Chapter 12 - A Proposition in the Kitchen
Emma didn't bring up the lawyer's visit until midnight. The rest of the estate had gone dark, save for the warm, amber glow of the kitchen pendants where she was brewing chamomile tea.
I wheeled myself through the doorway, my boots planted firmly on the floor for brief intervals during the day, though I still relied on the chair for long stretches.
"Twelve months," Emma said, her back to me as she stirred the pot. "That’s a tight deadline for a man who treats social interaction like a hostile corporate takeover."
"It’s a technicality," I replied, rolling up to the island and resting my forearms on the marble. "We find a compliant socialite, sign a prenuptial agreement guaranteeing her a multi-million-dollar payout after five years of living separate lives, and we check the box."
Emma turned around, leaning back against the counter, her amber eyes flashing with a sudden, sharp irritation. "A socialite? Really, Daniel? You survived a sniper, a federal conspiracy, and a hostile syndicate takeover just to fall back on a cliché marriage of convenience?"
"It’s efficient," I snapped, feeling a flash of heat in my chest. "What’s your brilliant alternative? Swipe on Tinder?"
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"My alternative is honesty," she shot back, setting her spoon down with a sharp clack. "You want an empire? Build it on something real, or admit you're still too terrified of losing control to actually let someone in."
She walked past me, her shoulder brushing my arm, leaving me alone in the quiet kitchen with the ghost of a twelve-month countdown ticking in my head.
