Chapter 2

Blaire emerged from the subway station onto the bustling pavement of Fifth Avenue. The early autumn sun broke through the skyscrapers, hitting her directly in the eyes. She raised a hand to shield her face, squinting against the harsh glare.

She hadn't walked more than two blocks when an elderly woman in a plain beige trench coat stumbled directly in her path.

The woman let out a sharp cry of pain. Her body pitched sideways. A canvas grocery bag slipped from her grasp, hitting the concrete. Red apples spilled out, rolling across the dirty sidewalk.

Blaire's body reacted before her brain did. She lunged forward, her hands shooting out to grip the old woman's frail arms, catching her just before her knees hit the pavement.

"Are you okay?" Blaire asked, her heart hammering against her ribs. She carefully helped the woman steady herself, then crouched down, her hands moving quickly to gather the bruised apples back into the canvas bag.

The Brewer Matriarch looked down at the girl. A sly, calculated gleam flashed in her aged eyes, but she instantly masked it with a look of overwhelming gratitude. "Oh, thank you, sweetheart," she gasped. "You are such a rare, good girl."

To show her "appreciation," the old woman clamped her fingers around Blaire's wrist with surprising strength. She pulled Blaire toward a wooden bench sitting just inside the entrance of Central Park.

Once they sat down, the old woman let out a heavy, theatrical sigh. She stared at the passing crowds and began to complain about her "useless" grandson.

Tears welled up in the old woman's eyes. She spun a tragic tale, claiming her grandson was a dirt-poor sales rep, drowning in mortgage payments, and working himself to the bone. Worse, his dying grandfather was forcing him to get married before he passed away.

Blaire listened, her stomach twisting. The mention of being relentlessly forced into marriage struck a raw nerve. She thought of Sharon's suffocating demands. A strange, sympathetic ache bloomed in her chest for this unknown man.

Sensing the shift in Blaire's demeanor, the old woman reached into her pocket. She pulled out a printed photograph and shoved it into Blaire's hands. "Please," she begged, her voice cracking. "Just help him. A fake marriage. That's all."

Blaire's mouth opened to deliver a firm, absolute rejection. But the words died in her throat. Her eyes locked onto the photograph.

The man in the picture was wearing a plain white button-down shirt. His eyebrows were dark and straight, his eyes piercing. His jawline was so sharp it looked like it could cut glass, and the curve of his throat-his Adam's apple-was devastatingly masculine.

Blaire swallowed hard. Her heart skipped a massive, undeniable beat. As a hopeless victim of good looks, her body betrayed her logic. Heat crawled up her neck and settled in her ears.

She stared at the photo, a chaotic war raging in her mind. With a face like that... is a fake marriage really a loss?

The Matriarch didn't miss the flush on Blaire's cheeks. She immediately doubled down. "You won't have to interfere with each other's lives," she promised quickly. "Just act like a couple in front of the elders occasionally. That's it."

Blaire's phone chimed loudly. It was a voice message from Sharon. The shrill audio played out loud, echoing around the park bench: "If you don't find a husband today, don't ever call me your mother again!"

The ultimatum hit Blaire like a physical blow. Her lungs constricted. She curled her fingers into tight fists, her nails digging into her palms. She took a deep, shuddering breath.

She lifted her head. The hesitation in her eyes hardened into desperate resolve. She looked at the old woman and nodded. "Okay. I'll meet him."

Instantly, the old woman's frail demeanor vanished. She stood up with the speed of a marathon runner, pulled out a smartphone, and dialed a number.

Through the receiver, Jude's voice sounded like cracking ice, irritated and impatient. The Matriarch ignored his tone, barking an absolute command for him to get his ass to the south entrance of Central Park within ten minutes.

Exactly ten minutes later, a beat-up, black Toyota Camry screeched to a halt against the curb.

The driver's door swung open. A pair of incredibly long legs stepped out. Jude walked toward the bench, his face set in a dark, thunderous scowl. A suffocating, low-pressure aura radiated from his body.

Blaire stood up. The physical impact of seeing him in person was a hundred times more intense than the photo. Her stomach did a nervous flip. Her fingers instinctively clamped down on her purse strap.

Jude's razor-sharp gaze swept over Blaire. His eyes were full of hidden scrutiny and deep-seated defense. He instantly categorized her as just another gold-digger his grandmother had dug up to steal his wealth.

The Matriarch grabbed Blaire by the shoulders and pushed her forward. "This is your future wife," she announced, leaving no room for argument.

Jude's jaw ticked. He opened his mouth to reject the absurdity, but his eyes caught Blaire's. Her gaze was clear, open, and completely devoid of the calculating greed he was so used to seeing.

He needed to stop his family's endless, suffocating blind dates. He weighed the pros and cons in a fraction of a second. He looked at Blaire and spat out a single word: "Let's go."

Blaire froze. She pointed a trembling finger at him. "Go where?"

Jude pulled open the passenger door of the Camry. His voice was completely devoid of emotion. "City Hall. To get the license."

Blaire's breath hitched. The sheer, ruthless efficiency of his demand paralyzed her. But under the Matriarch's aggressive shoving, she forced her legs to move, sliding into the worn passenger seat of the cheap Toyota.