A week. I wanted to scream.

Seven short days.

Before my life would be over.

“Employee compensation within the oil and gas industry is currently on the rise, and we came up with a great plan to preserve key staffers and encourage potential prospects to apply to Royal Pipelines…”

My mind drifted as my HR director, Keith, delivered what was surely one of the most boring pitches I had ever listened to in my lengthy corporate career.

Across from me, Hunter was on his phone, probably renewing his Pornhub Premium subscription.

Devon sat next to me, dutifully fulfilling his role as the head of my compliance department by scowling at his phone and ignoring the out-of-country calls that kept going through to his answering machine.

The man was going to inherit a dukedom in a few years (if he ever bothered to show his face in England), yet he refused to set foot in England.

I tapped my Montblanc pen on the table, staring out the window.

Three days had passed since Persephone had shown up at my door, accepting my offer.

Three days in which I had time to reflect on the fact that, indeed, a storm had paralyzed most of Boston’s public transportation that day.

Three days in which I’d completely forgotten Minka Gomes existed.

Three days in which I’d imagined Persephone birthing me babies that looked like little replicas of her—with blond curls and cyan eyes and sun-kissed skin—and wasn’t half-disgusted with the prospect.

My phone pinged with an email notification while Keith continued boring the room to death.

I slid my thumb over the screen.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Hiiiiii Mr. Fitzpatrick,

Just wanted to let you know the jeweler was sent to Ms. Gomes’ apartment earlier this morning for the ring measurements, and I have them here with me.

Should I proceed to pick the engagement ring on your behalf, or would you like to take a look after all? Please let me know. ☺

Relatedly, Ms. Diana Smith, the PR director for Royal Pipelines, would love to schedule a brief meeting with you this week concerning the official announcement of your engagement to Ms. Gomes to make things official.

I’m enclosing your weekly schedule. The highlighted slots could be secured for the meeting.

If you need me for anything (and I do mean anything, LOL) else, let me know <3

xoxo

Casey Brandt

Executive Personal Assistant to Cillian Fitzpatrick, CEO of Royal Pipelines.

I glanced up from my phone, frowning at Hunter.

He glared back at me, mouthing fix it from across the board desk.

Maybe I did need to fix this.

My brother was pitifully soft and cared not only about his average-looking wife, but also about her hang-ons.

Then there was Aisling to think about. She had a gentle soul and didn’t deserve to mourn Persephone if the latter was murdered by some street punks.

Then there was Sailor. If Persephone was found chopped into minuscule pieces, floating in Charles River like stale tofu in a miso soup, she could lose the baby.

Choosing to ignore the fact I’d never previously shown signs of conscience, integrity, or consideration to anyone other than my dick, I’d decided to give Persephone one more chance to redeem herself.

This would be my pro bono.

Marrying a girl to save her from sure death.

Flower Girl was going to owe me so much after the solid I was about to give her that she was going to be indebted to me for eternity. That meant I could shape our relationship any way I chose, and what I chose was to see her three times a year, for important holidays, company events, and an annual sex-a-thon (if I was going to pay for her and her future boy toy’s luxury lives, I would make sure he knew who she really belonged to).

My fingers flew over my phone screen.

Cillian: Get my driver ready immediately.

Casey: Mr. Fitzpatrick? Are you texting me?! <3

What was it with people stating the obvious?

Cillian: Heading out of the HR meeting now. If he is not there by the time I exit the building, you’re both fired.

I stormed out of the boardroom without so much as an apology. Keith stopped mid-speech, his mouth slacking. Hunter and Devon exchanged looks.

I didn’t care.

I didn’t want to marry Minka Gomes.

I didn’t want to marry Persephone Penrose, either, but at least I knew what I was getting out of the bargain. Namely, photogenic children, a doting mother to them, and a wife who would look good on my arm.

All I needed was to keep Persephone at arm’s length and away from me after we tied the knot.

Casey: Your day is booked back-to-back, sir.

Cillian: You mean my day is clear and wide open because you used your three working brain cells to shift things around, which is what I’m PAYING YOU FOR.

Casey: Absolutely, sir. What should I do regarding the engagement ring?

Cillian: Send Ms. Gomes a fat check and an apology note. I will not be marrying her.

Casey: OMG really?

Casey: Sorry, I mean, is the vacancy still open, sir? ;)

Casey: I will make a good wife. I promise. I know how to cook, how to fish, babysat like, a ton of kids in my life. And I also know other things…

I got out of the elevator, my brogues clicking over the marbled lobby. I could see the Escalade waiting at the curb from the floor-to-ceiling window, the subzero blizzard its backdrop.

Sliding in the back seat, I barked Persephone’s work address to the driver.

Casey: Never mind. Sorry. That was totally out of order. If you don’t intend to marry Ms. Gomes, should I cancel the PR meeting with Diana?

Cillian: I said I’m not marrying Ms. Gomes. She is not the only woman on the planet.

Casey: Sir, I’m afraid I don’t understand. ☹

Cillian: Don’t be afraid. Ignorance is bliss.

The staff at Little Genius Academy recognized me the second I set foot inside. An eager receptionist rushed to help me find my way to Ms. Persy, accompanying me down a corridor full of drawings, art projects, and squeaky toys.

The place smelled like a warm fart and applesauce. It was a dire reminder of the fact that having heirs required raising them first. I supposed I could do the whole remote-dad gig Athair was so good at and limit my communication with my spawns until they were fully formed and didn’t require any ass wiping.

“There it is, Ms. Persy’s class.” The receptionist stopped by the classroom door, swinging the door open for me.

I watched as Flower Girl pranced around a room full of kids. Her hair—honey highlights tangled in bright yellow—was gathered into a Dutch braid, and she wore an ankle-length white dress and flat shoes that looked about a decade old.

She was dirt-poor, in deep shit, and still happy to go to work every day.

Unbelievable.

She held the hands of two shy-looking four-year-olds as the class danced in a circle. Every few seconds, the music would stop, and the kids would freeze in place, a funny expression on their faces, trying not to crack up.

I leaned against the doorframe, hands tucked in my front pockets, and observed. It took her three minutes to notice me. Another two to lift her jaw off the floor, straighten her spine, and turn scarlet.