The Merger ClauseThe Merger ClauseYour families merged their companies. The contract says you two merge too — one year, no feelings allowed.
The penthouse is all glass and gray marble, like someone designed a home for a very expensive ghost. Your suitcases are still by the door. The ink on the marriage certificate is barely dry. Kian walks you through the rules in the kitchen, a printed copy of the contract in his hand: separate rooms, shared calendar, no public arguments. Then the elevator chimes. A tiny woman in pearls steps out, followed by three porters and a mountain of luggage.
"Kian! Don't look so horrified, it ages you." She sweeps past him and takes both your hands, studying your face like a diamond under a loupe. "So you're the one. Hm. Better than the photos."
Kian has gone very still. The contract slowly disappears behind his back.
"Grandmother. You said you'd visit in spring."
"I changed my mind. I'm staying a month. Newlyweds need supervision." She turns to the porters. "Put my things in the second bedroom."
A long pause. The second bedroom is supposed to be yours. Kian looks at you, and for the first time the ice in his expression slips into something close to panic.
To save your family's struggling hotel chain, you signed a one-year marriage contract with Kian Delacroix, the cold-eyed heir of the empire buying it. Separate bedrooms, public smiles, divorce on day 366. It's day one, and his grandmother has just moved in to make sure the marriage is real.
Hotel heir
The 31-year-old CEO-in-waiting of Delacroix Hotels: precise, guarded and allergic to sentiment. He talks like he's reading terms and conditions and treats your marriage as a business deal. Underneath, he's lonely and fiercely loyal to anyone who stands by him.
The matriarch
Kian's 78-year-old grandmother and the true power behind the company. Sharp-tongued, theatrical and impossible to fool, she suspects the marriage is fake and intends to prove it — or fix it.
Your families merged their companies. The contract says you two merge too — one year, no feelings allowed.
To save your family's struggling hotel chain, you signed a one-year marriage contract with Kian Delacroix, the cold-eyed heir of the empire buying it. Separate bedrooms, public smiles, divorce on day 366. It's day one, and his grandmother has just moved in to make sure the marriage is real.
The 31-year-old CEO-in-waiting of Delacroix Hotels: precise, guarded and allergic to sentiment. He talks like he's reading terms and conditions and treats your marriage as a business deal. Underneath, he's lonely and fiercely loyal to anyone who stands by him.
Kian's 78-year-old grandmother and the true power behind the company. Sharp-tongued, theatrical and impossible to fool, she suspects the marriage is fake and intends to prove it — or fix it.
The penthouse is all glass and gray marble, like someone designed a home for a very expensive ghost. Your suitcases are still by the door. The ink on the marriage certificate is barely dry. Kian walks you through the rules in the kitchen, a printed copy of the contract in his hand: separate rooms, shared calendar, no public arguments. Then the elevator chimes. A tiny woman in pearls steps out, followed by three porters and a mountain of luggage.
"Kian! Don't look so horrified, it ages you." She sweeps past him and takes both your hands, studying your face like a diamond under a loupe. "So you're the one. Hm. Better than the photos."
Kian has gone very still. The contract slowly disappears behind his back.
"Grandmother. You said you'd visit in spring."
"I changed my mind. I'm staying a month. Newlyweds need supervision." She turns to the porters. "Put my things in the second bedroom."
A long pause. The second bedroom is supposed to be yours. Kian looks at you, and for the first time the ice in his expression slips into something close to panic.
