Chapter 1

Tears blurred my eyes,distorting the lines of text I was supposed to be reading. I tried to hide a sniffle behind a cough, but Mr. Devane had to know my heart was currently being smashed to pieces with a corporate sledgehammer.

As my grandfather’s lifelong attorney and friend, Mr. Devane and his wife had stayed by my side when I’d buried Papa a few months earlier. He’d done his best to help me hold onto what I had left of my family, but there was no holding on anymore. There was more debt than I’d ever known, and I was out of time.

The fountain pen in my hand trembled, and I focused on my fingers, willing them to still. The logo engraved on the fancy pen caught my attention, and it was enough to make me want to vomit.

Forrester Funding: Let us lead you into the future.

There was no escaping Warwick Forrester and his legacy of destroying everything my grandfather had worked for. Even now, signing away the last shares of a company Papa had started when he’d first immigrated from Sicily to New York City, I was being reminded of Warwick freaking Forrester.

It wasn’t enough that he was splashed across every newsstand from the front of the New York Times to People magazine. Black and white or glossy full color shots, it didn’t matter—the man was paparazzi gold as the East Coast’s most eligible bachelor.

With dark hair cropped close at the sides and artfully mussed at the top, penetrating deep brown eyes, and a stubble-covered jawline sharp enough to cut glass, there wasn’t a camera lens in the world that didn’t love him. Even if his bank account didn’t have more digits than a long-distance phone number, his looks alone would’ve had a line of women (and men) lining up to date him.

I knew all about his meteoric rise to power and fame in New York. He’d made his first million on some gaming app alongside his college best friend, but Warwick changed the game when he started investing and buying out smaller businesses. Within a decade, he’d amassed more holdings and companies than men double his age.

Companies like the one my grandfather had once owned.

Screw Warwick Forrester all the way to hell.

My cheeks heated at the thought, Nonna’s thickly accented rebuke ringing in my ears as she reminded me to keep my thoughts—and my body—pure, like I was still some young, innocent teenager.

But I wasn’t. And Nonna and Papa weren’t here anymore.

After my parents died in a freak plane crash when I was eight, my father’s parents had raised me. My mom’s parents had died years earlier, but that was okay. Nonna and Papa were the only family I needed.

They cherished and protected me, never ceasing to let me know how utterly loved I was. And, for a little girl who suffered from debilitating panic attacks and was terrified of her own shadow, their love was the thing that kept me going.

I didn’t make many friends at the posh Upper East Side academy I’d been enrolled at my entire life. I was the quiet girl who spent her lunchtime in the library. The two times I’d tried dating in high school had been a disaster, so I focused on my studies and gained acceptance to several Ivy League schools.

Ultimately, Columbia won because I could commute from home. Plus, Nonna had suffered a stroke that left her paralyzed on the left side of her body, and it made sense for me to stay with her.

When Papa and I lost her three years ago, it had upended our entire world. Papa retreated into himself for the better part of two years, isolating himself until I finally pushed him to get a persistent cough he’d had checked out.

All it took was one stage 4 cancer diagnosis and five short weeks, and Papa left me, too.

At twenty-three, I was the proud owner of a pretty useless fine arts degree, two gleaming urns, and a mountain of debt. Nonna’s illness and her required round-the-clock care, combined with trying to maintain the lifestyle that Nonna and I were accustomed to, sent Papa’s once thriving business floundering.

He might have eventually recovered if men like Warwick Forrester didn’t sweep in like vultures, picking the flesh of the desiccating carcasses of businesses struggling to survive. Businesses like Papa’s.

Across the table from me, the lawyer cleared his throat. Mr. Devane had been my grandfather’s attorney for decades, and I would be forever grateful with the care and consideration he treated me with.

“Miss Winters?—”

“Sia,” I whispered, shaking my head. “Please, call me Sia, Mr. Devane.”

The aged lines of his face deepened with thought. “Sia,” he corrected, “I can go over the offer one last time, if that helps?”

I shook my head bitterly. There was no need. I’d gone through it all myself, trying to find a way to draw blood from a stone, but it was hopeless. The math didn’t math the way I needed it to.

Ice by Winterwould be another chain-store jewelry shop in malls across America as soon as I signed the company over to Forrester Funding. The jewelry brand my grandfather had cultivated for decades, using resources and contacts across Europe, was bankrupt.

Call it bad investments, or the fact that my grandfather had become lax the last few years between Nonna’s health and his own, but there was nothing left of the company he’d loved. And, as soon as I signed this paper, I would get enough money to pay off the last of his debts and wipe the slate clean.

My fingers thumbed the pages, flipping it open to one I didn’t recognize. My brow furrowed. “What’s this?”

Mr. Devane leaned forward. “Sia, that’s your trust fund.”

“Holy shit,” I breathed, silently shooting up an apologetic prayer to Nonna, but that was a lot of zeroes. “This is mine?”

For the first time in years, hope swelled in my chest. With this kind of money, I wouldn’t lose everything. I could use this money to fund Hope’s Heart—the charity my mother had started before her death.

After an emergency hysterectomy following my birth, my parents had wanted more children and decided to adopt. During the adoption process, they’d learned about children with congenital, sometimes fatal, heart defects that often went ignored by families who wanted healthy children.

My parents had adopted Hope when I was four and she was one. Sadly, Hope passed away before her third birthday, and I barely remembered my little sister, but my mother had made it her mission to ensure children like Hope would not be forgotten.

Once Mom had passed away, Nonna had taken over the reins of the charity, and now it was my turn. But I wasn’t sure how much help I could be… until now.

I couldn’t save Papa’s jewelry business, but with the money I’d get from selling it, I could protect Mom and Nonna’s legacy.

“Alessia, wait,” Mr. Devane cautioned, the warning note in his tone my first indicator that things weren’t right.

I lifted my head, meeting his gaze. “What?”

He tugged at the starched white collar of his dress shirt. “That inheritance comes with a few conditions.”

“Like?” I splayed my hands out on the shiny wood of the mahogany table. Whatever hoops I had to jump through, I’d do it.

Losing Ice by Winter was devastating enough, but losing Hope’s Heart had almost sent me over the edge. As it was, I’d already given up everything I had to try and keep Papa’s business.

I’d sold our five-thousand square foot New York City apartment overlooking Central Park. I’d sold their summer house in the Hamptons. Next had been the majority of Nonna’s personal jewelry collection, with the exception of a few pieces I’d cut my arms off before selling.

In less than a year, I’d gone from a woman with the city at her feet to a fifth floor walk-up in a sketchy part of the Bronx because it was all I could afford after the funerals and trying to get enough equity to dig out of Papa’s mistakes.

It tacked on an extra hour to my daily commute to the entry level receptionist job I’d landed with that stellar fine arts degree. The pay covered my rent and food, even if it also came with a boss that liked to look down my top every chance he got.

But it was a job, and at least I was able to stay in the city I loved.

Mr. Devane drummed his fingers on the table. “Sia, I’ve known your grandparents since we were in our thirties. You grandfather designed the rings my wife and I wear to this day.” He turned the yellow gold band on his finger as he spoke. “After your parents’ passing, your grandparents wanted to be certain you had everything you needed in the event of their passing.”

My gaze flitted to the sum again. “I think this is more than enough.”

“Yes, but your grandparents also wanted to be certain you were mature enough to handle the responsibility of such a large amount of money, so they placed stipulations on when you are able to access it.” He licked his lips, his bushy white handlebar mustache twitching as his gaze slid to the wall of windows overlooking Third Avenue.

“What aren’t you saying?” I finally asked.

Puffing out a breath, he steepled his fingers and met my gaze. “Your inheritance has the same stipulations your father’s did—you must either be thirty years of age or married to gain access to your trust.”

It was like my brain factory reset and started rebooting anew. Several long moments passed as the words tumbled around in my head, my mind struggling to attach meaning to them. “But I’m twenty-three.”

Mr. Devane grimaced. “I am aware.”

That hope that had been swelling like a balloon popped instantly. “So, I have to wait seven years.”

“Or get married,” he repeated.

I shot him an incredulous look. “Marry who?” My last boyfriend had been in college and lasted all of four dates before he got pissed I wouldn’t have sex with him and stormed off, leaving me in the middle of a party. When I’d left to catch my Uber, I’d spotted him with a blonde plastered against the wall. His hand had been up her shirt, and hers had been down the front of his pants.

After that, I strongly considered applying as a nun. At least that would’ve made Nonna’s Catholic-devoted soul happy.

Mr. Devane winced. “I’m truly sorry, Sia. I wish there was something I could do…”

“You’re a lawyer,” I blurted out. “Can’t you find a loophole?”

He shook his head. “The rules are quite simple, and also quite unbreakable.”

“But if I don’t have this money, I’ll lose Hope,” I mumbled, my gaze once again returning to the sum that would solve all my problems.

“Perhaps you could throw a fundraiser?” Mr. Devane suggested.

“With what money?” Desperation clogged my throat. And even if I had the funds, who would I invite? It’s not like I had a bunch of rich friends looking for somewhere to blow their money. Nonna had handled all of that. And when she’d gotten sick, Mrs. Peterson had stepped into that role. But Mrs. Peterson had retired to Tampa a year ago, and I’d been trying to do it all myself.

Trying, and failing.

Who knew there were so many children who needed help, and just in New York City alone?

“Alessia—Sia,” Mr. Devane caught himself, “may I suggest something that’s not within the realm of normal?”

I tossed my hands in the air. “Why not?”

“Your problems could be solved quite simply with two words.” Mr. Devane leaned forward. “I do.”

A slightly hysterical laugh bubbled out of me. “And who, exactly, am I marrying?”

Taking a deep breath, Mr. Devane reached into his suit jacket pocket and withdrew a black rectangle. He slid it across the table to me.

Taking it, I turned it over in my fingers. In silver, embossed letters, it simply stated ‘WfH.’

Frowning, I flipped it again to see a phone number on the back. “WfH? I mean, I guess it would be nice to work from home, but I have a job, and I’m not sure that would help my current state.”

Mr. Devane’s smile was thin. “No, my dear. It’s a company. A very exclusive, very elite company. I’ve had several clients use them over the years, and they have a very good reputation.”

“What’s the company?” I asked.

“Wife For Hire.”

I started laughing, but my laughter faded as I realized this wasn’t a joke and he wasn’t laughing. My mouth went bone dry. “You’re serious.”

He inclined his head. “As you know, Sia, many of my clients look for discretion in all avenues of life, including their personal lives. This may be just what you need.”

“A mail order husband?” I squeaked, dropping the card like it was on fire.

“No,” Mr. Devane emphasized.

I breathed out a slow breath.

“Technically, you would be the mail order bride,” he added.

“What? No!” I exploded out of my seat, flapping my hands like an electrocuted bird, because this was so overwhelmingly not happening. “I can’t—I’m not—” I sucked in a sharp breath and hissed, “I’m not a hooker.”

Mr. Devane reared back like I’d slapped him. “And I would never insinuate that you were. Contrary to the simplistic name, Wife for Hire is a very exclusive, very elite company that caters to a very specific clientele.”

“Let me guess,” I scoffed, “the kind who like to chain women up in their basements and torture kittens for fun?”

“Absolutely not, and I’m offended you think so little of me to believe I would ever mention such a thing to you.” Mr. Devane’s brows dropped with disappointment. “Your grandfather was one of my closest friends. I would never defile his memory by ever causing you harm.”

I sank back into my chair, feeling like a reprimanded little girl. “I apologize, Mr. Devane. I know you wouldn’t… I’m sorry.”

He gave me a stiff nod. “Before you jump to any conclusions, let me give you a bit more information about this company.”

I warily eyed the card, like it was a rattlesnake about to strike. “All right.”

“Everything about your interactions with Wife for Hire will be kept confidential. There are multiple non-disclosures you will need to sign, and you will need to complete physical and psychiatric examinations,” he began, leaning back in the Italian leather chair. “As the title suggests, you will be compensated for your participation.”

“Isn’t that just a fancy way of saying whored out?” I grumbled.

“You’re not a whore, Alessia. You’ll be someone’s wife,” Mr. Devane rebuked lightly. “And, in case it isn’t obvious, the men who utilize this service aren’t the sort of men who are hanging out at a local bar on a Friday night. These men are all elites in their respective fields, which can make finding a wife a delicate matter. CEOs, actors, philanthropists, and men in other positions of power and fame can’t always afford the luxury of random dates. This is, at its heart, a business transaction.”

“It’s a marriage,” I said. “It’s forever and always. It’s sharing your life with this person until death do you part.”

Mr. Devane’s lips twitched. “I do love your optimism, Sia, but that’s not realistic. The marriage will be a contract between you and the man who selects you.”

“Why does he get to select me?” I asked, even though something about that put me at ease. Somehow it would be easier being chosen than doing the choosing.

Mr. Devane shrugged. “Because it’s how it’s done. Men and women are carefully vetted by staff. Men are given access to a catalog of potential wives, and you’re notified if someone is interested in you.”

“And then what? We date?” I tried to imagine showing up for a blind date and knowing the guy wanted to buy the rest of my life.

Again, Mr. Devane shook his head. “No. You meet on the day of the wedding. It won’t be an elaborate affair, but it will be legally binding. Everything will be laid out contractually ahead of time, and I am more than happy to assist you with that.”

A sad smile twisted my lips. “I think we both know I can’t afford you after today, Mr. Devane.”

“I’ll waive my fee,” he insisted. “Sia, this is the least I can do for you, short of marrying you myself, to get you access to your money.”

“I’m fairly certain Mrs. Devane would kill us both.” His wife was the sweetest woman in the world. She epitomized the word grandmother, and was forever smelling like freshly baked cookies and giving bone-crushing hugs.

His lips quirked up. “Indeed.” He sobered quickly. “I know this isn’t ideal, Sia, but I also know you are trying to save the charity your mother and grandmother worked so hard for.”

“Hope was my sister,” I murmured. “I barely remember her because she died so young, but her illness shouldn’t have meant she should be loved any less than anyone else.”

“Which is why my wife and I have, and always will, support Hope’s Heart,” he vowed. “Alessia, you don’t have to make up your mind right away, but I’ve run the numbers with you. Hope’s Heart will close within six months without a significant cash flow increase.”

I lifted the card, feeling the almost satin-like texture that spoke of sheer wealth and decadence. A shiver rolled down my spine as I leaned back in my seat. “I can change my mind?”

“Up until the moment of your vows, yes,” he assured me. “You aren’t a steed being sold to a butcher, Alessia. You will have a say. And, at the end, your inheritance will be yours and yours alone.”

My eyes slid shut, and I found myself nodding slowly. “Okay. I’ll do it.”