Aiden POV
I had just walked out of a eting with my father and my late mother’s lawyer—God rest her soul. It had been a week since her death, and I had known exactly what the eting was about: her shares, her wealth, her legacy.
The weight of it sat heavy in my chest as I stepped into the cool evening air. My relationship with my father had been nothing short of a battlefield, and it was his fault—his and his damn mistress’s.
They killed her. Not with their hands, no, but with their actions. My mother had died of a heart attack, but her health had started deteriorating the mont she found out about my father’s infidelity.
I told her to leave him. I begged her to. But she wouldn’t.
My father, the CEO of their joint company, wielded power like a weapon. They both held 30% shares in the business, a perfect balance that had once symbolized their partnership in life and work. When they tried to pull into their corporate world, I’d walked away and built my own empire, one far greater than my father’s.
You’d think a father would be proud of his son for making it big, but not him. His bitterness consud him, widening the gulf between us. The only thing tethering to that man was my mother, the only reason I ever set foot in that cursed house.
And then he crossed the line.
When I heard that my father had brought his mistress and her two children into the family ho—my mother’s sanctuary—I couldn’t stay away. I went back, intent on taking my mother with . But she refused.
Even now, the mory of that day made my jaw clench.
The mistress wasn’t so new fling; she’d been his lover long before my parents’ marriage. The only reason he hadn’t married her was because of her lower-class background. My grandparents, ever conscious of status and alliances, had forced my father into marrying my mother instead. My mother, the perfect match. The heiress. The woman who ca with half the company’s shares.
And now? Now the bastard had the audacity to try to convert her wealth to benefit his new family—the sa people responsible for her death.
Over my dead body.
Sure, I was wealthy enough on my own. I didn’t need my mother’s inheritance. But I’d be damned if I let the people who caused her so much pain profit from it.
There was just one problem.
My mother, in her infinite wisdom, had placed a condition on her will. She’d left everything to —but only if I got married and had a "stable family."
I knew what she was trying to do. She didn’t want to beco like my father, a man who destroyed lives instead of building them. She wanted to find stability, to build sothing aningful.
But honestly? It was a ridiculous condition.
Back in that eting, the lawyer—who I’m almost certain is in cahoots with my father—gave an ultimatum: I had two weeks to get married. If I failed, the money and shares would transfer to my father. The motherfucker!
Sure, I could take this to court. But dragging my mother’s mory through the mud in a legal battle over wealth? No. I wouldn’t do it.
And so here I was, facing the impossible.
I needed a wife.
Not just any wife, though. She had to be strong, soone who wouldn’t be bullied by my father, my stepmother, or my half-siblings. They’d tear apart anyone weak or malleable.
I needed soone who could stand her ground, soone who wasn’t intimidated by power or money. Soone who wouldn’t kiss up to people or pretend to be sothing she wasn’t. I hated pretenders.
But most importantly, I didn’t want a damsel in distress. I wasn’t looking for soone to coddle or protect. And I sure as hell wasn’t looking for love.
Love was not on the table.
The problem was, girls like that were hard to find—especially with my status. Most won I t were either attention-seekers or weaklings, and I didn’t have ti for either.
I needed soone who wouldn’t fall prey to my family’s sches. Soone who could handle the chaos.
Could I even find a woman like that in two weeks?
Was it even possible?
My jaw tightened as I thought about the stakes. My mother’s legacy, her final wishes—they depended on .
Failure wasn’t an option.
.....
I stepped into the diner, suppressing a sigh at the hum of low conversation and the faint sll of grease hanging in the air. This wasn’t exactly my usual scene, but sotis even I had to compromise. I scanned the room and spotted an open table in the far corner. Perfect. Quiet, out of the way.
So here I was, sitting in a booth at so not so fancy diner, waiting for the Black brothers—my oldest and most trusted friends—to help figure this out.
The sll of coffee and greasy food hung in the air, a stark contrast to the sleek offices and private dining rooms I usually occupied. But this was the kind of place I needed right now—low-key, unassuming.
I leaned back in the booth, my mind racing as I stared out the window, a waitress caught my eye. She glanced at with the kind of indifference that bordered on rude. Great. Just what I needed today. I adjusted my cuffs, the polished face of my watch catching the light.
She approached my table with an overly cheery, fake smile plastered on her face, her tone so sweet it might as well have co with a cavity warning.
"Hi, welco to O’Hara’s. What can I get you?"
I raised an eyebrow, already irritated. Did she think I couldn’t see through the forced niceness? I studied her for a second. No professionalism, no effort. Did she even realize who I was?
"Do you have almond milk?" I asked, cutting straight to the point.
She blinked at , and then—God help —answered like I was so clueless idiot. "No, but we have regular milk. From a cow. You know, the normal kind."
I exhaled sharply, my patience already wearing thin. Was she being sarcastic? Because it wasn’t remotely funny. "Fine. Black coffee, then. And make it quick."
Her smile tightened, and I could practically hear her screaming I hate this job in her head. "Coming right up," she said, spinning on her heel and heading off without another glance.
As I sat there, tapping my fingers on the table, irritation simred just beneath the surface. I wasn’t expecting anyone to roll out a red carpet, but outright sarcasm? That was a first.
Clearly, she had no idea who she was dealing with.
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