Chapter 3 Rules Of Engagement

Sloane hadn't expected her fake marriage to begin with a meeting.

But apparently, billionaires thrived on contracts, confidentiality clauses, and calendar blocks.

She sat across from Grayson in the Astor Enterprises conference room, the city skyline blazing behind him. On the long polished table sat a single binder titled:

HART-ASTOR:DOMESTIC AGREEMENT, YEAR ONE.

Her name was printed beside his.

Neat. Clinical. Binding.

"This feels less romantic than I imagined my wedding would be," Sloane muttered, flipping through the document.

Grayson didn't look up from his espresso. "That's because it's not a wedding. It's a negotiation."

She arched a brow. "You're every bit the charmer, Grayson."

His mouth twitched. Almost a smile.

Almost.

"Let's go over the terms," he said instead.

CLAUSE ONE: PUBLIC APPEARANCES.

They would attend key events together charity galas, business dinners, investor conferences. Minimum of two appearances per month.

CLAUSE TWO: RESIDENCE.

They'd maintain separate homes. No requirement to live together unless dictated by press exposure.

CLAUSE THREE: CONFIDENTIALITY.

No leaks. No interviews. No memoirs about "Married to the Manhattan Kingpin" once the year was up.

CLAUSE FOUR: END DATE.

Twelve months from the date of the Vegas wedding, they'd file for divorce. Mutually. Quietly. With an ironclad NDA.

CLAUSE FIVE:NO EMOTIONAL ENTANGLEMENT

Sloane looked up. "Really? You wrote that one yourself?"

"It prevents complications."

"It makes us sound like robots."

"It makes us sound smart," Grayson said.

She rolled her eyes. "You do realize humans have emotions. Even the ones in expensive suits."

"I don't intend to stop you from feeling things, Sloane. I intend not to encourage it."

She wanted to hate that answer.

But honestly?

It was safer that way.

They signed the final page just as Mallory entered the conference room, her expression unreadable as always.

"Mr. Astor, your mother's charity brunch is this weekend. You RSVP'd for two."

"Then I'll bring my wife," Grayson said smoothly.

Mallory gave Sloane a brief, curious glance. "You'll need a new wardrobe. The Astor Foundation brunch is televised."

Grayson handed Sloane a black credit card. "Take the company card. Keep receipts."

"I don't need your money," Sloane said.

"You're not spending my money," he replied. "You're spending the company's money. Technically, your new image is a business expense."

"Charming."

"And efficient"

By noon, Sloane stood in front of a mirror in a Fifth Avenue boutique while three stylists buzzed around her, pinning and primping. Her simple blouse and black trousers had been replaced by a silk cream dress with a cinched waist and subtle shimmer under the light.

The woman in the mirror didn't look like a struggling assistant.

She looked like someone who belonged on the arm of a man like Grayson Astor.

And that terrified her more than she wanted to admit.

Jordan Vega FaceTimed her from Dubai later that afternoon.

"Did you really do it?" he asked, flipping the camera to show a poolside view and two flamingos strutting by.

"We did," Sloane said, holding up her ring. "Thanks for that, by the way."

Jordan grinned. "You married Manhattan's most emotionally constipated man. You deserve a statue."

"I'm considering a plaque."

"So how's fake-marriage life?"

"Surprisingly efficient. He has a spreadsheet for our public outings."

Jordan laughed. "Of course he does."

Then his voice dropped.

"Be careful, Sloane. He's not as put-together as he looks."

She frowned. "What do you mean?"

Jordan hesitated. "There's a reason he doesn't let people close."

"Because he's arrogant?"

"Because he's guarded. And maybe for good reason."

The charity brunch was hosted in the Astor family's Upper East Side townhouse a four-story limestone building with an elevator, a solarium, and a rooftop greenhouse.

Sloane felt like she'd stepped into a different world.

Wealth didn't just live here. It breathed here. Inherited and unapologetic.

Grayson's mother, Eleanor Astor, greeted her at the front door with a glass of champagne and a practiced smile.

"You're prettier than I expected," she said, kissing Sloane on the cheek. "But you look like you don't trust your heels."

"I usually wear sneakers," Sloane replied.

Eleanor arched a sculpted brow. "That explains the posture."

Sloane smiled sweetly. "That explains the tone."

Grayson appeared just in time to rescue her, one hand gently settling on the small of her back. "Mother. Let's not interrogate my wife before dessert."

Eleanor's eyes flicked between them. "Of course. I'm just surprised. You never let anyone get this close."

"I made an exception," Grayson said simply, then guided Sloane inside before his mother could dissect that statement further.

The brunch was a sea of champagne flutes and whispered speculation.

Socialites watched Sloane from behind oversized sunglasses.

Reporters subtly snapped pictures.

And Grayson?

Grayson was every inch the attentive husband.

He touched her arm when she spoke. Refilled her drink before she noticed it was low. Laughed actually laughed when she made a sarcastic comment about the foie gras.

They looked like a couple in love.

And Sloane hated how easy it was to slip into the role.

Later, while the string quartet played in the solarium, Sloane wandered upstairs to escape.

The hallway was quiet, lined with portraits of Astor ancestors and velvet wallpaper that probably cost more than her entire apartment.

She found a study at the end of the corridor dark, quiet, untouched.

Inside, a heavy wooden desk. A grand piano. And a photograph on the shelf.

Sloane stepped closer.

The photo was of Grayson as a teenager, flanked by his parents.

Jonathan Astor smiled in the picture. Charismatic. Confident.

Nothing like the headlines that would later brand him a thief.

She reached out to touch the frame.

"Careful," said a voice behind her.

She spun.

Grayson stood in the doorway, watching her with unreadable eyes.

"I didn't mean to snoop," she said quickly.

"You're not," he said, stepping inside. "That photo's the only one left. My mother wanted to burn them all after the scandal."

Sloane turned toward him. "You don't talk about him much."

"There's not much to say."

"I think there's a lot."

He walked to the window. "He was the kind of man people trusted. And the kind of man who knew exactly how to weaponize that trust."

"And you?"

"I learned to do the opposite. Never expect anything. Never promise anything you can't deliver. Never give anyone enough to destroy you."

He looked at her then.

And she realized this wasn't just a defense mechanism.

This was survival.

That night, Sloane couldn't sleep.

The penthouse Grayson had offered for her to use felt too pristine. Too quiet. Like a museum of a life she didn't quite belong in.

She curled up on the balcony in one of the plush chairs, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

And just when she closed her eyes, her phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

UNKNOWN: The last Mrs. Astor disappeared without a trace. Maybe ask yourself why.

Her heart seized.

She opened the text again.

No attachments.

No explanation.

Just a threat hidden in implication.

A chill ran through her.

Was this a joke? A scare tactic?

Or a warning?

She stared at the phone for a long time.

Then typed a message to Grayson:

SLOANE: I think we need to talk.

Across the city, in a dim apartment filled with old photographs and burned newspaper clippings, a woman paced.

She touched her phone.

Then the ring she still wore around her neck.

Alyssa.

And she was almost ready to come out of the dark