Unarranged

Chapter 1 — The Arrangement

Ashley knew something was wrong before her father said a word.

The glass of whiskey gave him away.

Richard Ellis sat behind the massive walnut desk that had occupied the center of his office for as long as Ashley could remember, one hand wrapped around a heavy crystal tumbler. Two fingers of amber liquid remained at the bottom, the ice mostly melted. Judging by the untouched level, he hadn’t taken a sip since she’d walked into the room.

Her father wasn’t a daytime drinker.

Not even when business was bad.

Not when Ellis Group had lost a multimillion-dollar contract three years ago. Not when a board member had threatened to resign in the middle of an acquisition. Not even when an article in the Times had questioned one of his biggest investments and sent half his executive team into a panic.

And certainly not at three-thirty on a Wednesday afternoon.

Ashley remained near the closed office door, one hand still curled around the strap of the handbag resting against her hip.

“You wanted to see me?”

Richard looked up.

For one brief second, something crossed his face.

Pain.

Ashley almost missed it.

Then it disappeared behind the expression she knew much better—the composed, effortless smile that had charmed investors, politicians, reporters, and half of Los Angeles for more than thirty years.

“There she is.”

Ashley stopped.

There she is.

Once, those words would have been followed by him getting out of his chair.

A hug.

A kiss on the top of her head.

Maybe a complaint that his little girl was getting too busy for him.

When she’d been in college, he’d sometimes pulled her into his office just because she’d happened to be in the building, ordering lunch for both of them and ignoring phone calls while she told him about classes, professors and whichever roommate was currently driving her crazy.

That had been before the distance between them had become something neither of them seemed to know how to cross.

Now he simply gestured toward one of the leather chairs opposite his desk.

“Come sit with me, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

That one hurt more than it should have.

Ashley smiled anyway.

She’d gotten very good at that.

She crossed the room, the heels of her shoes making soft, precise clicks against the dark hardwood floor. Her father’s office had changed little over the years. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed Los Angeles behind him. Bookshelves lined one wall, although Ashley suspected half the books had been chosen by an interior designer. Framed photographs occupied another.

She tried not to look at those.

There were too many of Jessica now.

Instead, Ashley lowered herself into the chair and smoothed the skirt of her dress over her knees.

Her father’s eyes followed the movement before lifting to her face.

And there it was again.

That strange look.

Something raw.

Almost regretful.

He looked away first.

He always did.

Ashley had stopped trying to understand it years ago.

“Drink?” he asked.

She glanced pointedly at his glass.

“It’s three-thirty.”

One corner of his mouth lifted. “Since when has that stopped anyone in this family?”

“Since you spent twenty-two years telling me respectable people wait until five.”

That earned her a quiet laugh.

A real one.

His shoulders relaxed, and for just a moment Ashley saw him.

Her dad.

Not Richard Ellis, businessman.

Not Violet’s husband.

Not Jessica’s devoted stepfather.

Her father.

She hated how desperately she still wanted those moments.

“God, you sound like your mother.”

The words slipped from him naturally.

Then his smile disappeared almost as quickly as it had arrived.

Ashley’s chest tightened.

Her mother.

Caroline Ashford Ellis had been dead for sixteen years, and somehow her name could still change the temperature of a room.

There were days when Ashley could go hours without thinking about her. Sometimes almost an entire day.

Her father could apparently go months without mentioning her.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It was.”

His answer came quietly.

Richard’s thumb moved once over the rim of his glass.

Then he looked at Ashley again.

Really looked at her this time.

Ashley resisted the urge to shift beneath his stare.

She’d seen photographs of her mother at twenty-two. There was one in particular she kept tucked into the top drawer of her dresser—Caroline standing barefoot on a beach, laughing at whoever was behind the camera, her dark honey-brown hair whipping around her shoulders.

Ashley knew what her father saw.

The same hair.

The same hazel eyes that looked greener in certain light.

The same small indentation in one cheek when she smiled.

Everyone told Ashley she looked like Caroline Ashford.

Everyone except her father.

He had never needed to.

His expression told her often enough.

Richard lifted his whiskey and swallowed.

“How are things?”

Ashley blinked.

“Things?”

“School’s finished. You’ve had a few months to breathe.” He set the glass down carefully. “I haven’t really had a chance to ask what you’re thinking about doing next.”

That almost made her laugh.

Almost.

She had graduated four months ago.

With honors.

Her father had attended the ceremony. He’d sat in the front row beside Violet and clapped when Ashley crossed the stage. He’d taken enough photographs to embarrass her, hosted a ridiculously expensive graduation party at the house and spent ten minutes telling anyone who would listen how proud he was of his daughter.

Then Jessica had called.

Ashley couldn’t even remember why she’d been upset.

Only that her father had disappeared before the last guests left.

He hadn’t asked Ashley what she planned to do with her economics degree once.

Until now.

“I have some ideas.”

“Such as?”

“Investing.”

His brows lifted slightly.

“Investing?”

“I’ve been researching a few opportunities.”

“With your trust?”

“Some.”

“Ashley—”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“I didn’t say you didn’t.”

“You were about to.”

A reluctant smile appeared.

“You’ve always been too damn good at reading me.”

She smiled back. “You used to say that was one of my better qualities.”

“It is.”

The room fell quiet again.

The clock on the bookshelf ticked softly.

Ashley glanced toward it.

Three thirty-seven.

Her father’s fingers moved around his glass.

He was stalling.

Richard Ellis never stalled.

He negotiated billion-dollar deals without looking at his notes. He could walk into a room of hostile board members and have half of them laughing within ten minutes. Ashley had watched him dismantle arguments without ever raising his voice.

Yet apparently whatever he needed to say to his daughter required whiskey and seven minutes of small talk.

Ashley leaned back and crossed one leg over the other.

“So what did you really call me down here for?”

His eyes lifted sharply.

There.

She’d caught him.

“Can’t a father want to see his daughter?”

“Of course.”

“Then maybe I wanted to see you.”

Ashley held his gaze.

She could have let him have the lie.

Usually she would have.

Instead, she glanced deliberately at the whiskey.

“At three-thirty on a Wednesday?”

Richard exhaled through his nose.

“Ashley.”

“Dad.”

Another silence.

Then his chair rolled backward.

Richard stood and crossed toward the windows, carrying his glass with him.

Ashley watched him go.

Her father was still an imposing man in his late fifties—tall, broad-shouldered and meticulous about his appearance. His dark hair had gone silver at the temples over the last several years, something Violet insisted made him look distinguished. Today, though, there was a slight heaviness in the way he held himself that Ashley had never noticed before.

He stopped in front of the windows.

From this high above downtown Los Angeles, the city looked almost peaceful. Sunlight flashed against glass buildings. Cars moved along the streets below like tiny pieces on a board.

Her father had built much of his life in rooms like this one.

Deals made behind closed doors.

Companies bought and sold.

Millions moved around with signatures at the bottom of pieces of paper.

Ashley suddenly wondered if she was sitting in on one.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about your future.”

Her stomach tightened.

“My future?”

“Yes.”

“That’s ominous.”

“It isn’t meant to be.”

He turned.

Ashley studied him.

“Then why do you need whiskey to tell me about it?”

His jaw tightened.

He looked down at the tumbler as though he’d forgotten he was holding it.

Then he crossed to the credenza and set it down.

“There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

Ashley relaxed slightly.

“That’s it?”

“No.”

Of course it wasn’t.

She waited.

Richard returned to his desk but didn’t sit behind it this time. Instead, he leaned against the front edge, folding his hands loosely in front of him.

Closer to her.

Too close for business.

Too formal for family.

Ashley’s unease sharpened.

“You know Daniel Mercer.”

“Of course.”

Daniel Mercer had been her father’s business partner for nearly fifteen years.

Their families had occupied neighboring tables at charity galas, shared boxes at Lakers games and spent enough weekends at the same resorts that Ashley knew precisely how Daniel took his coffee.

Black.

One sugar.

She also knew he hated golf despite pretending to enjoy it because half the men he did business with conducted meetings on golf courses.

“His son recently came back to Los Angeles.”

“Jonah.”

Richard’s expression flickered with surprise.

“I know who Jonah Mercer is, Dad.”

“Of course you do.”

Ashley remembered him vaguely.

Older than her.

Attractive, although she’d never paid much attention to exactly how attractive.

Quiet.

Polite.

The kind of man who seemed to listen more than he spoke.

She’d seen him at events over the years, although she couldn’t remember having a conversation with him that lasted longer than five minutes.

“What about him?”

Her father hesitated.

And suddenly Ashley knew.

Not exactly.

But enough.

Something cold settled into her stomach.

“Dad.”

“Daniel and I have been discussing some things.”

“What things?”

“Our families have worked together for a long time. There are opportunities developing that could benefit both sides considerably.”

Ashley stared at him.

“Business opportunities.”

“Among other things.”

Her pulse slowed.

Strangely.

The more uncomfortable he became, the calmer she felt.

That was something she’d inherited from him too.

When everyone else panicked, Ashley became still.

“Say it.”

“Ashley—”

“Whatever you brought me down here to tell me, just say it.”

Her father looked at her.

And for one impossible second, she could see the man who used to carry her downstairs when she’d fallen asleep in front of the television.

The man who had learned how to braid hair badly after her mother died.

The man who had burned pancakes every Saturday morning for nearly a year because six-year-old Ashley insisted Mommy had always made pancakes.

The man who used to cancel meetings because his little girl had a fever.

She almost wished she hadn’t seen him.

Because then he spoke.

“Daniel and I would like you and Jonah to marry.”

Ashley didn’t move.

For a moment, she wasn’t entirely certain she’d heard him correctly.

The clock on the bookshelf ticked behind her.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Outside the windows, a helicopter crossed the skyline.

Somewhere beyond the closed office door, a phone rang.

The entire world continued moving as though Richard Ellis hadn’t just told his twenty-two-year-old daughter that he’d negotiated her marriage.

She waited for the words to rearrange themselves into something sensible.

They didn’t.

“I’m sorry?”

“Nothing has been finalized.”

Ashley stared at him.

“Finalized?”

Richard’s eyes closed briefly.

“That was the wrong word.”

“No.” A small, humorless laugh escaped her. “I think that was exactly the right word.”

“Ashley, hear me out.”

“You’ve arranged my marriage?”

“I wouldn’t put it that way.”

She rose slowly from the chair.

“How would you put it?”

“We’ve discussed the possibility of joining the families.”

“Through me.”

“Through you and Jonah.”

She took a step away from him.

The movement wasn’t intentional. Her body simply seemed to need more distance.

“Is Jonah sitting in another office somewhere having this conversation?”

Richard’s hesitation answered her.

Ashley nodded slowly.

“I see.”

“He knows we’ve been discussing it.”

“But he’s not here.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because this conversation is between you and me.”

That hurt.

More than the arrangement itself, perhaps.

Because he said it like it meant something.

Like they were still the father and daughter they’d once been.

Ashley looked away before he could see that he’d landed the blow.

She walked toward the windows.

Twenty-two years old.

She had an economics degree.

Money of her own.

Plans she’d barely begun making.

She wanted to invest. She wanted to work. She wanted to discover whether she was actually good enough to build something without the Ellis name opening the door first.

And apparently she also had a fiancé she’d never agreed to.

Ashley folded her arms tightly over her chest.

“Does Violet know?”

Silence.

Ashley closed her eyes.

Of course.

“Of course she does.”

“Ashley—”

“Does she?”

“Violet and I discuss major family decisions.”

Ashley turned slowly.

“Before you discuss them with me?”

“This isn’t about Violet.”

“And Jessica?”

This pause was shorter.

That made it worse.

“She knows.”

Ashley laughed.

The sound escaped before she could stop it.

She pressed her lips together and looked toward the ceiling for one second.

Jessica knew.

Jessica knew who Ashley was going to marry before Ashley did.

Why should that surprise her?

Jessica had somehow been first in nearly every part of Ashley’s life for sixteen years.

First to know when her father bought a vacation house.

First to hear about family trips.

First to know when dinner plans changed.

Sometimes Ashley wondered whether Richard realized how often his biological daughter received family news secondhand.

She swallowed the bitterness before it could reach her voice.

“When?”

“What?”

“When would this marriage happen?”

“We haven’t settled on a date.”

“How considerate.”

“Ashley.”

She turned toward him again.

“Does Jonah want this?”

Richard looked at her for a long moment.

“He understands the advantages.”

Ashley almost smiled.

There it was.

A carefully crafted answer that said absolutely nothing.

She’d grown up listening to men like her father speak that language.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I know.”

That surprised her.

At least he wasn’t going to insult her intelligence.

Ashley walked back toward the chair but remained standing behind it, resting one hand along the leather back.

“Arranged marriages don’t exactly have an impressive track record in our circle, Dad.”

“That’s an exaggeration.”

“Is it?”

“Ashley—”

“Should we make a list?”

He sighed.

“Half the couples we know sleep in separate bedrooms. The other half sleep with separate people.”

“Ashley.”

“What? That’s cynical?”

“Yes.”

“It’s observant.”

Richard pushed away from the desk and paced two steps before stopping.

“Some of these marriages work.”

“I know.”

And she did.

She’d seen a handful become genuine partnerships.

Friendships.

Even love.

They were simply the exception.

Her father rubbed a hand across his jaw.

“Jonah is a good man.”

“Do you know that?”

“Yes.”

“As his father’s business partner or as the man handing him his daughter?”

Richard flinched.

It was small.

A tightening around his eyes. A slight recoil of his shoulders.

But Ashley saw it.

She immediately wished she hadn’t said it.

The apology rose automatically to her lips.

She swallowed it.

Something was changing inside her.

Not breaking.

Hardening wasn’t quite right either.

Calculating.

She looked at the whiskey.

At the enormous desk.

At the contracts stacked neatly beside her father’s computer.

At Richard Ellis himself.

And suddenly the conversation made sense.

This wasn’t a romantic proposal.

It wasn’t even really a family decision.

It was a negotiation.

Fine.

Ashley understood negotiations.

She’d been raised by one of the best.

“If I say no?”

Richard’s expression became guarded.

“You can say no.”

She studied him.

“But?”

“But nothing, you say no.”

Ashley looked toward the windows again.

She could refuse.

She knew that.