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She looks as fragile and even more defiant than when she came to see me two years ago. I tried to find out what was beyond that pretty face and fierce loyalty, but she’s been immune to my charms.

But at least I sold that stupid building, and now she owes me; and I like my odds because, by the looks of it, she walked into this meeting blindsided.

Just like me.

I only have myself to blame for it, because I told Betsy I don’t fucking care who my future fiancée is. I’m paying Betsy way too much for something I don’t really want, so I expect her to deliver.

Well, deliver she did. This is a treat.

And a major complication. Saar’s brother will never agree to this match. As much as I’d like her fine ass in my space. As much as this candidate has just enhanced the value of this fucked-up PR plot significantly.

Saar may intrigue me, but I’m not going to jeopardize my already shaken relationship with my partner, her brother. Especially since the reason I’m here is to protect the deal, not to break another one. Though I’m not above fucking with Cal.

Based on Saar’s surprised scowl, the whole arrangement might be off the table already. But when have I ever given up this fast?

As I take my time walking across the restaurant, Saar moves her glower from me to the man by her side, and then to Betsy. She’s ready to bolt and rip Betsy’s head off. And probably mine.

“What a lovely surprise.” I smile when I reach the table.

Saar stands up, her chair almost toppling over. “Book me those jobs, Vito.” She storms away.

“Principessa.” Vito, I assume, stands up. “Excuse me. We’ll be right back.” The pretentious prick pats the silky scarf inside his open collar.

I have no idea who he is, but I don’t like the man. And why does he call her princess?

While he rushes away, I try not to follow to check if she’s gone. Vito may irritate me at first sight, but I hope he gets her to come back.

“What were you thinking?” I accuse as soon as I take my seat, glaring at Betsy.

“I’m not sure what’s going on.” Her eyes dart between me and the exit, and I relish seeing her flustered.

“I guess you didn’t do a very thorough background check.” I enjoy not giving her more details.

“She’s a supermodel, and will look great in pictures. She hasn’t been associated with any scandals bar the falling out with her parents. And even that is more associated with her brothers. Besides, we could spin that as a found family, with a few pictures together with your mother.”

She taps her long nails on the side plate and studies me for a beat before she continues, “Now, if there is a history between you and her…” She grimaces, like the mere idea is repulsive. “It might be the first and only instance where you were discreet and I didn’t find out about it in my research. What’s going on, Cormac?”

She sounds like my English teacher, patronizing and righteous.

“Betsy, in what universe did you assume that when Caleb van den Linden demanded I go through this sham to clean my image, he wanted his little sister to take any part in it?”

She opens her mouth, but I raise my finger to shut her up. While I was busy ogling Saar and reveling in this entertaining twist of fate, I completely forgot to consider one key element.

“Why does she need a fake husband?” I raise my eyebrow slightly, my face a stone otherwise.

I mastered that demanding look when I was a teenager. My father used it effectively to get people to cater to him, expecting it, commanding it.

Betsy looks away for a moment. It may be imperceptible, but it gives her away. She’s searching for an answer. Which can only mean one of two things.

She doesn’t know—which would be a major oversight for someone as good at her job as she is. Or the truth needs to be sugarcoated.

I don’t like any of those options.

“It’s for financial reasons. She wants access to her trust fund. It’s tied to her having a husband.”

Betsy grimaces again, as if that would reinforce her stand on women’s rights, and stop fuckers like old van den Linden from treating their daughters like property or business leverage.

Her or my opinions on the matter are irrelevant at the moment. What’s more intriguing is why Saar van den Linden would need money.