Chapter 4

Ryan

Five Months Later

I stare at the amber liquid in the tumbler in my hand, refusing to process what the eagle-eyed man opposite me is saying. “McGrath, you’re telling me you spent weeks poring over these policies, and all you could come up with is the reason I needed a loophole in the first place?”

“Unfortunately, Mr Anderson, your company policies are airtight. There’s no getting around it, not if you want to retain controlling shares of Ocean Gate in the coming months. You need to get married.”

My lawyer’s words trigger a surge of bile up my throat, and I almost taste the acrid bitterness. I drain my scotch and slam the glass on the polished wood of my library desk.

McGrath doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he keeps his eyes trained on me, letting me see how serious he is. McGrath is one of the best corporate lawyers I know. He has been the head of my personal legal team since I became Chief Operating Officer. And in all the legal skirmishes we’ve fought, we haven’t lost any.

Except this one battle. Ocean Gate versus my freedom.

My father is the CEO and lives in Seattle, where Ocean Gate’s headquarters is. But he’s only an administrative head. New York is the heart and soul of the ship-building company, and I’ve been heading the New York branch for four years. I might as well be the CEO.

It galls me that, despite wielding so much power over the company, its thousands of employees and clients, I have so little control over my own life.

I’m being led to the altar like a lamb to slaughter, and there doesn’t seem to be a damn thing I can do about it.

McGrath interrupts my morose thoughts. “The good news is, it need only be for six months. We can begin divorce proceedings by the fourth month. It will be an uncontested divorce anyway. That’s the only way you’ll gain everything and lose nothing.”

Fuck. Marry now, get separated in four months, and cleanly divorced in six months. It shouldn’t be too hard a sacrifice for Ocean Gate, the one thing I’ve wanted to do since I could count.

“I’m sorry, but this is the only way,” McGrath says gently as though talking down a bristling horse. He’s no doubt seen the irritation furrowing my brows and how hard I’m clenching my fists on the table. “I’ll draw up an ironclad prenup.” He continues, “All you need is to find a wife. As long as no child is born during the six-month period, you’ll have all your shares back as well as your independence.”

Not to mention cinch my position as CEO when Dad retires in a couple of months.

I nod, partly to reassure the man I’m not losing it. I’m surprised McGrath is unfazed by my odd reaction. Perhaps he’s used to grown men having meltdowns at the thought of having to get married.

McGrath leans forward. “Mr Anderson, can you think of any women who would be willing to take a slice of your fortune in exchange for discretion and six months of their life?”

I fall back into the leather chair and fold my hands behind my head. That’s the problem there. Not only do I need a wife, I also need an actress, and a darn good one. Someone who can pull off being happily married to me enough to convince the entire Anderson dynasty.

Someone who wouldn’t turn around and ask for more. More time. More of money. Or God forbid, fall in love with me.

Dammit. I never imagined I’d ever be in this position. I was sure I’d find some loophole or excuse before the time came. I thought I would have made CEO before turning thirty-one, and kicked out the outdated company policies, consequences be damned.

“Mr Anderson?” McGrath seems to be waiting for a response.

“Fine,” I grind out. “I’ll work on getting a wife. You have the legal jargon ready.”

“Of course.” He stands to leave. “I’ll get back to you in a few days.”

After he leaves, I contemplate what my near future would look like. And I immediately sense a headache coming on.

Living with a woman for months. Talking over dinner, arguing, looking after her when she’s sick—

An unwelcome flash of light signals the start of my cluster headache as my left eye waters. I grind my teeth and brace myself against the wave of intense pain until it passes. But I know it will return in a few minutes.

I pick up my glass and automatically wipe non-existent spills with a cloth. Then, I leave the office, longing for my bed.

Unless I have late afternoon meetings, I’m usually home by four pm and in bed by six or seven. This routine accommodates my unusual sleeping pattern and reduces cluster headaches.

I head to my kitchen sink to rinse out the tumbler, then place it in the dishwasher. I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and drink the whole thing in a few gulps. Then, I lean against the marble counter and weigh my options.

There’s only one woman on earth I could remotely endure being within a meter distance of me when I’m in my personal space.

Rose.

Sassy, cynical, and saber-tongued. She probably hates the idea of marriage more than I do, going by her reaction to both our best friends falling in love and getting married. Although, right now I think she hates me more.

I know she’s open-minded with sex, she likes to be in control, and she prefers her men docile. I thought the only way we could get on in bed was if someone were to submit.

Yet, watching the play of emotions on her face in that hotel room tells me I was wrong about her. She would have submitted to me. She’d hated that someone else was in the room.

Ever since that day, she’s been avoiding me like the plague. When she can’t, she turns into this gigantic thorn in my ass.

Instead of putting me off her, her attitude has only stoked my desire for her. Tempting me to capture all that crackling fire beneath me. To feed it with mine and take us both to a place where we can both crash and burn. Then do it all over again.

I pick up my phone and dial her number. It rings off. Of course. Stubborn woman. The last time she picked up my call was on the morning of Brooke and Xavier’s wedding. That was five months ago. A lifetime ago.

My phone vibrates with a text. Although I shouldn’t be looking at the screen during my headaches, I can’t help thinking it’s Rose responding to my missed call. But it’s only a text message from Wyatt, one of my friends.

Are you still coming out, or is it past your bedtime yet, Ryboy? Cathy and a few others are here. And we all know who they’re hoping to catch a glimpse of. Wouldn’t look at the rest of us mortals.

Fucking hell. I may have agreed to hang out at the club tonight. With Xavier off the market, the boys have recruited more single guys into our group. We’ve talked about having the originals, or OGs, show up on clubbing nights to encourage the rest.

Another wave of headache hits, but I manage to type a quick response:

Bed.

I throw the phone down in disgust and walk into my dark bathroom to rummage for my Zomig spray.

A couple of sprays up my nose and within minutes the vice-like grip around my head and sharp pain behind my left eye eases into a dull throb. Still, with the lights off, I strip and step into the shower. I set the nozzle to full power, mostly because I need the hot spray to massage my skull until it stops pounding.

By the time the water cools, the headache is completely gone but I’m exhausted. I crawl into bed, ignoring the incessant beeps. Most likely it’s my friend Wyatt cursing me out for bailing on them again.

I’ll deal with all of it tomorrow. Starting with that sexy, stubborn, green-eyed witch who won’t pick up my calls.

Whatever else she is, Rose is a businesswoman. And this offer, she’ll most likely be unable to refuse. I just need to get her to see me first.