Chapter 3

Garrick POV： The mahogany conference table at Sinclair & Associates was as cold and unyielding as the legacy my father had left behind. I sat in the oppressive silence of the boardroom, staring at the thick manila folder the estate lawyer had just pushed across the polished wood. "John left a series of private documents," the lawyer explained, his tone carefully neutral. "Specifically regarding your… recent change in marital status." I flipped the folder open. Cecelia. Her name stared back at me, inked onto a legally binding postnuptial agreement. My jaw tightened. This wasn't just a drunken Vegas mistake. The document detailed her as my lawful wife, but it was the clauses that made my blood run cold. There was a staggering financial penalty written into the contract—one that would financially ruin her if she ever actively initiated a divorce. A document of this complexity couldn't be drafted and finalized overnight. Someone had meticulously planned this. Someone had anticipated this marriage long before I ever stepped foot in that chapel. My father? Once the attorney excused himself, I looked up at Peter Stone, who was waiting quietly by the frosted glass door of the conference room. "Tell me you found something on her." Peter walked over and handed me a tablet. "Nothing you want to hear, Garrick. She's a florist. Runs a small shop here in Chicago. No ties to anyone in our circle. No sudden offshore deposits, no suspicious wire transfers, no history of trailing the Sinclair family. As far as I can tell, her life is completely ordinary." I stared at the screen, a knot of contradiction tightening in my chest. If this was a calculated scam, where was her endgame? Where was the payoff? I thought back to the hotel room—how her hands had shaken, how she had shoved my blank check back in my face with fierce indignation. My past had taught me the hard way that people only ever wanted my name or my money, but the math here simply wasn't adding up. I needed to look her in the eye and see the truth for myself. Thirty minutes later, I pushed open the glass door of Petals & Stems. A brass bell chimed brightly overhead. The air inside was warm, thick with the scent of damp earth, crushed eucalyptus, and blooming roses. It was a jarring, intimate contrast to the sterile, cutthroat corporate world I had just left. Cecelia was behind the wooden counter, a canvas apron tied over her jeans, arranging a bundle of white lilies. When she looked up and saw me, the color instantly drained from her face. Her shoulders went rigid, her grip tightening on the floral shears. She clearly thought I was here to force her hand, to threaten her into a divorce she supposedly didn't even want to initiate. I bypassed the pleasantries, stepping into the narrow space. "Did you know John Sinclair?" She blinked, stepping back against the wooden display shelves. "Who?" "My father." "I don't know who that is," she said, her brow furrowing in genuine, unscripted confusion. "Garrick, I didn't even know who you were until the morning after the wedding. I swear." I watched her chest rise and fall, tracking the microscopic twitches in her expression. I'd spent years reading tells at negotiation tables and in boardrooms. She wasn't acting. "Why are you doing this?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly but laced with a sudden, fierce defiance. "Why do you automatically assume I'm trying to use you?" The question hit me harder than I expected. For the first time, a crack formed in my absolute certainty. My paranoia, forged by years of being a walking target, had just blindsided a woman who was likely nothing more than collateral damage. She moved out from behind the counter toward the small seating area at the back of the shop, gesturing to the cluttered, vibrant space around us. "I don't want your money. I don't want your world, and I definitely don't want to be Mrs. Sinclair. I just want my normal life back, and I want to know what the hell happened to us in Vegas." I looked at her. Really looked at her. I saw the exhaustion in her eyes, a perfect mirror to my own. She wasn't holding out for a better payout. She was desperate to escape a cage she didn't even know she was in. "I..." I started, the words feeling foreign on my tongue. I couldn't bring myself to offer a direct apology, but I let the harsh ice melt from my voice. "I'm trying to figure that out." The heavy hostility between us flickered, replaced by a tentative, fragile silence. It was the first real conversation we'd had since waking up with rings on our fingers. The invisible wall between us had finally fractured. I turned toward the door, stopping with my hand on the brass handle. I looked back at her, standing small but resilient among the vibrant flowers. "Don't trust anyone, Cecelia," I warned, my voice low. "Especially not anyone claiming to represent the Sinclair family." I walked out into the biting Chicago wind, the heavy stock of the postnuptial agreement burning a hole in my briefcase. I finally knew the truth about my new wife. She hadn't designed this trap. But if Cecelia was entirely innocent, then the reality of our situation was far more dangerous. Who had forced us down the aisle?