Chapter Two: Terms and Conditions
The conference room at Carter Capital was a study in power: a long mahogany table flanked by leather chairs, floor-to-ceiling windows framing the Hudson River, and a single orchid in a crystal vase, its elegance a stark contrast to the tension in the air. Ava Lin sat at one end of the table, her laptop open, a stack of papers neatly aligned beside it. She wore a charcoal-gray pantsuit, her hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, every inch the lawyer she'd trained to be. Across from her, Henry Carter lounged in his chair, one ankle crossed over his knee, his tailored navy suit betraying none of the sleepless night he'd spent reviewing the contract.
"Shall we begin?" Ava asked, her voice crisp as she slid a copy of the agreement toward him. Her pen tapped the table once, a subtle signal of impatience.
Henry picked up the document, his eyes scanning the first page. "You've been busy," he said, noting the red annotations in the margins. "What's this? You've rewritten half my terms."
"Not rewritten," Ava corrected, leaning forward. "Clarified. Your draft was… let's say, overly optimistic about my willingness to play the doting wife."
He raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Doting wasn't the word I'd use. Cooperative, maybe."
"Semantics," she shot back, but there was a spark in her eyes, a challenge he was starting to enjoy. "Let's start with clause three. Public appearances. You've listed ten events per month—galas, board dinners, charity functions. That's excessive. I have a career, Henry. I'm not your personal escort."
Henry set the papers down, his gaze steady. "Those events aren't optional. They're part of the deal. Our families need to see us as a united front, and so does the market. Investors get skittish when they sense instability."
Ava didn't blink. "Five events. I'll give you five. And I choose which ones. I'm not spending my evenings smiling for cameras at your father's golf club fundraisers."
He leaned back, considering her. She was sharp, unyielding, and—damn it—impressive. Most people bent under the weight of his name, but Ava Lin seemed to thrive on pushing back. "Six," he countered. "And I'll throw in a veto on one event a month. Your choice."
She tilted her head, assessing him like a chess opponent. "Fine. Six. But I want it in writing that my professional obligations take priority. If I'm in court or closing a deal for Lin Ventures, I'm not dropping everything for your photo ops."
"Deal," Henry said, making a mental note to have his assistant revise the clause. He flipped to the next page. "What about clause seven? Living arrangements. You've crossed out the shared residence entirely."
Ava's lips pressed into a thin line. "Because it's absurd. We're not actually married, Henry. This is a contract, not a love story. I'm keeping my apartment, and you're keeping… whatever penthouse you call home."
He frowned, his fingers drumming on the table. This was non-negotiable. "The optics matter, Ava. If we're living apart, people will talk. Rumors about a sham marriage could tank the merger before it starts. My family's stock price is already volatile."
"Then we stage it," she said, unfazed. "I'll keep a few things at your place—clothes, toiletries, enough to sell the story. We can manage public appearances without sharing a bathroom."
Henry's jaw tightened. He didn't like compromises that felt like concessions, but she had a point. Forcing her into his space would only make this harder. "Fine," he said at last. "But you'll need to spend at least two nights a week at my place for appearances. Staff talk, and I'm not risking a leak."
Ava's eyes narrowed, but she nodded. "Two nights. No more. And separate bedrooms."
"Obviously," he said, a dry edge to his voice. "I'm not in the habit of forcing myself on anyone."
For a moment, their eyes locked, and something unspoken passed between them—a flicker of respect, maybe, or the first hint of trust. Ava broke the gaze first, flipping to the final page. "Clause twelve. The exit strategy. Two years, then a clean divorce. No alimony, no complications. I've added a confidentiality clause to ensure neither of us speaks publicly about the arrangement. Ever."
Henry skimmed the text, impressed by her thoroughness. "You've thought of everything."
"I'm a lawyer," she said simply. "It's my job."
He set the contract down, leaning forward. "One last thing. No romantic entanglements outside the marriage. It's not in the contract, but it's implied. We can't afford scandals."
Ava's expression hardened. "You don't get to dictate my personal life, Henry. If I'm discreet, it's none of your business."
"It is my business if it jeopardizes the deal," he said, his voice low. "Same goes for me. No side relationships. We keep this clean."
She studied him, her gaze piercing. "Fine. No relationships. But don't expect me to play the jealous wife if you slip up."
"I don't slip up," he said, the words sharper than he intended. For a moment, his mind drifted to Sophia Gray—her soft laugh, the way she'd danced with him at their senior prom, her paint-splattered jeans as she sketched under a willow tree. He hadn't seen her in years, not since she'd left for Paris after college, chasing her art and breaking his heart. She was a memory, nothing more. But memories had a way of lingering.
Ava's voice pulled him back. "Good. Then we're done here." She closed her laptop with a decisive snap, standing to gather her things. "Have your lawyers send me the revised contract by tomorrow. I'll sign it once I'm satisfied."
Henry stood too, extending a hand. "To a successful partnership, Miss Lin."
She hesitated, then shook his hand, her grip firm and steady. "To a successful deal, Mr. Carter."
Her touch was warm, her fingers strong, and for a fleeting second, Henry wondered what it would be like to know her outside this room, beyond the contract. He dismissed the thought as quickly as it came. This was business. Nothing more.
That night, Henry stood on the balcony of his Tribeca penthouse, a glass of scotch in hand. The city sprawled beneath him, a mosaic of light and shadow. He'd bought this place five years ago, a symbol of his independence from his father's shadow. But tonight, it felt empty, the silence pressing against him.
His mind wandered to the past, to a spring evening at Harvard. He was twenty, invincible, walking across the quad with Sophia Gray. She'd been wearing a sundress, her hair loose, her laughter bright as she teased him about his econ notes. "You're too serious, Henry," she'd said, nudging his shoulder. "Live a little. Paint with me." He'd laughed, letting her drag him to an art studio where they'd smeared paint on each other's faces, their fingers brushing, their eyes locking. That was the night he'd fallen for her—the night he'd believed love could be simple.
But it wasn't. Sophia had dreams bigger than his world, and when she left for Paris, she took a piece of him with her. He'd buried that piece deep, building walls of ambition and control. Now, Ava Lin was threatening to crack those walls, not with paint or laughter, but with her sharp mind and unyielding strength.
He took a sip of scotch, the burn grounding him. Ava wasn't Sophia. She was a partner, a means to an end. He'd keep his distance, play his part, and walk away when the contract expired. Simple.
Yet as he stared at the city, he couldn't shake the image of Ava's eyes—dark, fierce, unreadable. She was a puzzle, one he wasn't sure he wanted to solve.
Meanwhile, across town, Ava sat at her desk, the revised contract open on her screen. She'd gone over every word, every comma, ensuring there were no loopholes, no surprises. It was perfect—sterile, precise, exactly what she'd wanted. So why did it feel like she was signing away more than her freedom?
She leaned back in her chair, rubbing her temples. Marrying Henry Carter was a calculated move, a way to secure her family's legacy and her own future. But it wasn't without cost. She'd spent years building her life—her career, her independence, her armor. Letting someone like Henry in, even for a charade, felt like a risk she hadn't anticipated.
Her phone buzzed, a text from her best friend, Mia: How's the future Mrs. Carter doing? Need wine and a vent session?
Ava smiled, typing back: Wine, yes. Venting, maybe. Tomorrow?
Mia's reply was instant: Deal. Don't let that Wall Street prince charm you too much.
Ava laughed softly, setting the phone down. Charm wasn't the problem. Henry Carter was too controlled, too calculated, to rely on charm. But there was something about him—a quiet intensity, a flicker of vulnerability beneath the polished exterior. She'd seen it today, in the way he'd paused when she mentioned personal lives, as if guarding a secret.
She closed her laptop and stood, stretching. This was a deal, nothing more. She'd play her part, protect her heart, and walk away in two years with her head held high. Henry Carter could keep his secrets, and she'd keep hers.