Page 9 of Billion Dollar Vow (The Lincoln Brothers #4)

“What do you want?” I ask, popping my eyebrow.

“Dinner,” she says with a hopeful smile.

“Sure,” I say with a wink.

“Go ahead, I’ll stall him,” she agrees, touching my hand briefly before I pull back and head to the door.

I knock, and then turn the silver metal handle, the sound of Trudy greeting Liam hitting my ears as I step inside the office and close the door behind me. Mr. Warne's dark head looks up from his paperwork, his gray eyes piercing through his black-framed glasses.

The man is well into his sixties, but he has a presence that demands attention despite his quiet demeanor.

I’ve known him for years, though our relationship has always been more professional than personal.

He’s a tough negotiator, a man who values legacy over quick money, which is exactly why I need to convince him that I’m the right buyer.

“Good morning, Mr. Warne,” I say, approaching his large wooden desk.

“Good morning. Have a seat,” he says, gesturing to the navy fabric chair across from him.

I sit, smoothing my tie as he studies me. “I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me.”

“What can I do for you?” There’s a flicker of surprise in his eyes.

“I wanted to talk about the Warne Gallery and the possibility of me buying it.”

Warne nods, lacing his fingers. “I’m curious to hear your vision for this place.”

I lean forward slightly. “I want to preserve what you’ve built… Keep the integrity of the gallery intact, continue showcasing artists whose work deserves to be seen, not just those with the biggest bank accounts.”

His expression gives nothing away, but I can tell he’s listening. “And financially? Running a gallery isn’t cheap.”

“I have a solid plan,” I say. “Strategic partnerships, curated events that bring in serious collectors while keeping the focus on the art. I’m not looking to turn this into a social club with a few paintings as decoration.”

Warne exhales, tapping a finger on his desk. “It’s rare to find someone who actually cares about the art. Most people just see dollar signs.”

A subtle wave of relief washes through me. His words validate what I’ve been trying to prove. The fact that he sees my genuine passion gives me an edge I hadn’t counted on. I straighten slightly; maybe this negotiation won’t be as cutthroat as I’d prepared for.

A knock at the door pulls his focus away from me.

I close my eyes, exhaling sharply. Trudy couldn’t keep him distracted a little longer?

Fuck me.

“Hi, Mr. Warne. I hope I haven't missed anything. I’m right on time,” Liam says, taking a seat next to me.

Mr. Warne checks his watch. “Looks like you both are, which is great because I need to make this quick. I have to meet my wife.” He puts his glasses down on the desk.

“I know you’re both interested in buying this gallery, and I’ve narrowed it down to you two. ”

My shoulders tense as reality hits… I’m not the only contender here.

Mr. Warne leans back in his chair, pointing at us. “But there’s one thing neither of you has.”

My eyebrows pinch involuntary as I sit up straighter. I try to figure out what he could be talking about, but I come up empty.

“What can I do, Mr. Warne?” Liam asks.

I remain quiet, waiting for more information. Whatever he needs, I’ll make it happen.

“You’re both excellent in business; your galleries are performing well.

Thanks for sharing your figures. It made it easier to cut out the competition.

But there’s more to it than that. You know how much I adore this gallery.

There’s so much love here. I need to trust that whoever buys it won’t ruin it for greed. ”

“That won’t happen with me,” I say, my voice firm.

“Same here,” Liam adds, giving me that trademark smirk. “Oliver here curates for museums and old money while I bring fresh blood into the market. My clients may like their champagne, but they also dropped thirty million on artists last year.”

I resist rolling my eyes. Yes, Liam's sales numbers are impressive…

You don't become a finalist otherwise. But there's more to this business than turning quick profits.

One of my galleries has helped build three major museum wings and launched exhibitions that changed how we view twentieth-century art.

That's the kind of legacy Mr. Warne wants to protect.

“As much as you both say that, I need more than words,” Mr. Warne continues.

My knee bounces rapidly under the table. I force it still with a firm hand before Liam notices. What the fuck could he want that will get me over the line?

“What do you need?” I ask.

“Both of you are single, right?” Mr. Warne looks between us.

“Yes,” Liam confirms.

I nod slowly, my mind racing back to my recent conversation with Declan about settling down. I’d laughed it off then, but now, with Warne’s gaze drilling into me, I wonder if my personal life is becoming a professional liability.

“I’m engaged,” I blurt out.

Liam twists to face me with an eyebrow raised. “To who?”

Fuck, I can’t think. My mind blanks completely as panic floods my system.

An ex? No, too messy. A friend? They’d need convincing.

Make someone up? But what if Warne wants details, or worse, wants to meet them?

Who could I say that would work, that won’t fall in love with me? Luckily for me, Mr. Warne interrupts.

“That’s not relevant, Liam. I need you both to be serious.”

“And how does being in a relationship show that?” Liam asks in a biting tone.

Is he upset at me one-upping him or at Mr. Warne for making this a requirement?

“Being in love softens your heart, makes you see things differently. It’s a feeling, like art, and it's something I'm looking for,” Mr. Warne explains, his gaze shifting to me.

I force a smile, pretending I understand. His eyes crinkle, and the corners of his mouth lift. “My father and I made a promise. When he sold me this gallery, we agreed that its next owner would understand the importance of family. That's why he insisted on the contract.”

My heart sinks as the pieces click into place. A contract? Now Warne’s strange questions make perfect sense. I’m being judged not just on my work, but on my personal life too.

Liam shuffles in his chair beside me. “So, I need a girlfriend to buy the gallery?”

“You need a wife.” Mr. Warne's voice carries the weight of decades. A fucking wife?

“My father believed that someone with a family would protect the gallery’s legacy, not just its profit margins. He wanted its future owner to understand what it means to build something that lasts beyond yourself.”

I have no interest in marriage and kids right now, but I need this gallery for me and my mom. I want the most respected gallery in the world to have the name Lincoln.

How on earth will I convince someone to marry me?

“Maybe we could double date, and I could meet your fiancée, Oliver?” Liam sneers.

My chest tightens, and I tug at my collar, suddenly feeling like I can’t breathe.

“That sounds great. Let me know when and where, and we’ll be there,” I say.

“Let’s plan for next week,” Mr. Warne suggests.

My stomach plummets. A week? Mentally, I try to find someone to convince in just seven days.

“Can we move it a few weeks?”

“Why?” Liam narrows his eyes.

I keep my expression neutral. “I have my brother Jeremy’s bachelor party.”

“That’s right. Good man, Jeremy,” Mr. Warne mumbles.

Jeremy bought an art piece at a recent charity auction Mr. Warne hosted.

I think I’ve gotten myself some time. But I wasn’t lying about my brother’s party, though. It’s happening, and I’m a groomsman. Between that and now needing to figure out this relationship dilemma, I’ve got my hands full.

Mr. Warne pushes his chair back and rises. “I need to head out, but my assistant will coordinate with yours to set it up. Now, if you’ll see yourselves out.”

I stand, a strange mix of relief and dread swirling in my gut. Relief that this unexpected interrogation is over, but dread at the ticking clock I now face. I force my expression to remain confident as I offer my hand. Mr. Warne shakes it firmly.

“Liar. You’re not dating anyone,” Liam hisses as we walk out.

I ignore my thumping heart to sneer under my breath. “I am, Liam. Don’t be a sore loser when I buy the gallery. Maybe you’ll do better next time.”

“This is… fucked,” Liam hisses under his breath as we reach the doors to leave.

I couldn’t have said it better myself, but I don’t have time to argue. I need a plan, and fast.

“Mom?” I call out, peeking into her office.

It’s cluttered with paintbrushes, canvases, papers, and easels, but there’s no sign of her.

I know she’s here somewhere, because I called on my way over.

“Just stopping by to check on you,” I’d said casually, not mentioning anything about Warne or the gallery.

I head toward the classrooms, glancing through the window of the first one.

But it’s a different teacher. I move to the next door and step inside.

The walls are filled with students’ artwork, some framed, some curling at the edges, splattered with spray paint.

Stacks of canvases lean against the back wall, some wrapped in protective plastic, others exposed, displaying bold strokes of color and intricate details.

I pause to study a particular cityscape piece.

This is exactly the kind of talent I want to showcase when I take over Warne’s gallery.

These artists deserve more than a classroom or basement; they need walls that will have audiences who will truly see them.

The faint smell of turpentine and clay fills the space, mixing with the underlying musk of old wood and paper.

“Mom, are you here?” I call out into the classroom.

Her brown head pops up from behind the desk. “Hey, you’re here.”

I walk over, noticing the smudge of blue paint across her forehead, and kiss her cheek, getting her usual warm smile that makes me feel like I’ve done something right just by showing up.

“Looks like you’re in the middle of something,” I say, gesturing to the scattered supplies and half-organized chaos around us.

“I’m setting up for the next class.”

“Want some help?”

“Yeah, can you clip the paper on each easel?” she says, pointing to them.

“Sure.”

I follow her to a drawer, where she pulls out some paper, my mind spinning with everything left unsaid between us.

How do I even begin this conversation? “Hey, Mom, I need to find a fake fiancée to secure a multi-million-dollar gallery that I want to surprise you with.” Stupid.

I run my fingers over the soft material as I take it from her.

I love how she always uses the best supplies for her students.

This is why I want to make sure she gets the gallery.

The students here deserve a chance to showcase their work, and Mom should be recognized for all the free classes she offers.

She gives back so much, and I want to give back to her too.

“How many students today?” I ask.

“Twelve.”

I go around clipping twelve sheets of paper while she arranges the brushes and palettes on tables. I think about possible approaches. Just be direct. No, just ease into it. Maybe start with a hypothetical? The routine task keeps my hands busy while my mind races.

“What brings you by today? Are you still stressed about finding the artist?” she asks, glancing with a raised eyebrow.

“Can’t a son visit his mother?” I say, a grin tugging at the corner of my mouth.

My stomach tightens with guilt at the deflection.

For the first time, my mind hasn’t been on the mystery artist who paints their signature with a blue lotus instead of their name.

It’s driving me mad. But today my mind is on The Warne Gallery.

She straightens, giving me a knowing look. “Oliver, I wasn’t born yesterday. What's bothering you?”

I wish I could tell her, but I want the gallery to be a surprise. I’ll tell her as soon as I finalize the purchase, but for now, I need to keep my concerns off my face.

“Girl trouble,” I utter. I mean, it’s not a lie, but I can't tell her what kind of girl trouble, because she would demand the full truth.

She pauses sorting the paint. Her eyes meet mine, and her face is lit up. “Who’s the lucky lady?”

I shake my head, hating that I need to lie to her. I feel like young Oliver, lying about not taking her paint brushes from her home studio. But I don’t need a girlfriend; I need a fucking wife. I’m so fucked.

“No names, I don’t need you looking her up.”

She tries to bite back a smile. “I would never.”

“You’re a terrible liar. You’ve looked up Nova, Chelsea… You even stalked Summer’s socials.” My brothers’ fiancées and friend.

“It wasn’t stalking, just researching,” she says, heading to the drawer for more paint bottles.

Following her lead, I grab and place them around the room, mimicking her movements.

The irony isn’t lost on me… Here I am, about to make up a whole fake fiancée, while lecturing my mother about boundaries.

“Call it what you want, but she’s staying anonymous for now.” As anonymous as someone who doesn’t exist can be.

She returns to putting the paints on the table. “Fine, so what’s the problem with this no named woman?”

I laugh inwardly at her clear disapproval before I focus on why I came to her in the first place. “I’m just wondering… when’s the right time to make things official? Like, when’s too soon?”

Her face brightens. “There’s no such thing as too soon.”

“Of course you’d say that.”

“I’m serious. If you were under twenty-one, I’d be saying something different, but you’re mature. You have your own place, a good job, and a good head on your shoulders.” She walks over, pausing in front of me and putting her hand on my cheek. “Follow your heart. Let it lead you.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

She glances at the clock on the wall, and I take it as my cue to leave.

“I’ll let you get back to it,” I say, leaning down to kiss her cheek.

She holds my face in her hands, keeping me close. “Make sure we meet her soon.”

I roll my eyes and sigh, guilt twisting in my chest. How many more lies will I need to tell before this is over? “Yes, Mom. Have a great class. Talk to you tomorrow.”

She turns back to her desk, and I head out, only to collide into someone. My hands instinctively reach out to steady the person, and I’m hit with the sweet scent of floral and caramel. I stare into a stunningly familiar set of blue eyes.

Karley.