And somehow, despite all my anger and hurt and suspicion, I found myself agreeing to come back for an emergency meeting with him and Dad and Prescott. Temporarily, mind you, just to try putting this mess behind me . . . but still. How does that man always persuade me? How does one look into his intense dark eyes always end with me believing in him?

Maybe I was just sick of always running away from disasters. Noah had hit a nerve with that comment. One way or another, I wanted closure. A definite end to this story, leaving no room for regrets or second guesses later on down the road. Closure.

Whatever my reason was, I got in Noah’s car. I let him drag me down from that Catskills retreat and back to civilization. And two hours of driving later, I’m sitting here in the house I grew up in—where I have no choice but to stare our problem in the face.

I do my best to push down my feelings and find the cool, rational mindset I work best in. Now isn’t the time to wallow in negative emotions. I can’t let my confusion and anger and sadness run away with me . . . yet again. Noah arranged this meeting to get everything out in the open and everyone on the same page. If all goes well, we might even be able to start straightening out this mess. I can wait until I’m back in my own private space to scream or cry or tear my hair out, or whatever the hell my wounded heart desires.

Except I don’t have my own space anymore. Shit, I almost forgot. What are we going to do about that little issue? Unless I want to kick Noah out of the penthouse, or rent a hotel room for the foreseeable future, I’ll have to see him every night. I’ll have to deal with his puppy-dog eyes following me around the room, silently begging me to understand his side of the story and accept his apology. I’ll have to see his handsome face, feel the warmth of his toned body, when I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to let him touch me again. We’ll have to keep living together in our marital home . . . when I’m feeling anything but wifely.

Dad interrupts my dour thoughts by getting the ball rolling. “Noah filled me in on the phone about what’s happened the past couple days,” he begins.

Oh, great. Even though this is what we’ve come here to discuss, I hope Noah didn’t provide too much detail. Tight-lipped, I nod at Dad to continue. “And your thoughts are?”

His bushy, graying eyebrows fly up. “I’m appalled, of course! I’m so sorry things ended up like this. Neither Bill nor I ever meant to deceive you.”

“Then how did this happen?” I ask. “Why was this weird pregnancy stuff even in his will in the first place? How did it end up in the inheritance contract?”

Dad clasps his hands tightly together where they rest on the table, and gazes at me with an earnest, almost pleading look. “We added the heir clause into our wills on a whim. We both wanted grandchildren . . . it was our fondest wish to see you two kids together, and the family you’d build for yourselves one day. We figured you’d fight us on that point and we’d just cross out the whole thing. It was wishful thinking.”

“But Bill Tate died sooner than anyone expected,” Prescott explains, “so the heir clause slipped into his will unseen and unchallenged. And after that point, it had to be included in the inheritance contract.”

“Jesus, this thing got passed around like a bad penny,” Noah murmurs.

I make a point of ignoring him. “But surely we could have done something. Asked a judge if he could rule that clause unenforceable and declare a partial revocation . . .” Or at least find some loophole or tricky way of fulfilling it that didn’t involve me actually getting pregnant.

“Yes, we could have looked for other options,” Prescott says. “I would have worked with you to find an alternative solution if either of you had objected.”

Dad leans forward. “But when you didn’t, I was a little surprised but I figured you must be okay with it since you’d signed the contract.”

That was Noah’s argument too. I groan internally at the reminder that I signed without reading every last word.

“And I thought, heck, maybe they’ll have fun trying to get pregnant. It would keep both your minds off the failing company.” Dad sighs heavily, the lines of age and fatigue and regret etched deep into his face. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I meant this inheritance to bring you together and make you happy, not tear you apart and make you miserable. I feel terrible, like Bill and I both failed our children.”

I swallow around the sudden lump in my throat. “But how did you know? How were you so certain that pairing us off like this was the right thing to do?”

“Because it’s always been obvious that you two were meant for each other. You’ve been in love all along. Ever since you first met, when you were three years old and he was five.” Dad’s expression lifts into a slight, fond smile. “And your mothers agreed. All four of us knew our children . . . we could read the signs.”

“Mom? She thought this was a good idea too?” I blurt.

“If I remember correctly, she might have even been the one to suggest it.”

Stunned, I blink. All along I assumed that this arranged marriage was only concocted by our fathers. Are our entire families just fucking nuts? Or . . . were they on to something? Four people, two of whom ran a multibillion-dollar international company, couldn’t all be wrong . . .

Prescott looks almost as uncomfortable as I feel. He probably didn’t come here prepared to be drop-kicked into the middle of an emotional battleground.