Chapter 2

Miss May hadto be a codename for the woman on the other side of the computer screen. Dressed in a starkly white collared shirt with a red blazer over it and a ruby choker around her throat, her black hair hung in a glossy sheet over her shoulders. Her eyes were lined with heavy kohl, and her makeup was flawless down to the matte red lipstick that matched her jacket. Ruby studs glittered in her ears, and I knew from the color and size alone they must’ve cost a fortune.

Miss May was seated in a chair that appeared to be part of a home office. Nondescript thick legal tomes lined the walnut shelves behind her, and I was left wondering why I’d opted for an oversized sweater and leggings with my dark hair thrown into a messy bun.

Miss May looked exactly like the clientele she represented, and I looked like I was missing a bowl of ramen and a textbook. She was high class while I was giving off major ‘struggling college student’ vibes as I sat on a thrifted sofa in front of a simple white wall background, my laptop perched precariously on a stack of books on the coffee table so my face was in the camera’s lens.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Winters,” she began, the edge of her smile a bit brittle and her voice a smidge too chipper. I’d been around enough people faking it to know when someone was wearing a mask.

Not that I’d be calling her on it. She literally held my life in her hands.

Flipping open a fairly hefty file, Miss May scanned the first page. “Thank you for completing the intake assessments so quickly.”

“Uh, sure,” I stammered. As soon as I’d decided to set the ball in motion for WfH, Mr. Devane had handled all the particulars. Endless nondisclosure agreements were signed, and that seemed to signal the start of this whole adventure.

A black car showed up on my street the very next morning to take me to a physical with an approved physician. The physical covered everything from my height and weight to my sexual history. After that, I moved onto an evaluation with a psychiatrist who asked me questions until my head spun.

Once I’d arrived back home, all I’d craved was a glass of wine and my bed. But there had been an email waiting for me to complete another intake form, and this one covered… a lot. From dietary needs and preferences to sexual experience.

Even though I’d been the only one in the room filling out the form, I’d blushed like crazy at all the sexual questions and my utter lack of experience. As soon as I’d hit the submit button, Miss May had sent me a link to a Zoom call taking place the following day.

It had only taken three days to completely upend my life, and it felt like my brain was in the middle of an endless tilt-a-whirl. This was all happening so fast.

“Miss Winters?” The edge to her tone let me know I’d spaced out during her question.

“Sorry,” I murmured, running a hand over my face. “Can you please repeat that?”

Her lips flattened for a millisecond before her smile was back. “I asked if you had any questions before we begin?”

I had a million questions, but trying to grab one felt like standing in a hurricane and attempting to grab a leaf flying by. I shook my head. “Not right now.”

“Very well. We received the results of your physical and lab work. No issues were found, and the additional genetic testing didn’t show anything amiss either,” she started.

“You did genetic testing? Doesn’t that take, like, weeks?” I gaped at her.

“We have our own lab,” Miss May replied, arching a single brow. “Marriage isn’t the end, Miss Winters. Our clients need to know if there could be any issues with pregnancies and children.”

I swallowed hard, remembering how I’d checked I wanted children. It had asked for how many, and I’d said two. After Hope’s death, I’d always wished I had a sibling. But surely whoever I married wouldn’t expect me to pop out a kid in nine months, right?

“Your psychiatric evaluation indicates you seem to suffer from depression and anxiety, but those are medicated and overseen by a licensed physician.” Miss May paused, waiting for me to confirm.

I squirmed in my seat. “Is having anxiety and depression a crime?”

“If it were, I suspect the vast majority of the population would be incarcerated,” Miss May answered with a slight snort. “Your fiancé?—”

“Fiancé?” I yelped. “I have a fiancé?”

Her head tilted. “You are aware that you signed up to be selected for marriage, correct?”

I flushed. “I mean, yeah, of course. But I figured there would be a waiting period or something.”

Miss May lowered the papers and met my gaze. “We have a lengthy list of clients waiting for their perfect match. The client you have been paired with registered with our agency over a year ago. When your profile came in, you were immediately matched. He accepted your profile an hour before our call.”

“But…” Words stuck in my throat. “Who?”

Her lips thinned. “I cannot disclose his name. The paperwork was very explicit that you would not learn of his identity until the day of the wedding.”

My eyes closed. “Please tell me he isn’t a serial killer or a pedophile.”

Miss May’s eyes hardened. “Absolutely not,” she bit out. “Wife for Hire only works with an elite client base, and we would never involve ourselves in what you’re suggesting. Maybe this isn’t the best fit for you after all, Miss Winters.”

“No, wait,” I pleaded, struggling to catch my breath. “I just… This is all so new. And more than a little scary.”

Her expression softened slightly. “I can appreciate that. Now, let me assure you, I have been in this business for years and have seen many successful unions. But this business isn’t solely about helping my clients find their happily ever after. It’s also about helping women, like yourself, better themselves.”

“Through marriage to a wealthy man,” I deadpanned.

“Through a significant, untouchable amount of money that men will pay for the honor of you in their life,” she countered. “There are rules in every contract that protect both parties, Miss Winters.”

“Please call me Alessia,” I finally said, tired of the formality.

“Very well. Alessia.” She gave a nod, but didn’t offer her own first name. Or maybe May was her first name.

“I’ve had the marriage contract forwarded to your attorney for you to sign, but I can tell you now that the man who wishes to marry you is prepared to offer you five million dollars on your wedding day. You’ll receive an additional five million at the end of the first year of marriage. Each year beyond that, you’ll receive a million dollars per year.” Miss May shot me a confident look. “How does that sound?”

“Unbelievable,” I admitted. “Ten million dollars to be married for a year?”

“And that’s not counting your monthly allowance,” Miss May added. “You’ll, of course, be given either a car of your choosing or a driver. You’ll have several credit cards for incidentals and clothing. Your husband will cover all of those expenses as you’re expected to fit seamlessly into his world.”

“Okay.” It was all I could think to say. “What happens if the marriage isn’t working?”

Miss May nodded. “I would ask that prior to separating or filing divorce papers, you speak with one of our mediators. We also understand there may be an adjustment period, so you’ll both be able to speak with a list of licensed therapists we employ. Our goal isn’t just for you to get married, we want your union to succeed.”

“Do they usually?” I asked. “Or do people wind up divorced in a few months?”

Miss May’s smile was a bit more genuine, almost proud. “I’m pleased to say that our success rate is in the high nineties. We rarely have a couple separate or divorce. We pride ourselves on matching people who are truly meant to be together.”

“That almost sounds too good to be true,” I admitted. “There has to be a catch.”

“In order for you to retain the full amount you receive on your wedding day, you must agree to give the marriage a fair chance. Should you elect to divorce before the first year, you will be required to pay back the five million dollars. The only clause that would protect you and prevent that is if there is just cause for the union to be dissolved—cheating, abuse, etcetera.”

I chewed the inside of my cheek. “Okay.”

“That goes both ways, Alessia,” she said. “If you cheat or abuse your spouse, you will still be expected to pay back your marriage stipend.”

“I understand,” I answered.

Miss May gave a sharp nod. “Wonderful. And all of the questions you answered in our online questionnaire were correct?”

“Yes.”

She made a soft humming noise. “I must admit, we don’t get many women like yourself utilizing our services.”

“Desperate?” I half-joked.

“Virgins,” she clarified. “There is an expectation that the marriage be consummated the night of the wedding, as is tradition. Will that be a problem?”

I slowly shook my head. “No.” My fingers curled into fists, my nails biting into my palms as my heartbeat quickened. I’d never expected my first time to be part of a contract, but it wasn’t like I’d had a lot of luck in the romance department on my own.

I’d always wanted it to be special, and what was more special than your wedding night? Even if you had no clue who the groom was, where the ceremony was taking place, or what your lives together would look like.

“When is the wedding supposed to happen?” I asked softly.

“A week from tomorrow,” Miss May replied.

My heart freaking stopped. “That’s… soon.”

She smiled. “I’m aware.”

“I have to find a dress, and?—”

“Your fiancé has indicated he will select the dress. The event will be a private affair, with just the two of you and a witness apiece of your choosing. A car will be sent to collect you the evening before your wedding. You’ll stay at a hotel and have a team on hand to help with the dress, makeup, and your hair,” Miss May informed me.

“Where will we live?” I glanced around my tiny loft apartment.

“You’ll move into your husband’s home. He’s requested you have your belongings packed as well. A moving team will collect them after you leave for the hotel,” she replied. The easy way she answered each question told me she’d done this countless times. That I wasn’t the first woman who’d contracted out her marriage.

Somehow that made me feel a little better. A little less like a freak.

“Any other questions?” she pressed.

All I could do was shrug helplessly.

“I’ll send all the paperwork to Mr. Devane,” she told me, her tone softer. “He’ll walk you through all the steps, but you can reach me by email if something comes up between now and the wedding.”

“Thanks.” The word barely left my lips before Miss May ended the call.

I stared at my reflection in the black screen for a beat before closing the laptop and standing up. I eyed my little apartment and tried to imagine packing it up.

I didn’t have a lot. The loft had come with the furniture, which was good because I sold most of what my grandparents owned to try and earn cash to keep Hope’s Heart alive.

It was mostly clothes and toiletries, which was sad, and a far cry from how I’d grown up.

But I was resilient. I would get through this, and, more importantly, the charity that my mom and Nonna had loved would survive. As soon as I was able to access my trust fund, I could make Hope’s Heart everything it was ever meant to be.

And in the meantime, I’d pray my future husband wasn’t a total asshole. At some point, Murphy had to run out of laws and things had to go my way.

Right?