The Fine Print of Us

Prologue

There was a reason Mara hated family meetings. Not family gatherings—those involved food. Meetings meant one thing: her mother had an agenda.

Today was no exception.

“You’ll love him, sweetheart. He’s mature, intelligent, and—wait for it—a lawyer.”

Mara blinked over the rim of her mug. “Mom, are you setting me up with a tax deduction?”

Her dad choked on his tea, pretending to be fascinated by his phone screen. Her mom, however, was unmoved.

If looks could kill, Mara would already be ash in her ergonomic chair.

Unbothered, Mara locked eyes with her mother. Bring it on.

“He’s very respectable,” her mother said, steeling herself. “And you need someone who can challenge you.”

Mara gave a slow, smug grin. “Well, thankfully my villagers in my new favourite game keep me on my toes. Last week I had to collect shiny yellow stones and rose bushes which were impossible to find. Any more challenges and I’ll be emotionally booked until Christmas.”

Her mother sighed dramatically. “You need to meet someone real. You can’t keep living in your head. You’re not getting any younger, sweetheart.”

Ah. There it was. The grandmother alarm.

“I thought we’d retired that argument,” Mara muttered, reaching for the lavender-coloured macaron.

Her mother, ignoring the warning signs, raised a perfectly manicured finger and reached for her phone with the other.

“You’ve been single for too long,” she declared. “This dinner is arranged. You’ll thank us when you’re sipping wine with someone who doesn’t own a sword collection.”

“Yuck,” Mara said flatly. “One, I don’t like wine. Not red, not white, not vintage from some overpriced French cave. I like gin and tonics and the occasional unprovoked shot of tequila. Two, maybe this intelligent lawyer does collect swords—or taxidermies his enemies. You don’t know, Mom. Do you want your daughter kidn*pped by a serial killer with good diction?”

Her mother was already dialing. Mara glanced at her father, who gave her a helpless shrug.

The war was lost. Clarissa Lennox had decided.

Four hours later, there she was wearing her “Clarissa-appropriate” designer heels and a turquoise dress that made her eyes pop, being ushered into a private dining room with too many forks and not enough escape routes.

Across town, Damien Blackthorn wasn’t swirling Cabernet, he was hunting problems. Manhattan glittered below his penthouse office, but the city’s neon glow couldn’t distract him from the smear piece scrolling across every newsfeed.

Cute.

They thought headlines could make him bleed.

Ivy Hart—publicist, firebrand, necessary evil, burst in, Louboutins firing like warning shots.

“An affair with a client’s sister?” she snapped. “You’re a shark, Damien, not a soap-opera subplot.”

He didn’t bother turning. “Past tense. Mutual. Irrelevant.”

“Not to a jury pool,” she shot back. “Your credibility is haemorrhaging and the partners are twitchy.”

At that, Damien pivoted, slow, lethal. “So stanch it.”

“I’m trying. But apologies and puff pieces won’t cauterize this. Optics, Damien. You need stability. A woman who looks like forever, not five minutes.”

One brow lifted. “A rental girlfriend?”

“A partner,” Ivy corrected, eyes flinty. “Public, polished, scandal-proof." There’s a vetted candidate at dinner tonight. Neutral ground. Make it believable or kiss your billion-dollar case goodbye.”

Damien’s smile was a knife. “Text me the address.”

He shrugged into a charcoal jacket, tailored, lethal and strode for the elevator. Whatever sacrificial lamb Ivy had lined up would get polite conversation, a staged photo, and a swift exit.

That was the plan until the restaurant door swung wide and his “safe choice” stepped in: dark waves, turquoise silk, blue-spark eyes, and a smirk that suggested she feared absolutely nothing, not even him.

For the first time in years, Damien Blackthorn lost half a heartbeat.

The hostess said her name was Mara Lennox.

And suddenly, damage control looked a lot less predictable and far more dangerous.