to her but not within reach.

“Practicalities,” I said. “And mutual benefit.”

That caught her attention.

She looked at the folder, then back at me. “I don’t follow.”

“I’m not married,” I said plainly.

Her brows drew together, confusion flickering across her face. “I’m… aware?”

“My parents are not,” I continued. “Or rather, they are aware—and dissatisfied. Their concerns have begun to interfere with business matters that require their cooperation.”

She sat very still now.

“I need a solution,” I said. “One that satisfies appearances without compromising autonomy.”

Her voice was careful. “And you’re telling me this because…?”

“Because you meet the criteria,” I replied.

That landed.

Emma leaned back slightly, crossing her arms—not defensively, but instinctively, as though bracing.

“I don’t understand what you’re suggesting,” she said, though her tone suggested she did.

I slid the folder toward her.

“Read.”

She hesitated, then opened it.

The document was clean. Precise. No embellishment.

DRAFT AGREEMENT — CONFIDENTIAL

PARTIES:

Charles Hart (“Party A”)

Emma Wilson (“Party B”)

PURPOSE:

To enter into a legally binding marriage of convenience for the purpose of familial, social, and corporate representation.

DURATION:

Twelve (12) months from date of legal marriage.

TERMS:

The marriage shall be contractual and non-romantic in nature.

Both parties agree to discretion and confidentiality at all times.

Public appearances as a married couple will be required at specified events.

No emotional, physical, or personal obligations are implied unless mutually agreed upon in writing.

Either party may terminate the agreement after the stated duration without penalty.

COMPENSATION:

Financial security for Party B, including housing, monthly stipend, and coverage of immediate family needs.

Career protection and advancement opportunities within Hart Holdings.

BOUNDARIES:

Private lives remain independent unless public appearance requires otherwise.

No interference in personal decisions beyond contractual obligations.

Emma stopped reading halfway through.

Her fingers tightened around the pages.

“You’re asking me to marry you,” she said quietly.

“I’m proposing a contract,” I corrected. “Marriage is simply the framework.”

She let out a breath—slow, controlled.

“You could ask anyone,” she said. “Someone outside the company.”

“I could,” I agreed. “But that introduces variables. You understand my world. You know what discretion looks like. And you have no existing attachments that would complicate the arrangement.”

Her eyes flicked up. “You’ve thought this through.”

“Yes.”

She stood abruptly and walked toward the window, her back to me now. The city lights reflected faintly against the glass, outlining her silhouette.

“This is… a lot,” she said. “You’re presenting it like a business deal.”

“That’s exactly what it is,” I replied. “I wouldn’t insult you by pretending otherwise.”

She turned back to face me.

“And if I say no?”

I didn’t hesitate. “Then we continue professionally. Nothing changes.”

That wasn’t entirely true—but it was enough truth to give her space.

Emma looked back down at the contract.

“You don’t even want to know what I think,” she said. “Or how I feel.”

“That’s intentional,” I replied. “Feelings complicate agreements. This doesn’t require them.”

Silence stretched between us again—thicker this time.

“I need time,” she said finally. “I won’t give you an answer tonight.”

I nodded. “I didn’t expect one.”

She closed the folder carefully, as though it might break if handled roughly.

“I’ll review it,” she added. “Properly.”

“Take the week,” I said. “But understand this—once agreed upon, the terms are final.”

She met my gaze, something unreadable passing between us.

“I understand,” she said.

When she left, the room felt larger. Quieter.

I remained where I was, certain of only one thing:

Emma Wilson hadn’t said yes.

But she hadn’t walked away either.

And that, in negotiations, is rarely a coincidence.