Chapter 3 - The Marriage Agreement
The first lesson I learned about pretending to be Graham Reed's loving wife was that the world had very strong opinions about how I should hold his hand.
Too stiff, and gossip sites claimed our marriage was contractual.
Too relaxed, and they said I had been secretly sleeping with him for years.
When Graham placed his palm against the small of my back as we crossed the airport terminal, one entertainment reporter wrote three thousand words analyzing the gesture.
By the time we reached his black SUV, I wanted to move to a country without Wi-Fi.
Instead, Graham brought me to his penthouse.
“You live here?”
The elevator opened directly into a two-story apartment overlooking Lake Michigan.
Floor-to-ceiling glass.
Stone fireplaces.
Dark wood.
Artwork that looked expensive enough to require insurance policies of its own.
Graham removed his jacket.
“Usually.”
“You don't know?”
“I travel.”
I pointed toward a sculpture shaped like twisted metal.
“What's that?”
“A sculpture.”
“I gathered that.”
“It was a gift.”
“Do you like it?”
“No.”
“Why keep it?”
“My mother gave it to me.”
For reasons I couldn't explain, that made me smile.
Graham noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You're judging me.”
“I've worked for you for four years. I'm always judging you.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“You hide it well.”
“That is literally part of my job.”
Marcus entered carrying three boxes of documents, ending whatever strange domestic moment had been forming.
An hour later, Graham's attorney arrived.
Helen Shaw was sixty-two, silver-haired, terrifying and possibly the only human being alive who spoke to Graham as though he were a mildly disappointing nephew.
She dropped a thick document onto the table.
“Postnuptial agreement.”
I stared.
“It's thicker than my college thesis.”
“Your college thesis didn't involve a company valued at forty-two billion dollars.”
I looked at Graham.
“Forty-two?”
He frowned.
“You didn't know?”
“I deliberately avoid looking up your net worth.”
“Why?”
“I already had enough reasons to dislike you.”
Helen laughed.
Graham did not.
The agreement was surprisingly fair.
I would claim no Reed family assets.
Graham would claim nothing belonging to me.
If the marriage ended, I received no payout beyond legal fees and protection against financial damage caused by the public scandal.
I stopped at one clause.
“Five million dollars?”
Graham glanced over.
“Reputation indemnification.”
“Delete it.”
“Avery—”
“I don't want your money.”
“It isn't a gift. If this damages your career—”
“Then I rebuild my career.”
His jaw tightened.
“You shouldn't have to.”
“And I shouldn't receive five million dollars because somebody wrote nasty things about me on the internet.”
Helen quietly looked between us.
“I'll reduce it to one dollar.”
“Perfect.”
Graham stared at me as though I had offended him personally.
When Helen left, he followed me into the kitchen.
“That was irresponsible.”
I turned.
“Excuse me?”
“You need protection.”
“I need the truth. That's protection.”
“Money creates options.”
“And accepting millions from my secret billionaire husband would make every accusation against me look true.”
His mouth closed.
I crossed my arms.
“Also, stop making decisions for me.”
“I wasn't.”
“You had the agreement drafted before asking.”
“That's what attorneys are for.”
“Graham.”
He exhaled.
“Fine.”
The word sounded painful.
“Fine what?”
“I'll stop.”
That surprised me enough to end the argument.
For the next three days, we lived inside crisis-management hell.
The board opened an investigation.
My father's supposed shell company was proven fraudulent within forty-eight hours, but the headlines barely changed.
Preston Reed appeared on CNBC wearing a sympathetic expression and said he loved his nephew but believed “leadership required transparency.”
I nearly threw a coffee mug at the television.
Graham caught my wrist.
“Don't.”
“I hate him.”
“I've hated him longer.”
“That isn't a competition.”
“Everything in my family is a competition.”
I looked at him.
For once, he wasn't joking.
That evening I found him alone on the terrace.
Chicago glittered below.
He held no drink.
He simply stood there.
“What did Preston do to you?”
Graham didn't answer immediately.
“My father was CEO before me.”
“I know.”
“Do you know why he resigned?”
“Financial misconduct.”
“That was the public explanation.”
I waited.
Graham's voice dropped.
“He was accused of moving twenty million dollars through overseas subsidiaries. He swore he hadn't done it.”
“What happened?”
“The board forced him out.”
“And Preston?”
“Became interim CEO.”
The pattern was suddenly obvious.
I felt cold.
“Exactly what he's doing to you.”
Graham nodded.
“My father died eighteen months later.”
I had known Thomas Reed died young.
I hadn't known the rest.
“I'm sorry.”
“He spent his last year trying to clear his name.”
“Did you believe him?”
Graham looked toward the lake.
“I wanted to.”
That answer hurt more than a simple yes or no.
“What changed?”
“You.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“The documents someone tried to steal from your laptop contain transaction codes identical to the transfers used against my father.”
My breath caught.
“Preston framed him.”
“I don't know yet.”
“But you think so.”
“Yes.”
A phone rang inside.
Graham checked the screen.
His face went blank.
“My mother.”
“Answer.”
“No.”
“Graham.”
“She dislikes surprises.”
“You got married in Las Vegas to an employee. I'd call that a surprise.”
His phone stopped.
Then mine rang.
Unknown number.
I answered cautiously.
“Avery Collins?”
“Yes?”
A woman's elegant voice said, “This is Eleanor Reed.”
I slowly turned toward Graham.
His expression became almost comically horrified.
“I understand,” she continued, “that you married my son.”
“Yes.”
“Without meeting me.”
“Technically I had met you once.”
“That fundraiser does not count.”
Graham shook his head at me.
I turned away.
Eleanor continued.
“Dinner tomorrow. Seven o'clock. Reed House.”
“I—”
“And Avery?”
“Yes?”
“Wear something you can run in.”
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone.
Graham rubbed a hand over his face.
“What does that mean?”
“I don't know.”
“You don't know your own mother?”
“I know her well enough to be concerned.”
The next evening we arrived at Reed House, a stone mansion north of Chicago that looked like generations of old money had personally designed it to intimidate visitors.
Eleanor Reed met us in the foyer.
She was elegant, silver-blonde and perfectly composed.
Her eyes went immediately to my wedding ring.
Then to Graham.
“You look terrible.”
“Good evening, Mother.”
She turned to me.
“You look frightened.”
“I was told to wear shoes I could run in.”
For one glorious second, Eleanor smiled.
Then a crash came from the back of the house.
Glass shattered.
A security alarm screamed.
Graham pulled me behind him.
Marcus rushed through a side door.
“Stay here!”
Another crash.
Then someone shouted.
“Fire!”
Smoke began pouring beneath the library doors.
Eleanor's face changed.
“Not the library.”
She ran.
Graham grabbed her arm.
“Mother!”
She fought him.
“The files!”
“What files?”
Eleanor looked at her son.
For the first time, her composure broke.
May you like
“The files that prove your father was innocent.”
And behind the library doors, flames were already rising.
