Page 6 of Single Dad’s Fake Bride (Billionaire Baby Daddies #7)

HARRISON

I drove past Sadie's apartment complex three times before parking across the street under the pretense of taking a business call.

The converted Victorian looked tired in the gray morning light—peeling paint on the shutters, a front porch that sagged slightly under the weight of too many winters.

Her Honda sat in the narrow driveway, rust blooming around the wheel wells.

This was where she lived.

Where she came home after spending her days nurturing other people's children, including mine.

My phone buzzed with an actual call from a client, providing convenient cover for my reconnaissance.

I answered on the second ring, discussing timeline adjustments for a hotel renovation in Boston while studying the building that housed the woman who might become my wife.

If I had the guts to bring it up.

The conversation lasted fifteen minutes, but I remained parked afterward, staring at the second-floor windows and wondering which one belonged to her apartment.

What was she doing right now?

Grading papers?

Making breakfast?

Dealing with whatever crisis her life could be throwing at her?

I'd hired David Jenkins two weeks ago—a private investigator who specialized in background checks for corporate clients.

Nothing invasive, I'd assured myself.

Just the basic information any responsible parent would want before trusting someone with their child's welfare.

The report had arrived yesterday morning, delivered in a plain manila envelope that sat unopened on my kitchen counter for six hours before I found the courage to read it.

Sadie Elizabeth Quinn, age twenty-seven. Born in Worcester, Massachusetts, to Janet Marie Quinn and father unknown.

Graduated summa cum laude from UMass Amherst with a degree in elementary education and a minor in English literature.

Her teaching certificate was current and in good standing.

No criminal record, no outstanding warrants, no questionable associations.

But her financial picture was complicated.

Student loans totaling forty-two thousand dollars.

Credit cards maxed out but payments current.

Rent paid on time for the past eighteen months, though often in cash rather than check.

No car payments—the Honda was purchased used for three thousand dollars two years ago.

No savings account, no investments, no assets beyond basic household goods and a collection of books that probably wasn't worth insuring.

The investigator had been thorough but respectful, focusing on public records rather than personal intrusions.

What emerged was a portrait of someone working hard to stay afloat, someone who had never asked for help she didn't desperately need.

Janet Quinn presented a more complicated picture.

Divorced when Sadie was seven.

Multiple arrests for public intoxication, though nothing recent.

Three stints in rehabilitation programs over the past decade, none lasting longer than six months from what it seemed.

Currently unemployed and back on the bottle.

The report contained no judgments, only facts, but reading between the lines painted a clear story: Sadie had been supporting her mother financially and emotionally for years, sacrificing her own stability to keep someone else's life from completely falling apart.

She wasn't angling for social position because she barely had time to maintain her own life, let alone pursue ambitious networking.

She was exactly what she appeared to be—a dedicated teacher trying to build something meaningful from circumstances that would've broken someone with less determination.

I started the engine and drove away without knocking on her door.

And I wouldn't until I'd spoken with the executor and understood exactly what I would be asking her to agree to.

Theodore Blackwood had been my father's attorney for thirty years before Dad's death elevated him to executor status.

His office occupied the top floor of a colonial revival building in downtown Chatham, all dark wood and leather-bound law books that probably hadn't been opened since the Carter administration.

"Harrison." He rose from behind his desk as his secretary showed me in. "This is unexpected. I hope there's been no change in your intentions regarding the inheritance."

"No change. But I need clarification on the marriage requirements."

I felt stiff and out of place here. My life was simple—a basic apartment on the north side of the city, clean transportation that got me where I needed to go, and an honest job that supplied what I needed.

Even walking the halls of Hawthorne felt out of place to me, too steeped in money and power.

His eyebrows rose slightly. "You have someone in mind?"

"Possibly." I took the seat across from his desk, noting the way he immediately reached for a legal pad.

Everything would be documented, filed, potentially used as evidence if this arrangement ever came under legal scrutiny.

"I need to understand exactly what the board can and cannot challenge."

Blackwood opened a thick file folder and withdrew several documents.

"The will's language is quite specific. Legal marriage within ninety days of activation—which leaves you seventy-seven days from today.

The union must remain intact for a minimum of five consecutive years.

Any divorce, separation, or annulment during that period will trigger forfeiture of the inheritance. "

"What constitutes proof that the marriage is legitimate?"

He consulted his notes, though I suspected he knew the terms by heart.

"The board retains the right to evaluate the union's authenticity at any time during the five-year period. They can request documentation, conduct interviews, observe public appearances. Any evidence suggesting the marriage is fraudulent will be grounds for challenging your claim."

"Define fraudulent."

My chest started to feel heavier and heavier the more he spoke. I was talking about a major scam—fraud, even…

Could I be prosecuted for that?

"Marriage entered into solely for financial gain, with no intention of creating a genuine partnership. Separate residences, lack of public appearances as a couple, evidence of infidelity by either party."

Blackwood's expression was carefully neutral, but I caught the skepticism in his voice. "The board is particularly concerned about arrangements that might circumvent your father's clear intent."

"Which was?"

"To ensure you were settled, committed, and prepared to take on the responsibilities of leadership."

He leaned back in his chair, studying my face. "Edmund believed marriage would provide the stability and maturity necessary for running an institution like Hawthorne."

The irony wasn't lost on me.

My father, who had viewed his own marriage as a social obligation and treated his children as disappointing investments, believed matrimony was the key to responsible leadership.

Either he'd had a change of heart near the end or he was just being manipulative like my sisters often believed.

I absorbed all of this information while studying the oil painting that dominated the wall behind Blackwood's desk—some ancestor in judicial robes, probably appointed to the Massachusetts Supreme Court when Harvard was still a theological seminary.

"The woman I'm considering," I said carefully. "She's a teacher at Hawthorne."

Blackwood's pen stilled above his legal pad. "That could complicate matters."

"How?"

"Board scrutiny will be intense. They'll wonder why you chose someone from within the school community, whether there was a pre-existing relationship that predates your father's death."

He set down his pen and looked at me directly.

"They'll be looking for evidence that you planned this arrangement on short notice or whether you've been dating her a while."

"The relationship is professional. She teaches my daughter."

"Which could work in your favor or against you, depending on how the board chooses to interpret the timeline."

He opened another file and withdrew a single sheet of paper.

"There's also the matter of the prenuptial agreement."

I hadn't expected this complication. "Prenuptial agreement?"

"Your father's will requires one. Any marriage entered into during the ninety-day period must include a comprehensive prenuptial agreement that protects the Vale assets in the event of divorce after the five-year minimum."

Blackwood slid the document across his desk.

"Your wife will be entitled to spousal support calculated at current market rates, but she cannot claim any portion of the inheritance, the school, or the estate."

I scanned the legal language, noting the meticulous attention to financial details.

My father had thought of everything—except the possibility that I might actually care about the woman I married.

"This is quite specific about asset protection," I observed.

"Edmund was thorough. He wanted to ensure that your wife understood the arrangement's boundaries from the beginning." Blackwood retrieved the document and returned it to its file. "No gold diggers, in other words."

The crude assessment rankled me, but I understood my father's concern.

The Vale fortune was substantial enough to attract the wrong kind of attention from the wrong kind of people.

"What happens if she refuses to sign?"

"Then you'll need to find someone else. The prenuptial agreement is non-negotiable."

I considered this while studying the terms I would be asking Sadie to accept.

Marriage to a man she knew nothing about, five years of public scrutiny, legal restrictions on any future financial claims.

In exchange, she would gain financial security and the opportunity to continue teaching at Hawthorne—assuming I could convince the board to offer her a permanent position.

It wasn't a romantic proposal by any definition, but it wasn't exploitation either.

We would both benefit from the arrangement and both be bound by its limitations.

"The board," I said. "How much influence do they have over day-to-day operations during the five-year period?"

"Significant. While you'll have ultimate authority as headmaster, they retain oversight responsibilities.

Budget approval, major policy changes, personnel decisions above a certain level—all require board consultation.

" Blackwood's expression suggested he found these restrictions reasonable.

"Your father wanted to ensure institutional continuity regardless of leadership transitions. "

"Including my wife's employment status?"

"If you marry a Hawthorne teacher, her position will certainly come under scrutiny. The board will want assurance that hiring decisions are based on merit rather than personal relationships."

Which meant Sadie would need to prove herself professionally while navigating the social complexities of being married to her employer.

Another layer of difficulty in an already complicated situation.

"Assuming I can convince someone to agree to these terms," I said, "what's the timeline for implementation?"

Blackwood consulted his calendar.

"Marriage ceremony must occur before March twenty-fifth—your fortieth birthday.

I'd recommend at least two weeks before that date to allow for any last-minute complications.

The board will want to attend, naturally, and there should be some media coverage to establish the relationship's public legitimacy. "

"Media coverage?"

"Nothing invasive. A brief announcement in the local papers, perhaps a photo at the reception. Enough to create a public record of the union."

Blackwood's tone suggested none of this was out of the ordinary for a normal wedding, but how ridiculous could this be?

"High-profile families can't marry in complete privacy, Harrison. People will expect to see evidence of your new life."

I thought about Sadie's reaction to being thrust into the public eye, even at the limited level Blackwood was describing.

Would she be comfortable with newspaper announcements and board scrutiny?

Would she understand that marrying me meant accepting a level of visibility she'd probably never experienced?

"Seventy-seven days," I said, more to myself than to Blackwood.

"Yes. And every day you delay makes the board more convinced you're not serious about meeting the terms."

He closed the files and stacked them neatly on his desk.

"They're already discussing contingency plans for when you fail to comply."

"What kind of contingency plans?"

"Administrative restructuring. New leadership priorities. The kind of changes that would fundamentally alter Hawthorne's character and mission."

Blackwood's expression was grave.

"Your sisters have been very vocal about their vision for the school's future."

The threat was clear.

Caroline and Margot weren't waiting patiently for me to fail—they were actively preparing to reshape everything my father had built the moment they gained control.

Blackwood reached into his desk drawer and withdrew a thick manila envelope.

"I took the liberty of having the relevant contracts prepared. Marriage license application, prenuptial agreement template, documentation requirements for the board's review."

He slid the package across his desk.

"Everything you'll need, assuming you can convince someone to sign."

I picked up the envelope, feeling the weight of legal documents that would bind two lives together for the next five years.

Inside were forms that would transform a professional relationship into something far more complex and demanding.

"You'd better ask her soon," Blackwood said, glancing at the grandfather clock in the corner of his office.

I followed his gaze to the clock face, watching the minute hand move with inexorable precision.

Seventy-seven days.

One thousand eight hundred and forty-eight hours.

Every minute I spent hesitating was another minute the board could use to consolidate their opposition.

And every day I delayed was another day Eloise moved closer to losing the only place that had ever felt like home to her—the place where she'd found her favorite teacher, her love of learning, her sense of belonging in the world.

I stood and tucked the envelope under my arm.

"Thank you, Theodore. I'll be in touch."

As I left his office and walked toward the elevator, I could feel time compressing around me with the weight of impossible choices and diminishing options.

Seventy-seven days to convince a woman I barely knew to marry me.

Seventy-seven days to prove to a hostile board that I deserved my father's legacy.

Seventy-seven days to save everything that mattered.