Married to my ex's enemy

The first time the lawyer called me Mrs. Vale, I thought he had mistaken me for someone else.

The second time, I stopped breathing.

“Mrs. Vale?”

I looked up from the envelope clutched between my fingers.

Across the polished mahogany desk, Mr. Bennett watched me with the patient expression of a man accustomed to people taking too long to understand things.

I glanced behind me.

No one.

Of course there was no one.

I was sitting alone in his office on the twenty-fourth floor of one of the most expensive-looking buildings in the city. The walls were lined with books I doubted anyone had touched in years. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked streets so far below that the cars looked like toys.

Everything about Bennett & Cole screamed money.

Which was precisely why I was here.

Money.

The thought made my fingers tighten around the envelope.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “What did you call me?”

Mr. Bennett adjusted his glasses.

“Mrs. Vale.”

A nervous laugh escaped me.

“That’s not my name.”

Something changed in his expression.

Not much.

Just enough.

He glanced at the folder open in front of him, then back at me.

“Amelia Hart?”

“Yes.”

“Born February seventeenth?”

“Yes.”

“And you signed a private contractual agreement through this firm approximately three weeks ago?”

My stomach tightened.

“Yes.”

“Then I have the correct person.”

“Apparently not, because I’m not Mrs. Vale.”

His eyebrows pulled together.

For one uncomfortable second, neither of us spoke.

I shifted in the leather chair.

This was already taking longer than I had expected.

The email had been simple.

Your contractual payment is ready for final processing. Please report to Bennett & Cole at 10:00 a.m. Friday. Identification required.

That was it.

No explanation.

No warning.

Certainly nothing about becoming somebody’s wife.

I had spent almost every hour since receiving that email checking the time.

Ten o’clock.

Friday.

Payment.

Those were the only things that mattered.

I needed the money.

Not next week.

Not after another round of paperwork.

Today.

I had done everything they asked. Read through pages of tedious legal language. Signed where the representative told me to sign. Initialed enough boxes that my wrist hurt afterward.

One year.

That was what I remembered most clearly.

A one-year private contract.

Strict confidentiality.

Public appearances if required.

Specific behavioral conditions.

And enough money to make me stop asking questions I probably should have asked.

Desperation had a way of making terrible decisions look practical.

But marriage?

I would have remembered marriage.

I leaned forward.

“Mr. Bennett, I came here because I was told the payment connected to my contract was ready.”

“It is.”

Relief struck so quickly that I almost missed the way he said it.

Almost.

“Good.” I forced myself to relax. “Then can we please deal with that?”

“We are dealing with it, Mrs. Vale.”

There it was again.

A cold prickle moved down my spine.

“Stop calling me that.”

He went still.

“My name is Amelia Hart.”

“Yes.”

“Miss Hart.”

His gaze dropped to the folder.

My pulse began beating harder.

“Mr. Bennett.”

He looked up.

“What exactly is going on?”

Instead of answering, he closed the folder.

Slowly.

Then he folded his hands over it.

“Before we continue, I need to establish how much you understand about the agreement you signed.”

I stared at him.

“I understand that I agreed to one year.”

“One year of what?”

The question irritated me.

“That’s why you have the contract.”

“I’m asking what you understood.”

I sat back.

A warning bell had begun ringing somewhere inside my head.

I ignored it.

“I was told the arrangement involved maintaining confidentiality, being available when necessary, and fulfilling whatever public obligations were specified.”

His expression became unreadable.

“Anything else?”

“There were restrictions.”

“What kind?”

“I don’t know. Travel. Interviews. Not discussing the arrangement publicly.” I frowned. “Why are you questioning me like this?”

Mr. Bennett exhaled.

“Were you represented by independent counsel before signing?”

“No.”

His jaw tightened.

“Did anyone advise you to seek independent counsel?”

“Yes.”

“And you declined?”

Heat crawled up my neck.

“Yes.”

Because independent lawyers cost money.

Because every day I waited mattered.

Because the number written on that contract had looked like a door opening when every other door had slammed shut.

I wasn’t going to explain any of that to him.

“I read the contract,” I said defensively.

“All of it?”

I hesitated.

That was enough of an answer.

Mr. Bennett leaned back.

My embarrassment turned to anger.

“I read what mattered.”

“With respect, Miss Hart, every clause in a contract matters.”

“Then explain the clause that apparently changed my surname without me noticing.”

Silence.

My heart thudded once.

Hard.

Mr. Bennett reached for the folder again.

This time, he removed a document.

He placed it face down on the desk between us.

I stared at it.

He didn’t turn it over.

“What is that?”

“I think you should look at it yourself.”

I hated those words immediately.

I put the envelope on my lap and reached across the desk.

The paper felt heavier than paper should.

I flipped it over.

At first, my eyes caught meaningless pieces.

Official seal.

Names.

A date.

Legal wording.

Then one line sharpened into focus.

Certificate of Marriage.

I blinked.

Read it again.

No.

A strange buzzing filled my ears.

My gaze moved lower.

Adrian Alexander Vale.

Then—

Amelia Rose Hart.

I laughed.

I couldn’t help it.

It was one short, breathless sound.

“This isn’t funny.”

Mr. Bennett didn’t smile.

My laughter died.

I looked at the certificate again.

“This is fake.”

“It isn’t.”

“It has to be.”

“It was legally filed.”

“No.”

I shoved the paper toward him.

“There’s been a mistake.”

“There hasn’t.”

“I’m not married.”

Mr. Bennett said nothing.

“I would know if I got married.”

“I would normally agree.”

“Normally?”

My voice rose.

I stood so quickly that the envelope slid from my lap and hit the floor.

Neither of us moved to pick it up.

“This is ridiculous. I came here to collect my payment, and now you’re showing me some document with my name on it and telling me I’m married?”

“Please sit down.”

“I don’t want to sit down.”

“Miss Hart—”

“You’ve been calling me Mrs. Vale since I walked in here!”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

His eyes flicked toward the certificate.

I followed his gaze.

And then I saw it.

At the bottom of the page.

A signature.

My signature.

The room seemed to tilt.

I reached for the document again.

No.

No, no, no.

I knew my own handwriting.

The slight upward curve on the A.

The way the H in Hart always leaned too far to the right.

I had signed my name that way since I was sixteen.

But that didn’t make sense.

I brought the paper closer.

My fingers had started trembling.

“That isn’t…”

The denial died before I could finish it.

Because it was.

It was my signature.

I remembered signing.

Not this.

But papers.

So many papers.

A representative sitting across from me in a small conference room.

Tabs marking signature lines.

Initial here.

Sign here.

Date here.

Another page.

Another.

Another.

My mouth went dry.

“What did I sign?”

Mr. Bennett watched me carefully.

“The documents presented to you.”

“I know that. What did I sign?”

“The agreement included provisions for a legal marriage.”

My stomach dropped.

“No.”

“It did.”

“No, it didn’t.”

“It did.”

“I would have seen that.”

His silence was brutal.

I looked down at the certificate again.

Fragments from that day returned.

The thick stack of pages.

My phone vibrating repeatedly in my bag.

The representative explaining clauses faster than I could follow.

The amount of money printed near the end.

The place where I had stopped reading carefully.

My desperation to finish.

To sign.

To get out.

To make everything okay.

I gripped the edge of the desk.

“Who is Adrian Vale?”

That finally got a reaction.

Mr. Bennett stared at me.

Not confusion.

Disbelief.

“You don’t know?”

“If I knew, would I be asking?”

His eyes narrowed slightly, as if trying to decide whether I was pretending.

I wasn’t.

The name felt vaguely familiar, but right now I couldn’t attach it to a face.

“Mr. Bennett.”

He rubbed a hand across his jaw.

“This is considerably more complicated than I was led to believe.”

A humorless laugh escaped me.

“For you?”

He ignored that.

“Mr. Vale was under the impression that the terms had been explained to you.”

“Well, Mr. Vale was wrong.”

I looked at the certificate again.

Married.

The word refused to fit inside my head.

I wasn’t married.

I had never walked down an aisle.

Never worn a ring.

Never said vows.

Never kissed a groom.

And yet some government record apparently said I belonged legally beside a man whose face I couldn’t even remember.

“This can be cancelled.”

Mr. Bennett’s expression told me the answer before he spoke.

“It isn’t quite that simple.”

“It is to me.”

“There are contractual implications.”

“I don’t care.”

“You may when you understand them.”

My gaze snapped to his.

“What does that mean?”

He paused.

“The financial compensation is conditional upon fulfillment of the agreement.”

There it was.

The one thing guaranteed to make me stop.

My anger collided with fear.

I hated him for seeing it.

I hated myself more for letting him.

“If I refuse?”

Mr. Bennett’s voice softened.

“You would forfeit the payment.”

My fingers went cold.

All of it?

I didn’t ask.

I couldn’t.

My gaze fell to the envelope on the floor.

The money.

The reason I had signed in the first place.

The reason I had ignored the tiny voice telling me that nobody offered that much without wanting something enormous in return.

Apparently, they wanted a wife.

A bitter taste filled my mouth.

“How long?”

“You already know that.”

One year.

I closed my eyes.

Of course.

One year.

Not employment.

Not appearances.

Marriage.

I opened my eyes.

“I want to speak to whoever arranged this.”

Mr. Bennett’s gaze shifted.

Not toward me.

Toward the door behind me.

My skin prickled.

“What?”

He straightened.

Before he could answer, the handle turned.

The door opened.

I turned.

And every thought in my head disappeared.

The man standing in the doorway was tall, dressed in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than everything I owned. He didn’t look rushed, even though he had entered eleven minutes late. He didn’t look apologetic either.

He looked like the kind of man who expected rooms to wait for him.

Dark hair.

Sharp features.

Cold, controlled eyes that moved first to Mr. Bennett—

then to me.

He stopped.

For the smallest fraction of a second, something flashed across his face.

Recognition.

Not affection.

Not surprise.

Something harder.

My heartbeat stumbled.

Because suddenly the name wasn't completely unfamiliar anymore.

Vale.

Adrian Vale.

I had heard it before.

Just never in any sentence that included the words my husband.

His gaze dropped to the marriage certificate in my hand.

Then returned to my face.

He didn’t smile.

I certainly didn’t.

Mr. Bennett stood.

“Mr. Vale.”

Adrian ignored him.

His attention stayed on me.

The room felt smaller with him inside it.

I tightened my grip on the certificate.

“You.”

It was the only word that came out.

One of his eyebrows lifted.

Not exactly the reaction a husband should have after seeing his wife.

Then again, I wasn’t reacting much like a wife either.

I raised the certificate between us.

“What the hell is this?”

Mr. Bennett cleared his throat.

“Perhaps we should all sit down.”

“No.”

My eyes never left Adrian’s.

“You’re Adrian Vale?”

“Yes.”

“And according to this—”

My voice almost failed me.

I forced the words out.

“According to this, I’m your wife.”

His expression changed.

Barely.

But enough for me to realize something that made my stomach twist all over again.

He already knew.

Of course he knew.

He had known before he walked through that door.

He had known while I sat here looking like an idiot.

He had known when this entire insane arrangement was created.

“You knew about this?”

Adrian’s eyes moved briefly to Mr. Bennett.

The lawyer suddenly looked deeply interested in the papers on his desk.

That was answer enough.

Rage pushed through my shock.

I stepped toward Adrian.

“No. Look at me.”

His gaze returned to mine.

“Did you know?”

“Yes.”

One word.

Calm.

Unapologetic.

I stared at him.

“And you didn’t think there was anything wrong with marrying a woman who didn’t even know she was getting married?”

For the first time, a crack appeared in his composure.

His eyes sharpened.

“You didn’t know?”

I laughed bitterly.

“Does this look like the face of a woman who knew?”

Silence.

Adrian looked at Mr. Bennett.

Mr. Bennett looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him.

Then Adrian looked back at me.

There was no panic in his face.

No apology.

No explanation.

Just that infuriating control.

As though finding out his wife hadn’t known she was his wife was merely an inconvenience in an otherwise perfectly organized morning.

I held up the certificate.

“Someone is going to explain this to me. Right now.”

Adrian studied me for a long moment.

Then he slipped one hand into his pocket.

And in a voice so calm it made my blood boil, he asked,

“No one told you that you married me?”