Married By Midnight

FOUR HOURS TO FOREVER The strain in her hand caused the stem of the wineglass to break. Joke Jones remained unflinching. After executives who had only offered flimsy grins and pointed inquiries, the boardroom was now quiet. The headlights shimmering off wet pavement, yellow cabs flashing past—Manhattan gleamed with the mellow tumult of the city beyond the windows on the twenty-seventh level. The brightness was excessive. It’s too loud. It’s too late. She placed the broken glass on the gleaming table of obsidian. Marcus Lane, her assistant, was standing respectfully away, holding a tablet, his mouth hanging open as though he was unsure if it was appropriate to speak. Joke spared him a brief glance. “Say it.” “They want proof by midnight,” Marcus explained gently. “About the marriage. A real one. Or the Crownridge deal is off the table.” Her jaw stiffened. Crownridge was the largest transaction her company had ever handled. If it tumbled through her fingers, and Daniel Mike—her previous lover and current adversary—came in to seal it instead, it would be her career’s single biggest failure. About her life—failure was not a trait that the Jones condoned. Once more, her phone buzzed. She didn’t look. She was already aware of its identity. Her mother, Victoria Jones, phoned on time, as though her daughter would become exhausted from constant use. Joke had discovered early on that the Jones enterprise did not tolerate emotion. Currency was power. Love served as a diversion. Weakness? Deadly. She got up, pushed her dark blazer’s lapels straight, and left. She informed Marcus, “Cancel the remainder of the evening.” “However, you have a—” “Cancel it,” she said. “Until further notice, I will not be accessible.” Her heels clicked like gunshots against the marble as she walked through the hallways of King and Hart Tower, Marcus falling into step with her. “Let me at least give Leo a call.” “No.” “Someone needs to check for any—” “No, Marcus,” she responded. After closing the door on his complaints, she got in the waiting car and gave the chauffeur an address she hadn’t said out loud in years. Uptown, 9:12 p.m. The bar was situated between a closed bookshop and a neon-flickering dry cleaner. It was the kind of place where the press would never follow her. The interior was dim and golden, with a jazz record crackling somewhere behind the buzz of conversation. The air smelled like spiced rum, old wood, and lemons cut an hour ago. It was ideal. Joke slipped into the corner stool, the one facing the exit. The bartender looked up; he was tall, with rolled sleeves and forearms that looked like they had done actual work. He had a shadow at five o’clock, deep brown skin, and a sarcastic mouth. He finished pouring a drink before heading over. “I don’t feel like talking,” she said, without raising her gaze. “Good,” he replied with ease. “I don’t feel like listening right now.” Her gaze strayed to him. He arched an eyebrow. “Whiskey?” “Nice. And powerful.” Since he knew who she was, he poured without requesting her ID. Or perhaps he didn’t. It would be the first time. With a gentle thump, she put the glass back down after drinking half of it. “Bad night?” he asked, idly leaning against the bar. “The billion-dollar kind.” He blew a soft whistle. “My rent increase seemed dramatic to me.” She let the silence linger. He stared at her for a moment longer than was courteous. “You don’t seem like the kind of person who hides in a bar when things go wrong.” “I’m not hiding.” Her tone was bland. Managed. “I’m going shopping.” He paused at that. “Buying something?” “For a husband.” A rhythm. Then he smiled. “All right. Since those are grown on tap.” She pushed a sleek black folder over the counter after taking it out of her handbag. Still half-smiling, he opened it—then stopped. Blinked. Glanced up at her once more. The grin had vanished. “It’s a prenuptial agreement,” he said softly. “This is your name, too.” She gave one nod. “Joke Jones.” “As in—” “Yes.” “And this indicates—” “By midnight, I must be officially married. In four hours.” He blinked. “Why me?” Calm and direct, she looked him in the eye. “Because I’m too busy to date. And you don’t seem like the type of man who would turn down a half-million dollar offer.” He raised his eyebrows. “This is what it says?” “Half in front. Twelve months for the remainder. As a married couple, we live together and go to events together. No expectations regarding appearance. After the year ends, there are no obligations. A fresh start.” He gazed first at the paper, then at her. “You’re not kidding.” She sipped her drink and said, “I don’t do jokes.” “That is ironic.” She looked at him. His name was Kingsley Freeman, and he spoke slowly. “And you are crazy, in my opinion.” “Perhaps.” He looked at her once more. Not at the flawlessly tailored suit or the immaculate makeup. But at her eyes. Tired, icy, and concentrated. It was the fatigue that came from bearing the burden of an empire, not the fatigue that comes from long nights. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t recoil. Kingsley took another look at the folder. “Do I get a tux?” he finally inquired. “I’ll set up fittings with Marcus.” “And what do we tell folks this is? A fast-paced romance?” “You’ll emulate me in public.” “And behind closed doors?” “You’ll eat what you want, sleep where you want, and avoid me.” He laughed softly. “Your sales pitch is amazing.” “I’m not selling,” she replied gently. “I’m surviving.” He stared at her again. And something changed in his expression. This wasn’t simply desperation. This was a woman who was accustomed to winning—and scared that she would lose this time. “You’ve got until midnight to decide,” she remarked, standing up. “But if you walk away, don’t expect me to ask again.” She turned and walked out, her shoes clicking on the floor like a countdown. Kingsley looked at the check paperclipped to the prenup. It was real. Half a million dollars. Married by midnight. He gazed at the clock. Three hours and forty-seven minutes remained. And somehow… saying no already felt more difficult than it should have…