Chapter 3: The Signing

Robert worked through the revisions. He wrote quickly, made notes, cross-referenced other sections. Every time he changed something, he asked if both parties agreed. The process was precise and almost hypnotic in its orderliness. This was what it looked like when two competent people designed a life together without any romance interfering.

They broke for lunch at twelve-thirty. Janet ordered salads from somewhere that cost more than Isla made per hour. Cole went to get coffee. Isla sat in the conference room and read through the revised contract. By page four, she realized she was reading it the way Cole had probably read it: looking for gaps, ambiguities, things that could be exploited later.

There were no gaps. He had anticipated everything.

"He knows what he's doing," Janet said, sitting down across from her with a salad that looked like it had been photographed for a magazine. "Your Cole Mercer."

"He's not my Cole Mercer," Isla said.

"He's somebody's Cole Mercer," Janet said. "And he's treating this marriage like a hostile acquisition. Which, actually, is probably the best way to treat it."

Cole came back with the same black coffee he had started with. He had not refilled it once in the five hours they had been negotiating. He drank it at completely regular intervals, like he was using it as a metronome for his attention span.

They signed at 4:47 p.m. Robert printed the final version, Janet reviewed it one last time, and then they both signed. Cole signed first, in blue ink, his handwriting as precise as everything else about him. Isla signed second, which felt significant in a way she couldn't quite articulate. A promise or a commitment or a capitulation. All three.

"We'll file the marriage license tomorrow," Robert said. "You'll be legally married by the end of the week."

"When?" Isla asked.

"Saturday," Cole said. "City Hall. Eleven a.m. We can do lunch after if you want."

"We're having a marriage ceremony at City Hall and then lunch," Isla said slowly.

"Yes," Cole said. "It makes sense logistically. City Hall has availability. Lunch is efficient. We can discuss living arrangements."

"I'm moving to New York," Isla said, confirming it out loud. It felt more real when she said it. She had left her last company. She had left her engagement. She was about to leave San Francisco. She was very good at leaving things.

"Temporarily," Cole said. "I'll have the spare room prepared. My assistant will help with your transition."

"Your assistant," Isla repeated.

"Yes," Cole said. He was putting his contract into his leather portfolio with the same care he had put into everything else. "Her name is Elizabeth. She's excellent with logistics. She knows about this situation. She's required to know because discretion is part of her job."

Of course he had told his assistant. Of course the assistant was probably already planning Isla's welcome to Manhattan with the precision of someone who had planned many things. Of course this was exactly the kind of marriage that would work because neither of them was expecting anything except perfect execution.

"I'll see you Saturday," Isla said. She needed to leave. She needed to sit in her loft and look at the signed contract and understand what she had just done.

"Eleven a.m.," Cole said. He was holding her hand. She didn't remember when that happened. When did he grab her hand? He was shaking it, the same precise greeting he had given her when she arrived, except now they had a contract and his hand was warm and he was looking at her with the same gray focus he had pointed at the contract for the last five hours.

"Saturday," Isla said.

She left the law office as Ms. Quinn. She would return to New York as Mrs. Mercer. She would do this because her runway was finite and her options were nonexistent and because Cole had looked at her like she was a problem that needed solving and then had solved her. And because, somewhere in the last five hours, he had also listened to her. He had changed the contract when she asked. He had agreed that eighteen months made sense. He had accepted the exit clause like it was a perfectly reasonable thing to want.

She was getting married to a stranger who had read her founder interviews.

She was getting married on Saturday at eleven a.m.

She was getting married in a marriage of convenience and somehow it was the most honest marriage proposal she had ever received.