Chapter 3
"You" I started, but couldn't finish.
"I picked it up," he said, without a hint of embarrassment. "He tore it up and threw it in the trash, so I had someone piece it back together. He didn't want you to know me.
"But I wanted to make sure you'd remember me."
He looked down at me as he said it, his gaze unwavering.
My throat tightened.
"So you were the one who slipped the second card into my bag that day," I said.
"Yeah."
"You waited three months."
"I was waiting for you to call me."
I suddenly felt like crying.
Not because I felt wronged. Not because I was moved.
It was because, for the first time in three years, someone was speaking to me without lying.
Charles took a step back and pulled a document folder from his drawer.
"I had my legal team draw this up this morning." He slid the folder toward me. "It's a prenuptial agreement. Take a look. If there's anything you don't like, we can change it."
I looked down at the document.
Clause 1: Each party's assets remain separate after marriage.
Clause 2: If either party files for divorce, Grace Lane will have custody of the child.
Clause 3: Regardless of whether the marriage continues, Charles Stone guarantees lifelong financial support for Grace Lane and her child.
Clause 4—
"If both parties agree, this marriage may become a genuine marital relationship."
I looked up after reading the last clause.
Charles was already back in his chair, his fingers steepled beneath his chin.
"Clause 4 is for me," he said. "If you don't agree, cross it out."
I stared at him for five seconds.
Then I picked up the pen and signed my name at the bottom of the agreement.
I didn't cross out Clause 4.
*****
On the day we got legally married, I wore a plain white shirt dress.
No wedding gown, no banquet, no hundreds of guests.
At the City Hall, Charles handed over our IDs and the required paperwork.
The clerk asked us to take a photo.
"A little closer," the photographer said.
Charles turned slightly, resting a hand lightly on my back.
The shutter clicked.
When the marriage certificate was handed to me, I opened it and glanced inside.
Spouse: Charles Stone.
The official seal was real. The certificate number was real.
This time, it was real.
When we walked out of the City Hall, the sun was shining.
Charles glanced down at me.
"Are you hungry?" he asked.
"A little," I replied.
"There's a café nearby that serves oatmeal. It's good for you."
I followed him for a couple of steps, then suddenly stopped.
"Charles."
He turned around.
"Thank you."
He looked at me for a moment, then reached out and tucked the windblown strands from my forehead behind my ear.
The gesture felt completely natural.
"You don't have to keep thanking me," he said. "You'll have plenty of time to pay me back."
My eyes stung, and I turned my head away.
I couldn't cry. It was only the hormones.
It wasn't until the next day that I went back to that "home."
Edward had called me seventeen times. He'd sent dozens of messages, from "Where are you?" to "Grace, what's gotten into you?" and finally, "If you don't come back, I'm calling the police."
I didn't reply to a single one.
When I pushed the door open, he was sitting on the living room couch.
His dark shirt was rumpled, stubble shadowing his jaw—he looked like he'd been up all night.
When he heard the door, he sprang to his feet.
"Where have you been?" he demanded.
I ignored him and headed straight for the bedroom.
"Grace!" He followed me and grabbed my arm. "You're pregnant. Do you know how worried I've been—"
"Let go," I said.
My voice was flat.
He froze for a second, then let go.
I opened the closet, took out my clothes one by one, and packed them into my suitcase.
"What are you doing?" Edward's voice changed.
"I'm moving out," I said.
"Moving out? What do you mean? Tell me what's going on!
I put the last coat in the suitcase and zipped it up.
I turned to look at him.
"Edward, our marriage certificate is fake, isn't it?"