POV Audrey
The Seattle Children's Hospital auditorium isn't what I expected.
I'd decided to dress conservatively for once. Navy sheath dress, modest pearls, nothing that could be weaponized against Shane or his mother, except for my behavior.
My plan was simple: arrive, perform poorly, let Romy Reed find me unsuitable for her dynasty. Another sabotage, another escape route carved through careful failure.
Yet that plan crumbles the moment I step inside.
The host explains they're raising funds for pediatric cancer treatment, and suddenly my schemes feel monstrous.
These families are fighting for their children's lives while I'm plotting social disasters to avoid an inconvenient marriage.
"Audrey."
Shane's voice carries across the room, and I turn to find him approaching with a woman whose presence commands immediate attention.
Romy Reed moves like someone who learned elegance as a birthright. Silver hair swept into an architectural updo and diamonds glittering at her throat with understated authority.
Her assessment of me carries decades of social expertiseβthe practiced sweep that catalogs everything from my hemline to my posture.
"You're quite different from what Shane described," she says, and I can't tell if it's accusation or approval. "Quite different from usual catalog models."
"Mother." Shane's warning is sharp enough to cut glass.
"What? It's true." She circles me like a jeweler examining a diamond for flaws. "The Lennox legacy speaks for itself, of course. Your grandmother and I served in a charitable foundation together for years. She would be pleased to see this match."
The warmth in her voice makes both Shane and me visibly uncomfortable. Neither of us expected maternal approval.
"Thank you, Mrs. Reed." I manage the words through a throat gone tight. "I wasn't sure what to expect this evening."
"Romy, please. We'll be family soon enough."
Her smile carries genuine pleasure that makes me feel exposed, as if this woman sees through every lie while choosing polite blindness.
"Shane has been alone too long. I'm delighted he's finally found someone with substance. Someone who won't let him hide behind spreadsheets and conference calls."
Shane's jaw clenches. "We should find our seats."
"Always so eager to escape emotional conversations." Romy's laugh is knowing. "Just like his father."
Shane's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. Whatever dynamic exists between them, my presence has shifted its familiar patterns.
The auction begins before I can process Romy's unexpected kindness.
The items featured aren't the typical charity fareβno celebrity memorabilia or luxury vacation packages. Instead, the stage displays artwork created by the young patients themselves.
Each creation carries a placard with the artist's name, age, and diagnosis.
Shane maintains his typical CEO composure throughout, treating each item like a business transaction. He bids on a ceramic bowl with the same expression he probably wears during quarterly earnings calls.
Calculating, detached, efficient.
And I'm desperately fighting tears.
These children creating beauty while facing mortality breaks something inside me. I think of Oliver's health that I've never had to question, the privilege of worrying about keeping secrets rather than keeping him alive.
A girl named Mia, age six, acute lymphoblastic leukemia, painted a rainbow arching over stick figures holding hands. The family she dreams of having someday. If her someday ever comes.
"Fifty thousand dollars." The words leave my mouth before I've consciously decided to bid. The room goes quiet. Shane's head turns toward me with visible surprise.
"Sixty thousand," someone counters.
"One hundred thousand." My voice breaks. "Final."
The auctioneer's gavel falls. Mia's rainbow family belongs to me now, purchased with money that suddenly feels like the only honest thing I've done in weeks.
"That was generous," Shane says quietly, genuine surprise softening his usual composure. "I didn't expectβ"
"Stop." The word comes out sharper than intended. "Just stop the performative coldness for five fucking minutes and buy the ceramic mug. Spend whatever it takes.β
Shane silence, studying me with new interest.
βThese children are dying, Shane. They're creating art because they might not live long enough to create anything else. And you're sitting here calculating tax deductions like this is just another Tuesday."
He stares at me with an expression I can't read. "I've never seen you this genuinely upset."
His actual concern makes everything worse. I can't maintain facades surrounded by real suffering, can't remember which version of myself I'm supposed to be when children are fighting for their lives ten feet away.
He stares at me for a long moment, something shifting in those gray eyes.
"Two hundred thousand," he says, never breaking eye contact with me.
The mug sells for three times that after he keeps bidding.
* * *
After the auction, Shane insists on driving me home.
In the car he launched into wedding planning with CEO efficiency.
"We need to discuss the timeline," he says, pulling into traffic. "The merger announcement is in five weeks. We should be married before then."
"Five weeks?"
"The Fairmont has availability. Or the Olympic, if you prefer something more traditional."
He navigates Seattle's rain-slicked streets while planning my life. His casual assumption that everything is proceeding makes panic rise in my throat.
Nothing I've done has deterred him. Not the vulgarity, not the chaos, not the deliberate provocations designed to repel any reasonable man.
As weβre a few blocks from my building, desperation drives me to my last card.
"The prenuptial agreement is already drafted. Generous terms, I think you'll find."
"Shane."
"My assistant can coordinate the guest list. We'll need approximately two hundredβ"
"I have a child."
The words hang between us like a loaded gun.
But he doesn't swerve. Doesn't even flinch. Just adjusts his grip on the steering wheel and says, "What?"
I expect to impress him, internally apologizing before my baby boy for the thing Iβm about to say.
"Oliver. He's eight." My heart pounds as I construct the ugliest lie possible. "And he's... difficult. Expelled from three schools. Violent outbursts. The therapists use terms like 'conduct disorder' and 'escalating behavioral issues.'"
Each word tastes like betrayal of my sweet boy doing homework at home.
"Iβll understand if thatβs the deal breaker for you. And I wouldnβt judge, really. Last month, he set fire to his classroom's reading corner." The lie burns my throat. "Said the books were talking to him."
I wait for disgust. For the same dismissal of children as chaos and insanity he showed at the gallery when that child knocked over the sculpture.
Instead, Shane exhalesβactually exhalesβwith what sounds like relief, shoulders visibly relax.
"One child," he says, and there's satisfaction in his voice that makes me sick. "Already eight years old⦠That's perfect, actually."
"Perfect? Did you hear what Iβ"
"It solves the heir issue without requiring us to..." He clears his throat. "Without requiring additional complications. Behavioral problems can be managed. Therapy, specialized schools, whatever he needs. I have resources to handle it."
"You're talking about a child like he's a merger clause."
"I'm talking about reality. Even if he ends up institutionalized, I have enough lawyers to manage the situation andβ¦"
The slap echoes through the Aston Martin like a gunshot before I realize I'm moving.
The car swerves slightly before Shane regains control, pulling to the curb of my building. My palm stings, my breath coming in ragged gasps, fury and horror tangling in my chest until I can't separate them.
Shane touches his reddening cheek, and incredibly, he smiles.
"There she is," he murmurs. "The real Audrey underneath all that chaos. I knew it was there." His eyes find mine in the darkness. "I'll take a difficult stepchild over my mother's dynasty obsession any day, Audrey. This changes nothing."
"Stay away from my son."
"Our son. Soon enough." His voice is gentle but implacable. "I'll send the wedding planner's contact tomorrow."
I stumble from the car on shaking legs, his calm acceptance more terrifying than any rejection.
Inside, Oliver sits at the kitchen table, injured ankle propped up, tongue poking out as he solves fractions. My beautiful, perfect boy who deserves so much better than a stepfather who sees him as a convenient solution to an inheritance problem.
But for how much longer can I protect him from the truth? From Shane? From himself?
From the father who just agreed to marry me because my "damaged" son solves his dynasty problem?
The answer terrifies me more than any merger ever could.
