DUE DILIGENCE
Killian's legal team works out of a glass building that doesn't need a sign because its clients don't require directions. The lobby is quiet in the way power is quiet,no music, no chatter, just the soft click of expensive shoes and the faint scent of citrus that tries to convince you everything here is clean.
I keep my posture straight as I check in.
I'm wearing the same black coat I wore in the rain yesterday. The sleeves still feel damp in places no dryer could fix. I should have bought a new one. I could have, technically.
But my brain still thinks like a woman who might need her last dollar.
A receptionist smiles with professional neutrality. "Ms. Vance. They're expecting you."
Of course they are.
I'm not a person here. I'm a problem with my budget.
A conference room door opens.
A woman steps out,mid-forties, sharp bob, sharper eyes. She wears a navy suit like she was born in boardrooms.
"Elena Vance," she says. Not a question.
"Yes."
"I'm Naomi Chen," she replies. "Lead counsel for Blackwood Family Office. This way."
The room is long and bright with windows that make the city look decorative. A thin stack of folders sits at the center of the table like a controlled explosion.
Naomi gestures to a chair. "Sit."
I sit.
Naomi doesn't waste air. "You were terminated from Thorne Financial yesterday morning. They offered severance conditions on NDA and non-disparagement. You refused."
"Yes."
"They circulated an internal memo suggesting 'potential misappropriation' of proprietary materials."
My jaw tightens. "Yes."
Naomi slides a sheet across the table. "This is the memo. We obtained it from a source. It's carefully drafted. No direct accusation. Just enough implication to poison your employability."
I read it, my stomach turning into ice.
Out of an abundance of caution.
Ongoing review.
Potential exposure.
The corporate equivalent of pointing at someone and letting the crowd decide what kind of monster she is.
Naomi watches me read without blinking. "Now. Let's address the practical issue: ownership."
I look up. "I built it."
"I know," Naomi says. "But the law doesn't care what you built. Law cares what you signed."
She slides my employment agreement across the table, opened to a highlighted section.
INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY ASSIGNMENT.
Any work product created during employment, on company time, or using company resources is property of Thorne Financial.
It's standard. It's everywhere. It's how firms keep talent from walking out with their crown jewels.
Naomi continues, "In a clean world, Thorne owns the algorithm."
My throat tightens. "And in the real world?"
"In the real world," Naomi says, "we argue fraud, bad faith, and retaliatory termination designed to deprive you of attribution and compensation." She leans forward slightly. "We also attack the narrative. Defamation. Tortious interference with prospective economic advantage. If we can prove they contacted recruiters or competitors to blacklist you, we can make it expensive."
Make it expensive.
I swallow. "Can we win?"
Naomi's eyes are flat. "Winning isn't binary. There's liability exposure, settlement pressure, reputational risk. The question is whether Marcus Thorne can afford a prolonged fight and whether the board can tolerate the optics."
I exhale slowly. This is familiar territory. Not feelings.
Risk.
Probability.
Incentives.
Naomi taps a second folder. "Now, your marriage contract. We've revised it based on your requested changes: escrow for initial compensation tranche, narrower morals clause, explicit autonomy clause, and an addendum preventing unilateral surveillance without cause."
My stomach drops. "Surveillance?"
Naomi's expression doesn't change. "High-net-worth families protect themselves. Assume nothing. Demand clarity."
I nod, grateful and furious at the same time.
Naomi continues, "Public narrative matters. You will appear at specific events. You will be photographed. There will be questions. You will not answer them with emotion."
A laugh almost escapes me. "I don't have emotion left."
Naomi studies my face like she doesn't fully believe that. "Good. Keep it that way."
The door opens behind her.
Killian walks in like the room belongs to him,no hurry, no apology. Dark suit, no tie, eyes sharp as a blade.
He looks at me for a beat too long.
Not leering.
Assessing.
As if he's measuring whether I'll break under the weight he's about to hand me.
"Ms. Vance," he says to Naomi, acknowledging her first.
"Mr. Blackwood," Naomi replies.
Killian's gaze returns to me. "Elena."
Hearing my name in his voice does something inconvenient to my chest.
I focus on the table. On paper. On clauses.
Anything but the fact that I'm about to become his wife in the eyes of the city.
Naomi stands. "I'll leave you two to discuss optics and boundaries. The revised agreement is here. Signatures can be executed digitally today."
She exits.
The silence that follows is not awkward. It's deliberate.
Killian sits across from me, folds his hands, and says, "Tell me what you need."
No flirtation. No charm.
Just a man who structures outcomes.
I stare at him. "I need my name back."
He nods once. "You'll have it."
"And I need to know what happens if you decide I'm inconvenient."
His eyes narrow slightly. "I don't do inconvenience. I do utility work."
That should offend me.
Instead, it feels like honesty.
I lift my chin. "Then let's be clear. I'm not your ornament. I'm not your redemption story. I'm not here to make you look soft."
Killian's mouth curves slightly, not smiling,approving. "Good."
I tap the revised contract. "I want a clause that requires mutual review before termination. No impulsive decisions."
A pause.
Then: "Accepted."
My pulse stutters.
He's giving ground too easily.
"Why?" I ask, before I can stop myself.
His gaze holds mine, grey and unyielding. "Because I don't need a wife who agrees with me. I need a wife who survives the pressure with me."
The words land in my body before they land in my mind.
I hate that I feel seen.
I hate more than I want to be.