Business marriage with BFF

[Rae’s POV]

The bouquet I'm death-gripping costs more than most people's car payments. Freesia for honesty and ivy for commitment—passive-aggressive flower language at its finest.

Grandmother Beatrice's townhouse is Downton Abbey meets Restoration Hardware. She's holding court in her sunroom, surrounded by orchids with trust funds.

"Aurelia." She doesn't look up from pruning. "You brought flowers to a woman who owns a botanical garden. Bold."

"I brought symbolism to a woman who appreciates subtext." I set the arrangement on her marble side table. "Also, your orchids are showing nitrogen deficiency."

That gets her attention. Beatrice Valmont, seventy-two and sharp enough to perform surgery with her tongue, actually smiles. "Sit. We have business."

The tea service costs more than my startup's annual budget, but I've learned not to flinch. That's the test.

"I'm retiring," she announces, like she's mentioning weather instead of upending my entire world. "And I need to name my successor soon."

My heart does something medically inadvisable. "Beatrice—"

"It could be you, darling. Should be you, not your father." She sips her tea with the satisfaction of someone who just lit an expensive fuse. "Laurent is brilliant with numbers but terrible with people. You have your mother's gift for seeing what others miss. But the board needs convincing."

I almost drop my teacup. She never mentions my mother. Nobody mentions my mother. Not since she vanished when I was fifteen, leaving behind nothing but bruised silence and Father's controlled fury.

"There's a condition," Beatrice continues, because of course there is. "You need to prove to the board that you have stability. They want reassurance before I can name you."

"Florisight is stable."

"Not your flower shop, darling. You." She sets down her cup with a decisive clink. "They want to see you settled. Partnered. The word they used was 'grounded,' which we both know is code for 'married.' Without that, it defaults to Laurent."

The laugh that escapes me could strip paint. "You're joking."

"I never joke about money, dear. It's gauche." She reaches for a folder that's been sitting there like a landmine. "Which is why I've taken the liberty of arranging something suitable. Dorian Hale."

The name triggers memories. To my mind, he's still the eleven-year-old with a 'world revolves around me' attitude. And now he's supposed to be my arranged husband?

Beatrice slides a photo across the table. Of course Dorian Hale looks genetically engineered for mergers—amber eyes, perfect jaw, broad shoulders. The self-importance practically radiates from the photo.

"His family's stake would complement ours perfectly," Beatrice continues. "End the shareholder feuds, stabilize the market, give you the backing you need—"

"No." The word comes out harder than intended. "I'm not playing this game with arranged marriage. I watched it destroy my parents, and I won't—"

"Then Laurent gets it by default." Her voice is silk over steel. "Those are the only two options, dear. Prove you can partner appropriately or watch your father take everything."

My mind races through possibilities. I can't let my father win—not after he drove my mother away with his win-at-all-costs philosophy. But marriage as a merger? That's the trap I've spent years avoiding.

"What if I'm already seeing someone?" The lie slides out smoothly. "What if we're already discussing marriage?"

Beatrice's eyebrow lifts microscopically. "Do tell."

"We've been keeping it quiet. Professional reasons." I'm improvising now, jazz-handing through disaster. "But it's serious. Marriage-conversation serious."

She studies me like I'm one of her orchids, checking for rot. "I'll need to meet him then. Tomorrow. Brunch."

"Tomorrow?"

"Unless this mysterious boyfriend has scheduling conflicts?" Her smile could weaponize honey. "Oh, and Aurelia? I'd advise you to keep your options open until everything is settled. For appearances. The board likes options."

"You want me to parade both of them around like romantic democracy?"

"I want you to prove you can handle complex stakeholder management." She returns to pruning. "Consider it your audition for CEO."

I leave her townhouse with dignity hanging by a thread. The drive to Florisight's warehouse takes twenty minutes, enough time to spiral through every possible fake boyfriend candidate. My options are limited to men who won't sell this story to TMZ—approximately nobody.

The warehouse is freezing—we can't afford proper heating, just space heaters.

Miles is here, because Miles is always here. My CFO, my best friend since college, my hopefully partner in crime. He's labeling buckets of roses with bomb-defusing focus.

"We need to talk," I announce.

"That's never good." He doesn't look up. "Did we lose the Frederickson wedding?"

"Worse. My grandmother's retiring."

Now he looks up. "That's good news?"

"She's naming me successor."

"That's good news."

"Only if I get married."

Miles drops his label maker. It clatters on concrete like punctuation. "What?"

I explain the whole thing—Beatrice's ultimatum, Dorian Hale and his merger-friendly cheekbones, the lie I told about already having a boyfriend. Miles listens with that particular stillness he gets when processing disasters, calculating damage in real-time.

"So... what do you need from me?" he asks slowly, starting to catch up.

I take a deep breath. "I need you as my fake boyfriend."

"What the fuck, Rae?" he explodes, color draining from his face.

There's panic in his eyes. My response is rushed and nervous.

"I need someone I trust. Someone who won't sell me out. Someone who can handle my grandmother's interrogation techniques." I take a breath that feels like swallowing glass. "Look, I know this is insane. I know I'm asking too much. But Miles..."

My voice cracks, and I hate myself for it. The words are on the tip of my tongue—'I can't do this alone'—but I don't say it. I can see in Miles' eyes that he's heard it nonetheless.