Chapter 22

CHAPTER 22

ZAYN

I sent a car to pick up Marigold, knowing full well that it would throw her off. I could have had her meet me at Edge on her own, but this was a power play, and I needed to set the tone. The restaurant was my brother Dane's pride and joy. It was the perfect venue—elegant, exclusive, and intimidating enough to remind her exactly who she was dealing with.

I arrived early, slipping into the corner booth that was always reserved for Bancrofts. I surveyed the dining room with a practiced eye. I needed to know who was going to see us. I didn't see any bloggers or other media people, but these days, everyone was a paparazzo.

Dane was making his rounds, chatting with guests and ensuring everything was running smoothly. He caught sight of me and made his way over, a grin spreading across his face.

"Zayn, I didn't expect to see you tonight," he said, clapping a hand on my shoulder.

I offered him a small smile. "Thought I'd stop by, check in on the place. It's looking good."

He chuckled. "It's Edge. It always looks good." He paused, glancing around as if expecting to see someone with me. "Meeting someone?"

I kept my expression neutral. "Just a business associate."

Dane raised an eyebrow but didn't press further. Only Hudson, Hayes, and Kameron were going to know about my arrangement with Marigold. I intended to keep it that way, at least for now. Plausible deniability and all that.

"Well, enjoy your evening. Let me know if you need anything."

"Will do," I said, watching as he moved on to the next table. As soon as he was out of earshot, I exhaled slowly. Dane's sharp intuition was a double-edged sword. He could sense when something was up, but he respected boundaries—most of the time. I'd have to be careful to keep him from getting too curious.

A few minutes later, I spotted Marigold at the entrance, looking uncertain and out of place. She was underdressed for Edge, wearing a simple blouse and slacks that clashed with the upscale atmosphere.

I cringed. I should have told her what to wear.

For a moment, I was transported back to that first time I'd seen her at the airport, flustered and struggling to keep it together at the check-in counter. There was something about her—something real—that caught me off guard then and was doing so again now.

She spotted me and made her way over, clutching her purse tightly. As she slid into the seat across from me, she fidgeted with the menu, her fingers tapping nervously against the leather cover. After a moment, she put it down and looked me square in the eyes.

"I'm not here to be wined and dined, Zayn," she said, her voice steady despite her obvious nerves. "I'm here to discuss our arrangement."

A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. "I gathered that."

"You could have given me a heads-up we were going to be eating at a five-star restaurant."

"Technically, no Michelin stars—not yet."

She glared at me, clearly not finding my joke funny. I knew Dane wouldn't either.

She reached into her purse and pulled out a stack of papers, sliding them across the table toward me. "I brought resources."

I picked up the document, scanning the first page. Bellamy Klein's name was on the top. I had to admit, I was impressed. Marigold wasn't just taking this seriously—she was prepared. As I flipped through the legal jargon, I could feel her eyes on me, watching for any sign of hesitation. When I reached the end, I took the pen she'd provided and signed it without a second thought.

She blinked, clearly surprised. "You're just going to sign it?"

I handed the document back to her. "This was my idea, Marigold. If things go south, I'll take accountability. I'm not going to sue you."

The tension in her shoulders eased. She let out the breath she seemed to have been holding since she walked in. "That's… that's good to know."

I leaned back in my seat, letting my gaze linger on her for a moment. "Now that we've got the paperwork out of the way, how about we actually enjoy dinner? The food is pretty decent here."

She hesitated, clearly torn between sticking to her guns and accepting the offer. Eventually, she nodded. "Fine. But just dinner."

I signaled the waiter, and we placed our orders. The conversation was light at first—small talk about the restaurant, the weather, the city. But I could sense that Marigold was holding back. She was not the same Marigold I met three months ago.

"Given our arrangement, I should probably know a little something about you," I said.

"Like what?"

"Where did you grow up? What was your childhood like? Do you have any siblings? Any medical conditions I should know about? Maybe a superfluous third nipple?"

Her expression tightened, and she glanced away, her fingers toying with the edge of the tablecloth. "That's… none of your business."

"Hey, I was just joking about the nipple." I leaned forward. "And if we're going to make this work, those are things a real fiancé would know about you. If I'm doing this, I'm doing it right. I'm not leaving any stone unturned. This is the first of several, maybe dozens of dinners."

She bit her lip, clearly uncomfortable with the line of questioning. For a moment, I thought she might shut down completely, but then she seemed to reconsider. "Look, I didn't agree to this so we could dig into each other's personal lives. This is just a business arrangement."

"Maybe so," I conceded. "But it's an arrangement that requires us to know each other—really know each other. Otherwise, we'll never be able to convince anyone it's real. If someone asks me what your favorite color is, I should know."

She was silent for a long moment, her eyes studying the table as if it held the answers she was looking for. When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter, more measured. "I don't like talking about my past."

"I'm getting that," I said, softening my tone. "But if we're going to make this convincing, we can't just know the basics. We need to know the little things, too. The things that make us who we are."

She looked up at me, searching my face for something—sincerity, maybe, or understanding. I wasn't sure if she found what she was looking for, but she seemed to relax a bit, her posture losing some of its defensive edge.

"Fine," she said, her tone resigned. "But if we're going to do this, then it goes both ways. You're not the only one asking questions."

A small smile tugged at my lips. "Fair enough." I realized I might have put her on the defensive by coming on too strong. "I'll start. My mother died when I was young. My father did his best, but raising a house full of boys wasn't very easy for him. My brothers and I had to grow up fast."

She seemed to genuinely listen as I spoke. "That must have been hard."

"It was," I admitted. "But it made us close. My brothers and I, we look out for each other. Always have."

"Are you still close with all of them?" she asked, her curiosity genuine.

"Most of them," I said with a nod. "We've got our differences, like any family, but at the end of the day, we're still brothers."

She seemed to mull that over before asking, "Am I going to have to meet them all? I don't know how many you have, but I know there are a lot of you."

I couldn't help but laugh at that. "Of course you are. And you're going to have to lie to all their faces. This Thanksgiving, you're coming to the Bancroft family dinner."

She gulped, her face paling slightly. "This Thanksgiving? That's soon."

"There's plenty of time to settle into our faux romance," I assured her. "By the time dinner rolls around next month, we'll know each other like the backs of our hands."

She didn't look entirely convinced, but she nodded, accepting the inevitability of it. For a brief moment, it felt almost normal—like we were just two people having dinner, no strings attached.

I knew I couldn't let this turn into something it wasn't. I needed to keep control, to ensure that Marigold and I were on the same page every step of the way.

As we ate, the conversation shifted back and forth between light topics and more personal ones. I learned that Marigold had grown up in a small town, that she'd always been a bit of an introvert, and that she had a knack for getting lost in a good book. She asked me about my brothers, about my work, and about what I did for fun—questions that seemed almost too mundane for the situation we were in.

But there was a part of me that appreciated the normalcy of it all, the way she treated me like just another person instead of a billionaire with a reputation to uphold. It was refreshing in a way I hadn't expected.

I found myself opening up more than I intended to, sharing stories about my childhood, my mother's death, and the way my father had struggled with the idea of being a single parent. Marigold listened with rapt attention, her eyes never leaving mine as she absorbed every word.

She asked questions, too—about my relationships with my brothers, about whether I still missed my mother, about what it was like growing up in a family like mine. I answered honestly, surprising myself with how easy it was to talk to her.

It wasn't until she asked about my father that I hesitated. I didn't like to talk about him, about the way grief had consumed him after my mother's death, or the way he'd become more of a shadow than a parent.

"He did his best," I said finally. "But it wasn't enough. Not for us, and not for him. All of us had our own struggles."

Marigold nodded. "It must have been hard."

I nodded, feeling a familiar ache in my chest. "It was. But we had each other. That's what got us through."

It wasn't often that I let people see this side of me. But Marigold wasn't like most people. She wasn't interested in my money or my status. She just wanted to know the truth.

Before I could dwell on that thought, her phone buzzed in her purse, cutting through the moment. She fumbled to get it out, her fingers clumsy as she apologized. "I meant to put it on silent."

When she saw the caller ID, she froze, her eyes widening.

"If it's important, you should take it," I said.