The Contract Between Us

The Will That Changes Everything

“Married. Within a year.” I blinked at my father's lawyer, convinced I didn't hear him well. “I’m sorry, what?”

The lawyer adjusted his glasses, his tone calm, like he was just reading off the weather instead of turning my world upside down. “To keep full control of Thorne International, the will says you need to be legally married for at least twelve months by the anniversary of your father’s death.”

A laugh slipped out before I could hold it back. “That’s a joke.”

He didn’t even c***k a smile. The harsh lights in the boardroom reflected off his bald head like some kind of warning. “Mr. Thorne, I assure you, this is exactly what your father had in mind. The document has been checked and notarized.”

I tightened my grip on the pen I have been clicking absentminded, the noise suddenly too loud in the quiet room. “So, if I don’t…?”

“Then your voting rights on the board will be lost, and the shares will be split among the current members.”

In other words, Cassandra.

I could almost picture her smile, sweet but deadly. My father’s so-called protégé, just waiting for the day she could push me aside and claim her spot as the rightful heir.

I leaned back in the leather chair, struggling to wrap my head around this nonsense. “He spent forty years building this empire, and now he wants to turn it into a matchmaking scheme?”

“Your father believed that personal stability led to better business.” That was the lawyer’s take, not mine.

I clenched my jaw. Stability? That’s rich coming from a guy who’s been married three times and has spent the last decade alone in a penthouse filled with empty wine glasses.

“I’ll have my assistant check the rest,” I said, pushing the file back across the table. My voice was steadier than I felt, but inside, my heart was racing. “This meeting’s done.”

The lawyer hesitated, gathering his papers slowly, like he was waiting for me to ask a sensible question. I didn’t. I walked out, my footsteps echoing on the marble floor.

Outside the boardroom, the air felt thick. The company’s floor was all glass and steel, polished to a shine, but every face I passed seemed to turn toward me with some silent, scrutinizing calculation. News traveled fast around here.

By the time I reached my office, Michael, my assistant, was already there with a fresh cup of black coffee and an expression that said he sensed something was wrong.

“Don’t ask,” I muttered, grabbing the cup.

He didn’t pry. But his gaze flicked toward the glass wall, where Cassandra Voss was sharing a laugh with two other executives. She caught my eye mid-sentence and tilted her head with that infuriating smirk.

She knew.

I slammed the door a bit harder than intended. The sound echoed, and my phone buzzed right away. A text from an unknown number:

“Congratulations are in order. Don’t keep us waiting too long.”

No name necessary. I didn’t need one.

I stared at the screen until it dimmed, then flipped the phone face down. My coffee had gone lukewarm in my hand.

The day dragged on. Meetings, numbers, a conference call with a London client that barely registered. My mind kept circling back to those words: Married within a year.

Logistics weren’t the issue. I could totally slip a ring on my finger by Friday if I felt like it. Seriously, half the city’s socialites had been trying to get into my life since my father’s funeral.

The real problem was the idea of permanence. A whole year of living closely with someone. A year of people watching for any sign of weakness, anything they could use against me.

By evening, I was still at my desk when Michael knocked and walked in without waiting. “You’ve got dinner at forty-five with the Osaka investors,” he reminded me.

“I’m canceling.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That’s the third one this month.”

I honestly didn’t care. My head was somewhere else, torn between my anger toward my father and the dark thrill of imagining Cassandra’s reaction if I actually pulled this off.

Michael hesitated. “You know she’s already working the board, right?”

Of course, I knew. Cassandra was like smoke, slipping into every gap, every weakness, until she was all you could see.

“Get the car,” I said.

The streets outside were slick from the afternoon rain, the city lights shining so bright into the pavement. I told the driver to take the long way. I needed time to think.

Marriage as a tactic. My father had done worse, usually in the boardroom, not the bedroom. Could I really deal with living with someone under my roof, pretending everything was normal?

I imagined a faceless woman sitting across from me at the breakfast table, smiling for the cameras while secretly plotting her payday. The thought made me grit my teeth.

The car slowed at a red light. To my right, a woman stood under the cover of a small gallery, hands shoved deep into her paint smeared coat. She seemed to be staring at a canvas in the window like it was the only thing keeping her standing.

There was something about her stillness, shoulders drawn, jaw tight, that caught my attention. She didn’t look like the women in my world. No designer bag. No flashy jewelry. Just a tired kind of beauty that didn’t beg for attention but somehow commanded it.

The light changed. We moved on. I told myself it was nothing.

Back at the penthouse, I poured myself a glass of scotch and stood by the window, the city sprawling out like a circuit board of gold and silver.

Married in a year. Just one year with a stranger or worse, someone I already knew too well.

My phone buzzed again. It was Michael. “You might want to check the morning papers,” he said.

“It’s not morning.”

“They went early. And you’re on the front page.”

My stomach dropped. “Send it.”

A photo popped up: me at last month’s gala, leaning toward a woman I barely remembered talking to, smiling, her head tilted toward mine. The headline beneath read:

“Billionaire Liam Thorne’s Mystery Woman: Could Wedding Bells Be Next?”

I swore under my breath. The photo was tight, but I knew enough to guess what else was there. Whoever she was, that image had just made its way to every gossip blog in the city.

The scotch burned down my throat. If I didn’t do something soon, Cassandra would have my company in no time. But then, if I acted rashly, I could end up tied to someone who would destroy me from the inside out.

Either way, the clock was ticking.

And the longer I stared at that blurry image of the woman in the photo, the more certain I became, I

had seen her before. And then it dawned on me. She was the woman from the gallery window.