1. Blake

CHAPTER 1

Blake

“ I see you redecorated.” Yve, my widowed step-mother, purses her collagen-stuffed lips while surveying the brownstone’s renovated entryway. “Marble, stained wood, and antiques. How predictable. I don’t know what I ever saw in this place, the penthouse is so much more modern. Its view of Central Park is stellar. Pity there’s no decent view here. I still can’t believe how much you paid for this old house.”

Of course she’d rub that in. She held onto my ancestral home for years, refusing to sell it to me until I offered a price so astronomical that she simply couldn’t pass it up. That back and forth was one of many games we’ve played since my father died three years ago and Yve gained control of everything, from the Baron family estate to our real estate investment empire.

As the eldest son, I should have inherited it all, but Father cut me out of his will a long time ago. Instead, handing over his massive fortune to this gold-digging bitch.

Gold-diggers are the worst kind of predators in my world. They seem to be everywhere.

I school my features in a bored expression and drawl, “If your urgent need to stop by was to comment on my home’s features, you may leave now.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She sneers, walking toward my office on the main floor like she still owns the place.

I stroll after her, refusing to let her get under my skin. Instead, I make her wait when she enters my office before I do, and takes one of two chairs in front of the desk. Unhurriedly, I round the sizable piece of wooden furniture and sink into the smooth leather chair.

Yve glares. Given the amount of Botox she’s had in the last few years, her eyes are the only part of her face that naturally move.

I steeple my fingers, elbows on my desk, and return her stare. Another game. We’ve been playing one game after another for decades. We face each other like that for a solid thirty seconds before she finally breaks the strained silence.

“Lexa is now twenty-one, which means it’s high time she found a husband. You are?—”

“Not interested. For the millionth time, I’m not marrying my sister.” The very idea makes my skin crawl, even though she’s technically my step-sister. Not that there’s anything wrong with the girl, except for the fact that I do see her as my baby sister. That we don’t share blood is irrelevant.

Besides, whoever marries my sister will be under this monster’s thumb, and that sorry fellow is not going to be me—anymore than I already am Yve’s unwilling puppet.

Yve has been hounding me about this since the girl turned eighteen. For Christ’s sake, give it a rest.

I find the very idea of being romantically involved with my step-sister repulsive on so many levels. She’s a decade and half younger than me, and she shares blood with this viper who’s seated in my office. The only reason Yve wants to pawn her daughter off on me is to make sure all the Baron family assets stay under her control. And to acquire the fortune I’ve made for myself over the years.

Just one big happy family. Forever.

Over my dead fucking body .

Though in all honesty, I’m surprised she hasn’t moved on to arranging a marriage between Lexa and my younger brother Liam. They are closer in age. Also step-siblings. The fact that he’s gay is not nearly enough of a reason for Yve to dismiss the idea of them together. In fact, it wouldn’t deter her in the slightest. She’s that sort of monster.

Either way, it’s never going to happen. I’d welcome an arranged marriage to a stranger before I’d agree to marry Lexa.

Yve purses her puffy mauve lips. “You remember that you can’t claim your little inheritance until you marry, right?”

Another of Yve’s games. When I went away to boarding school as a teenager, she stole some things from my room–invaluable things. Over the years I’ve looked for them but keep coming up empty-handed. One day I’ll get them all back.

“I’m well aware of your terms.” Already bored of this conversation, I casually lean back in my chair.

“Well then, marry my daughter and you’ll get what you want. One year of marriage is all I ask for you to claim what you want.”

“Never.” I let my boredom slip through in my tone. “I’d rather eat rusty nails.”

A sinister smile touches her mouth. “If you’re going to be so stubborn about it, I have no choice but to force the issue. If you want your inheritance, then you’ll have to marry by your thirty-fifth birthday. The day after that, if you’re not wed, I’ll burn it all.”

I’m about to protest, telling her she can’t add this term on top of the other ridiculous stipulations regarding what she stole from me. Calling it my inheritance , doesn’t alter the facts.

But she can change the terms, she can do whatever the hell she wants because my father gave her full control and the estate’s lawyers always jump at whatever she wants to amend. Those bastards are entirely too accommodating.

Since my father’s death, Yve has become unhinged. She’s stepped into the CEO position at the company, she holds my little brother’s inheritance over both his head and mine. How she convinced Father to give her carte blanche is still unknown to me. Though my father was a real bastard, his weakness was Yve, so I shouldn’t really be surprised by his last will and testament leaving her in charge of the Baron family estate and business.

I simply have to deal with the consequences–for now.

My birthday’s in six months. That’s not a lot of time to find a wife.

“You must marry before then or risk losing what you want most. And, if you choose someone other than Lexa, you must stay married for an entire year. Above all, I have to be convinced that your marriage will last. If either of you are caught cheating, then you’ll never see your inheritance. If it’s not a love-match, then our deal is off.” She leans forward. “Wed Lexa and be done with it. You can cheat on her and I’ll look the other way. Plus, I’ll give you your inheritance immediately. Wed my daughter and you won’t have to wait another year.”

“I’d rather chew off my own fingers.”

Her expression sours. She sighs, clearly exasperated. Good .

“She’s the only option. Especially since I’ll add that you may not pay a woman to be your wife. There will be a prenup in place for anyone you try to marry if it’s not Lexa. Which means any other wife will be left with nothing if you divorce. We both know you’re so intolerable that no woman would agree to be with you, if not for your money.”

I cast her a bland look. “That is why you married my father. For the money.”

Yve shrugs. Standing, she smooths down her Chanel suit and picks up her garish, monogram Louis Vuitton bag. The woman couldn’t scream new money louder if she tried.

“I’ll start planning the wedding.” With a venomous smile she heads for my office door. “You won’t find anyone else who’ll marry you in six short months.”

The viper leaves my door open, so I can hear the click of her heels all the way to the foyer. Good riddance.

When I’m alone, I pound my fist on the desk, once, and the few items atop it quiver. Then I pour myself a scotch from the bar cart. It’s fucking five o’clock somewhere in the world. Though one brief conversation with my step-mother could drive a teetotaler to drink.

The scotch smoothly burns as it washes down my throat. Its peaty oak taste coats my tongue. I swallow the shot then pour myself a double, neat.

The truth of the situation is that I do need to find a wife before my birthday in November. One thing I know for certain about Yve is that she rarely bluffs. Her threats can be taken at face-value. November is my deadline if I want what she stole returned to me.

And I will have it. One way or another. No matter how many hoops Yve sets in place.

I need a wife.

A fake wife.

A knock sounds on my ajar door.

“What?” I snap.

Arianna Kozlov, formerly Arianna Pontrelli , before she married into the Russian Bratva, pokes her brunette head into my office. “I just wanted to give you an update, Mr. Baron. We’re finished decorating in the garden and we’ve moved into the house. Catering should be arriving any moment.”

I give her a curt nod and she disappears, going back to her work.

In celebration of finally owning my childhood home again and the recent renovation, I’m hosting a soiree tonight. One that my step-mother is not invited to attend.

When this idea came to mind, I knew the only event planner to hire was Arianna Kozlov–her connection to the Russian mafia of no concern. I’ve seen her work at Leonidas Gentleman’s Club enough times to know she’s the best. By tonight this place will be decked out in superb elegance and the party will go off without a hitch. I left the details in Mrs. Kozlov’s capable hands so I’ll be as surprised as everyone else tonight by its final presentation.

She sent invites out a while ago and the guest list is settled. It should be an interesting evening. I invited all the who’s-who of Manhattan and beyond.

If only I could use this evening as an alibi while I off Yve… This isn’t the first, nor even the thousandth, time I’ve considered putting my step-monster in an early grave.

I’d do it in a heartbeat if she didn’t have dirt on me. One misstep when I was young and cocky, and now she has enough evidence to put me away for life.

I once asked her why she hasn’t done it yet, and she confessed to enjoying our games too much. With me behind bars, she wouldn’t have anyone to toy with and torment, knowing she can get away with everything. I can’t touch her until I find and destroy that blackmail material.

The other problem is that I’d be the prime suspect. Naturally.

Not only would I jeopardize everything I’ve built in my life, but also my younger brother’s inheritance, and our family company Titan Enterprises. Plus, I really don’t relish the idea of life in prison just for offing one conniving gold-digger. The sacrifice is too much for the reward. I’ve come to terms with enduring her petty games. Even as she now forces me to come up with a willing bride in less than six months.

I don’t think I’m as unpleasant in the eyes of most women as Yve suggested. If anything, I could probably put out a call for potential candidates and be inundated with hopeful young women. More gold-diggers. Empty-headed arm candy.

The very idea has me cringing. I swallow the rest of my scotch and set the glass on my desk.

In truth, I’m the problem. I can’t stomach most humans, and when it comes to blushing ladies who look at me and see my bank account balance and investment portfolio, I’d rather be buried alive than consider making one of them the next Mrs. Baron. Even temporarily.

In short, I’m fucked.