So here's the thing about waking up in a five-star Vegas hotel suite: the ceiling is beautiful, the pillows smell like money, and the first thing I saw was a marriage certificate with my name on it.

Not my name next to some handsome stranger's name.

My name next to Nathan Cross's name.

My boss. The boss. CEO of Cross Enterprises. The man who once sent me a calendar invite titled 'Meeting About Your Meeting.'

I stared at the paper for a full thirty seconds, waiting for it to apologize and turn into a room service menu.

It did not.

"No," I told it. "No, no, no. Absolutely not."

My head was pounding like someone was using it as a maraca, and my mouth tasted like a frat party's carpet. I was wearing his tuxedo jacket, one shoe, and, apparently, his last name.

From the bathroom came the sound of a shower. Because of course he was already awake. Of course he was. Nathan Cross probably ran six miles before dawn even in Vegas. Probably in the desert. Probably with a tie on.

The shower shut off. Two minutes later he walked out in a white hotel bathrobe, hair damp, holding a cup of coffee like this was any other Tuesday.

"Good morning, Mrs. Cross," he said.

"Do not," I said, holding up a finger, "Mrs. Cross me."

"Would you prefer Chloe Cross? Hart-Cross? I'm flexible."

"I'd prefer an exorcism. What the hell happened last night?"

He took a sip of coffee. Infuriatingly calm. "From what I've pieced together, you proposed."

I choked on air. "I what?"

"Proposed. On one knee. In the middle of the casino floor. You told a crowd of tourists, and I'm quoting, 'I'm going to marry this man and steal his dental plan.'"

I grabbed the other pillow and hugged it, because I needed emotional support and it was the only thing in the room that wouldn't judge me. "That doesn't sound like me."

"You also sang. Badly."

"Okay, that sounds like me."

"There's video," he added helpfully.

"Delete it."

"It's already been emailed to my lawyer. For context."

"YOUR lawyer? Why does a drunk wedding need a lawyer?"

That's when he set down the coffee, and I saw it. The flicker. The two-second hesitation of a man about to say something he'd rather not.

Nathan Cross did not hesitate. Nathan Cross once fired a board member using a semicolon correctly. Hesitation was not in his brand.

"The marriage," he said slowly, "may be slightly more complicated to undo than usual."

"Nathan. What did you do?"

"Nothing. My grandmother, however, did something. In 2019. From beyond the grave, technically, since she did it through her will."

I sat up straight, ignoring the hangover screaming at me to lie back down. "I'm going to need more coffee and fewer adjectives."

He sat on the edge of the bed, his bed, apparently, since I'd colonized the other one, and folded his hands like he was about to deliver quarterly earnings.

"My grandmother's will contains a clause. If any Cross marries, the marriage must remain legally intact for a minimum of one year before the family trust releases the controlling shares of Cross Enterprises to that individual."

"Okay. So you divorce me, you just don't get the shares. Cry me a river, build a yacht."

"It's not that simple. The shares don't vanish. They default to the next eligible family member. My cousin, Damien."

I knew that name. Everyone in our industry knew that name. Damien Cross was the corporate equivalent of a slowly leaking gas line, patient, quiet, and ready to blow up your entire building.

"And Damien," I said, "would do what with Cross Enterprises?"

"Dismantle it. Sell the divisions piece by piece to his father-in-law's equity firm. About four thousand employees would be looking for work by spring."

Four thousand. Including, say, me. Because three weeks ago I had been hired, no, scratch that, headhunted, to save Cross Enterprise's failing consumer division. It was supposed to be my big break. My whole career, my student loans, my extremely unfunded 401k, all riding on that job.

And the money funding my entire rescue plan?

Came from that trust.

I looked at him. He looked at me.

"No," I said.

"Chloe."

"Nope. No. I know that look. That's a 'let's make a terrible decision and call it strategy' look."

"It's the only decision that is also a strategy."

"We stay married. For a year. Fake married. In Manhattan. Where your ex-fiancée lives. While you're my boss. This is your plan."