Page 3 of Single Dad’s Fake Bride (Billionaire Baby Daddies #7)

HARRISON

B oard Chairman Robert Caldwell cleared his throat and opened the manila folder before him.

"Gentlemen, Ladies, thank you for attending this emergency session. As you know, we're here to discuss the… unusual terms of Edmund Vale's will."

Dr. Patricia Sterling adjusted her reading glasses with sharp movements. "Unusual is one word for it. I prefer archaic."

"The clause is perfectly legal," said David Henley, the treasurer. "Theodore Blackwood confirmed that before his unfortunate dismissal."

"Legal doesn't mean reasonable," Sterling snapped. "We're talking about a marriage mandate in 2024. It's Medieval."

I remained silent, letting them air their grievances while I studied their faces.

These people had worked alongside my father for decades, but their loyalty clearly ended with his death.

"Harrison," Caldwell said, turning his attention to me. "We need to discuss your intentions regarding the inheritance. Several board members have expressed concerns about your… qualifications to lead an institution of Hawthorne's caliber."

"What specific concerns?" I asked evenly.

Dr. Margaret Thornfield, the head of student services, leaned forward.

"With all due respect, you've been absent from this community for twenty-two years.

You rejected everything your father built, refused all attempts at reconciliation.

Now you expect us to believe you're suddenly committed to preserving his legacy? "

"I'm committed to preserving what this school was meant to be," I replied. "There's a difference."

"And what was it meant to be?" Sterling challenged. "Because from where I sit, your father spent four decades building Hawthorne into one of New England's premier preparatory academies. Your sisters understand that vision. They've remained involved, donated generously, served on committees."

"They want the money," I said quietly. "I want the school to survive."

The words fell into uncomfortable silence.

Caldwell shuffled his papers with deliberate and entirely unnecessary movements meant to give him something to do with his hands in order to stifle his reaction.

"Your sisters have master's degrees," he said finally. "Caroline holds a doctorate in educational administration. Margot's legal background would be invaluable for navigating the regulatory landscape. You have… project management experience."

"I've managed budgets exceeding fifty million dollars. I understand personnel, timelines, and operational logistics." I kept my voice level despite the condescension dripping from his tone. "Those skills translate."

"To construction sites, perhaps. Not to academic institutions." Dr. Thornfield's expression suggested she'd tasted something sour. "We're talking about shaping young minds, not pouring concrete."

"I was shaped here too," I said. "That gives me perspective you might find valuable."

"Perspective colored by resentment," Sterling observed. "You fled this place the moment you could. What makes you think you won't do it again when the responsibility becomes overwhelming?"

I met her gaze without flinching. "Because I have a daughter now. And she deserves better than what I had."

The admission surprised them into momentary quiet.

Caldwell recovered first, his pale eyes narrowing with calculation.

"About your daughter," he said carefully. "She's enrolled here as a day student. Unusual arrangement for a Vale family member."

"Not unusual. Intentional."

I wasn't about to explain my childhood to these people, but they clearly expected some justification.

"Eloise lives at home with me. She has stability, routine, a real family life."

"Because you disapprove of boarding?" Dr. Thornfield asked archly. "The residential program has been central to Hawthorne's mission since 1847."

"The residential program works for many families. It didn't work for mine."

Another uncomfortable silence stretched between us. Caldwell glanced around the table, gathering silent consensus before speaking again.

"Harrison, let me be direct. Several major donors have expressed concern about the uncertainty surrounding leadership. The Whitmore Foundation is reconsidering their pledge for the new science building. The Pemberton family has threatened to pull their endowment entirely."

My jaw tightened.

"Because of speculation, or because someone's been feeding them information?"

"Because wealthy families don't like instability," he replied smoothly. "They want assurance that their investments will be managed by someone with proven educational leadership experience."

"Someone like Caroline or Margot."

"Your sisters have remained connected to this community. They understand donor relations, alumni engagement, the delicate balance required to maintain academic excellence while managing competing interests."

I leaned back in my chair, studying the faces around the table.

Every expression conveyed the same message—I was an outsider, an interloper who had forfeited any claim to belonging here.

"The marriage clause," I said abruptly. "You think it's unenforceable."

Dr. Sterling nodded vigorously. "Completely. No modern court would uphold such an antiquated requirement. It's discriminatory, coercive, and morally objectionable."

"But legally binding until challenged," I pointed out.

"Which brings us to our proposal," Caldwell said, sliding a document across the table.

"We've consulted with our attorneys. If you voluntarily relinquish your claim to the inheritance, the board can petition for immediate administrative control.

Your sisters would receive their intended bequests, and the school would avoid months of legal uncertainty. "

I picked up the document but didn't read it.

"And if I refuse?"

"Then we'll be forced to challenge the will ourselves," Dr. Thornfield said grimly. "The process will be messy, expensive, and damaging to the school's reputation. Is that really what you want?"

"What I want is for Hawthorne to remain true to its original mission. Not to become another factory for entitled brats whose parents buy their way to success."

The words hit their target.

Dr. Sterling's face flushed with indignation.

"That's an insulting characterization of our students and their families," she snapped. "We maintain the highest academic standards?—"

"While accepting mediocre students whose parents donate buildings," I interrupted. "While overlooking disciplinary issues because Daddy writes large checks. My father may have been many things, but he never compromised academic integrity for financial gain."

"Your father understood the realities of modern educational funding," Caldwell said coldly. "Perhaps if you'd remained involved, you'd understand them too."

I stood abruptly, the leather chair rolling backward.

"I understand them perfectly. That's why I can't let you turn this place into a playground for the highest bidders."

"Then marry someone," Dr. Thornfield said bluntly. "Find a wife, meet the terms, and prove you're serious about this commitment. Because right now, you look like a man making empty threats."

I could feel their collective skepticism, their certainty that I would eventually see reason and walk away.

"I'll be in touch," I said, moving toward the door.

"Harrison," Caldwell called after me. "Don't make this harder than it needs to be. Your father's gone. The past is past. There's no shame in admitting you're not suited for this role."

I paused at the threshold and looked back. "My father spent forty years trying to prove I wasn't suited for anything," I said without turning around. "I'm not giving up the chance to prove him wrong."

I left them sitting in their leather chairs, surrounded by portraits of men who had died decades before any of them were born.

Let them plot and scheme and threaten.

I had eighty-seven days to find a solution, and I intended to use every one of them.

The January evening was sharp with an approaching winter storm as I drove through the winding roads that led away from campus.

My hands gripped the steering wheel tighter than necessary, tension radiating through my shoulders and neck.

The board's dismissive certainty had awakened something I'd thought I'd left behind—the stubborn defiance that had carried me through childhood in these halls.

Twenty minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot of Eastside Fitness, a converted warehouse on the outskirts of town.

The gym catered to serious athletes rather than casual exercisers, all exposed brick and industrial lighting, heavy bags and Olympic platforms.

It was the kind of place where people came to work, not to be seen.

Juan Morales was waiting in the ring, shadow boxing with the fluid movements of someone who had never lost his edge.

At forty-two, he was still lean and quick, his dark hair showing gray at the temples but his reflexes sharp as ever.

"You're late," he called out, not breaking rhythm.

"Board meeting ran long." I grabbed my gear from the locker and began changing into workout clothes. "They're trying to pressure me into walking away."

"Smart board." Juan ducked and weaved around an imaginary opponent. "You should listen to them."

"Thanks for the support." I laced up my boxing shoes and climbed through the ropes. "I thought best friends were supposed to offer encouragement."

"Best friends tell you the truth. And the truth is, you're about to destroy your life over a building full of rich kids and bitter memories."

We touched gloves and began circling each other, falling into the familiar rhythm we'd established twenty years ago.

Juan had been my roommate at Boston College, the scholarship kid from Dorchester who had taught me that intelligence and determination mattered more than pedigree.

He threw a lazy jab that I deflected easily.

"Eighty-seven days to find a wife. You realize how insane that sounds?"

"Plenty of people have shorter engagements." I countered with a combination that he slipped effortlessly.