Charlotte stared at the marriage certificate lying between them like a live grenade.
The scrawl of her name — barely legible, slanted, chaotic — looked foreign to her, like it belonged to another person. A braver one, or a dumber one. She couldn't tell. But Asher Blake's signature was pristine. Elegant. Controlled. Just like him.
A knot tightened in her stomach.
"No," she whispered again, as if repetition could reverse time. "There has to be a mistake."
"No mistake," Asher replied evenly, leaning against the marble dresser, arms folded across his chest. His robe parted slightly, revealing a chest that looked like it belonged to a man who didn't just run boardrooms but punched walls when no one watched. "I rarely deal in errors."
Charlotte dragged her fingers through her tangled hair. "I don't do this. I don't get married. I don't even... date. I'm allergic to commitment. Ask anyone."
"I would," he said, "if there were anyone to ask."
Her mouth dried. That was the point, wasn't it? There was no one. She'd burned every bridge in London before disappearing — friends, family, even her therapist. Reinvention didn't allow for company.
"How did this even happen?" she demanded, pacing toward the window like it might show her a clue. "Was I drugged? Hypnotized? Threatened at gunpoint?"
"You were drunk," he said simply. "Very. And quite adamant that tequila made you immortal."
She groaned. "That sounds like me."
"You also challenged a Russian businessman to a dance-off."
"Oh, God."
"You won."
She turned to him, a flicker of morbid curiosity cracking through her panic. "Seriously?"
"I don't lie."
That, somehow, was the most unnerving thing he'd said all morning.
Charlotte ran a hand down her face, suddenly exhausted. "Okay. So I got drunk, and you—what? Just thought, 'Hey, she looks like a disaster, let's put a ring on it'?"
He shrugged. "You said you needed a way to disappear. I needed a wife. Temporary. Convenient. We were two disasters in search of mutually assured destruction."
"That's not romantic," she muttered.
"I'm not a romantic."
No kidding.
She glanced down at the ring again. Her finger still pulsed beneath it, like her body rejected the weight of permanence. "So this is real. Legal."
He nodded. "You were surprisingly thorough. Even made the officiant add a clause about splitting assets in case of premature death. Impressive for someone slurring their vowels."
She exhaled shakily. "Then I assume we can get an annulment just as easily."
"Possibly. But you won't."
"I won't?"
"Because," he said, standing now, stepping forward with slow, deliberate precision, "you need this as much as I do."
Charlotte backed up instinctively, until the window pressed cool against her spine. The city sparkled behind her — a city built on illusion, where even reality had a buy-in price.
He stopped just short of her, his gaze level. "You told me things last night, Charlotte. About who's chasing you. What you're running from. I don't know if all of it was true. But I believed enough of it."
"You believed a drunk girl with a stolen identity and smeared mascara?"
"I believed the desperation," he said, quietly. "And I recognize a drowning soul when I see one."
Her eyes burned, but she blinked fast. "Why would you help me?"
"Because I need something in return."
She gave a bitter laugh. "Of course you do. Here it comes."
"I'm fighting for custody of my goddaughter," he said, voice suddenly softer. "She's six. Her mother—my best friend—passed away six months ago. Her father's family is trying to claim her, but they're toxic. Unfit. Wealthy enough to buy sympathy."
Charlotte's mocking expression faltered.
"My lawyers say I need to present stability," he went on. "A family environment. A wife."
"So you married a drunken fugitive?"
"I married someone with no ties, no paper trail, and every reason to vanish. You get what you want. I get what I need."
She let the silence stretch between them. A terrible, logic-proof deal. One where both parties got to lie — beautifully, thoroughly — to the world.
It was insane.
It was perfect.
"What happens after three months?" she asked.
"We file for divorce. You walk away with a new identity, enough money to disappear for good, and no one ever connects you to Charlotte Quinn."
"And if I say no?"
He tilted his head. "Then you walk out of here with the tabloids tailing you by sundown."
Her heart slammed against her ribs. He wasn't threatening her — not directly — but the implication was clear. He knew things. Knew she couldn't afford exposure.
"How much?" she asked. "To play house for ninety days?"
He named a sum that made her knees buckle.
She whistled low. "You really don't want to lose that little girl."
He didn't answer. He didn't have to.
Charlotte stared at the ring. At the city. At this man who had calmly turned her catastrophe into a contract.
"Alright," she said finally. "Three months. I smile, I wave, I act like your blushing bride. And when it's over..."
"You disappear," he finished. "For good."
She nodded slowly. "Fine. But I have rules."
His mouth curled at the edge. "Naturally."
"No touching," she said. "No sleeping arrangements that aren't separate. No controlling what I wear, say, or do in private. You want a show, I'll give it — but I'm not your property."
His eyes didn't waver. "Deal."
She held out her hand. "Let's shake on it. Make it real."
He looked down at her extended fingers.
Then, with deliberate grace, he took her hand in his — and slipped the diamond ring back into place with one smooth motion.
A beat of silence passed.
"This is real enough," he said.
Before she could respond, his phone buzzed. He answered without looking. "Yes?"
A pause.
Then his gaze flicked to Charlotte, sharp and unreadable.
"We have a problem," he said. "Someone's already asking questions about you."