Updated Nov 1, 2025 • ~8 min read
The courthouse smelled like old wood and broken promises.
Camille Stratton stood in front of Judge Morrison with sweating palms and a dress she’d bought off the clearance rack three hours ago. Cream-colored, knee-length, respectable enough for a wedding that wasn’t real. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting everything in a sickly yellow glow that made her feel like she was already lying under oath.
“Do you, Camille Rose Stratton, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
Her throat closed. She glanced at Nicholas—tall, dark-haired, devastatingly handsome in a way that felt almost aggressive. His jaw was set, his gray eyes fixed somewhere over her shoulder. They’d met exactly four times before today. Four meetings to decide the trajectory of the next year of her life.
“I do.” The words tasted like copper.
Nicholas’s hand was cool and dry when he slipped the ring onto her finger. It was simple, elegant, expensive. Everything about him screamed old money and careful calculation. When he said his own vows, his voice didn’t waver once.
The judge pronounced them husband and wife with all the enthusiasm of someone reading a grocery list. No kiss. They’d agreed on that. Some lines they wouldn’t cross, even for seventy-five thousand dollars and the promise of more if she made it the full year.
They signed the papers in silence. The scratching of pen on paper felt louder than it should, more permanent. Camille watched her signature appear next to Nicholas’s and felt something shift in her chest. Not regret, exactly. More like the sensation of a door closing behind her, the lock clicking into place.
“Congratulations,” the judge said, already shuffling their documents into a manila folder.
Nicholas took her elbow as they walked out into the gray afternoon. His touch was impersonal, guiding, the way you’d help a stranger across the street.
“We should talk,” he said once they reached his car—a sleek black Mercedes that probably cost more than her mother’s house. “Go over everything one more time before we arrive.”
Camille nodded, sliding into the passenger seat. The leather was butter-soft beneath her thighs, and she felt suddenly, acutely aware of how out of place she was. The clearance dress, the borrowed clutch, the cheap nude heels that were already blistering her heels.
Nicholas didn’t start the car immediately. Instead, he turned to face her, one arm draped over the steering wheel. Up close, she could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the shadow of stubble along his jaw. He was thirty-two to her twenty-six, but right now he looked older. Tired.
“One year,” he said. “You live at the estate, attend family functions, play the dutiful wife. In return, you receive seventy-five thousand upfront and another two hundred thousand when the year is complete and the inheritance clears.”
“I remember the terms.” Camille’s voice came out sharper than she intended.
“My mother will be watching. Eleanor doesn’t miss anything.” His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “She’ll ask questions. About how we met, when I proposed, what you do for work.”
“We met at a charity gala six months ago.” Camille recited the story they’d crafted. “You spilled champagne on my dress, insisted on paying for the dry cleaning. We kept running into each other after that. You proposed last month during a weekend in the Hamptons.”
“And your work?”
“I’m a freelance grant writer for nonprofits. It’s vague enough to be believable, flexible enough that I can work from the estate.”
Nicholas studied her for a long moment, and Camille fought the urge to squirm under his gaze. She’d never been good at lying, but her mother’s gambling debts had made her desperate enough to learn.
“What’s my favorite color?” he asked suddenly.
Camille blinked. “What?”
“My favorite color. My mother will ask you things like that. Personal things.”
Panic fluttered in her chest. They’d covered the big details, the story beats, but not the small intimacies that actual married couples would know. “I… I don’t know.”
“Navy blue.” He gestured at his tie. “I wear it constantly. You should have noticed by now if we’ve been dating for six months.”
Heat crept up her neck. “What’s mine?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. A muscle ticked in his jaw. “I don’t know.”
They stared at each other, the absurdity of their situation hanging between them like fog. Married twenty minutes and they didn’t even know each other’s favorite colors.
“Sage green,” Camille said finally. “And you take your coffee black, no sugar. I’ve watched you drink three cups every time we’ve met.”
Something flickered across Nicholas’s face—surprise, maybe, or reluctant approval. “You’re observant.”
“I have to be.” She twisted the ring on her finger. It was still foreign, too tight, a shackle disguised as jewelry. “I can’t afford to mess this up.”
“Neither can I.” He started the car, and the engine purred to life. “My mother controls the family trust. If she suspects anything, if she thinks for one second this marriage isn’t legitimate, I get nothing. We both get nothing.”
“She won’t suspect.” Camille tried to sound more confident than she felt. “We’ll be convincing.”
Nicholas pulled out of the parking lot, navigating through the city streets with practiced ease. Camille watched the buildings blur past, each mile taking her further from her old life and closer to something she couldn’t quite name. This marriage was so wrong it had to be right—or at least profitable enough to save her mother from the loan sharks circling their door.
“There’s something else,” Nicholas said as they merged onto the highway. “We’ll have separate bedrooms. Adjoining, but separate. For appearances, we share a master suite, but there’s a sitting room between the actual bedrooms. You’ll have your privacy.”
“Good.” The word came out too quickly, too relieved, and Camille saw Nicholas’s lips quirk in something that might have been amusement.
“Don’t worry, Camille. I’m not interested in making this any more complicated than it already is.”
She should have felt reassured. Instead, she felt something uncomfortably close to disappointment, which was ridiculous. This was a business arrangement. Nothing more.
The estate appeared on the horizon after forty minutes of driving—a sprawling stone mansion that looked like it had been transplanted directly from an English countryside. Manicured gardens stretched in every direction, and the circular driveway was lined with ancient oak trees that cast long shadows across the gravel.
And there, on the front steps, stood Eleanor Ashton.
Even from a distance, Camille could feel the weight of her gaze. Nicholas’s mother was tall, reed-thin, dressed in a cream cashmere sweater set that probably cost more than Camille’s rent. Her silver hair was pulled back in an elegant chignon, and her posture was ramrod straight. She didn’t wave. Didn’t smile. Just watched as the Mercedes approached, her eyes tracking their progress with the intensity of a hawk spotting prey.
“Remember,” Nicholas murmured as he parked the car. “We’re in love. Madly, impulsively in love.”
“Right.” Camille’s mouth had gone dry. “In love.”
He came around to open her door—a gesture that would have been gentlemanly if it wasn’t so clearly performative. When he offered his hand, she took it, and they walked toward Eleanor together.
The older woman’s eyes swept over Camille from head to toe, missing nothing. The discount dress, the wrong shoes, the way Camille’s hand trembled slightly in Nicholas’s grip. A small smile played at the corners of Eleanor’s mouth, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
“Mother,” Nicholas said, his voice carefully neutral. “I’d like you to meet my wife.”
Eleanor’s smile widened, sharp as broken glass. “Welcome to the family, Camille. I’ve been so eager to meet the woman who finally captured my son’s heart.”
The emphasis on “finally” felt like a warning shot across the bow.
Camille forced herself to smile back, to step forward and accept Eleanor’s cool, brief embrace. The older woman smelled like expensive perfume and something else—something chemical and cold.
“Thank you, Mrs. Ashton. Nicholas has told me so much about you.”
“Has he?” Eleanor’s eyes glittered. “How curious. He’s told me almost nothing about you. I suppose we’ll have plenty of time to get acquainted now.”
It wasn’t a welcome. It was a threat.
Nicholas’s hand tightened on Camille’s waist, and she realized with a start that they were both holding their breath, both bracing for impact.
Eleanor stepped back, gesturing toward the massive front doors. “Come inside. I’ve had your rooms prepared. We have so much to discuss.”
As they followed Eleanor into the house, Camille caught Nicholas’s eye. His expression was carefully blank, but she could see the tension in his shoulders, the muscle jumping in his jaw.
They’d walked into the lion’s den wearing paper armor.
And Eleanor was already sharpening her claws.
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