Page 28

Jeremy steps out and moves through the penthouse like it's his second home. Drops a tablet on the kitchen counter. Adjusts something on the island. Keeps walking.

I stop.

The penthouse is… I don't have a word.

Floor-to-ceiling windows. The entire Seattle skyline spread out like someone painted it in real time. The Puget Sound shimmering in the distance, ferries cutting white lines across gray-blue water. The space is enormous,clean and modern and flooded with morning light that makes everything look like it's been dipped in gold.

The ceilings are high enough to echo. The kitchen island could seat eight. There's a dining table long enough for twelve, and beyond it, a living area with furniture that looks like it was chosen by someone who understands that real luxury is knowing when to leave space empty.

This is where Everett lives.

This is where I'm about to live.

My chest does something complicated—half awe, half terror, half the feeling of being a fish that just leapt out of its bowl into the Pacific Ocean.

That's three halves. Math was never my strong suit. I was born to be a painter, or... at least I thought I was.

Then I hear voices.

Everett's—low, measured, the cadence I recognize from six months of conference calls. And another voice, precise and even. Legal.

A head pops out from a doorway down the hall. Blonde, long, perfectly curled hair, bright smile, and big blue eyes. Everly. The only Kauffman with a real smile.

"Get in here!" She waves me forward like we've been friends for years, and her warmth makes my legs actually move.

I walk down the hall and into what can only be described as a conference room.

The massive table, the one built for twenty—is covered in papers. Binders. Flagged pages. Legal folders arranged like someone expected a judge to walk in.

Christian Kauffman is bent over one end of the table, pointing at a clause with one hand and holding a pen in the other. He's tall, sharp-featured, and radiates the energy of a man who has read every word of every document in this room and could recite them backward if challenged.

Everett stands across from him with his arms folded. Dark suit. White shirt. Expression locked in place. He looks exactly like he always does, controlled, composed, and approximately as warm as a marble countertop.

His eyes flick to me when I walk in.

His eyes narrow, barely, just at the corners, and then his face is smooth again.

"Sit down," he says. Not unkind. Just efficient.

I sit.

Christian walks me through the trust requirements first.

This is where I learn exactly what Conrad Kauffman demanded of his children from beyond the grave—and it's worse than I imagined.

Legal ceremony within the specified timeline. Cohabitation for a minimum of one year. "Reasonable demonstration of affection" in public, which Christian explains means the marriage must appear genuine to anyone watching, including the board, the press, and the trust's oversight committee. Joint appearances at key Kauffman events. No romantic outside relationships for the duration.

Christian explains each condition and its legal implications with the patience of a man who understands exactly what these clauses cost all of us.

Probably because one day, he'll be sitting on this side of the table too, trying to protect the rest of the Kauffmans from losing everything.

I ask questions because I can't help it. The assistant in me apparently didn't die when Everett fired me.

"What counts as a reasonable demonstration?" I ask. "Is there a minimum number of appearances we have to make? What happens if one of us is photographed in a way that could be misinterpreted?"

Christian answers each one without a trace of condescension, which I appreciate more than he probably realizes.

"A reasonable demonstration would include public affection," he says. "Holding hands. Kissing. Appearing physically comfortable with one another. The board needs to believe this marriage has a real romantic and physical element to it, not that it's simply a legal arrangement."