This Agreement between Malachai Dorian Shaw and Juniper Elise Monroe shall be binding and enforceable upon signature by both parties, hereinafter referred to as 'Party A' and 'Party B' respectively.
CLAUSE 1: TERM & PUBLIC PROFILE
1.1 Term. This Agreement shall be effective for a period of one (1) year from the date of legal solemnization of the marriage between the Parties ("the Term").
1.2 Public Facade. The Parties shall, for the duration of the Term, maintain a consistent and convincing public profile as a legally and romantically committed couple.
1.3 Appearances. Both Parties shall make best efforts to fulfill reasonable requests for joint public and private appearances to support the facade described in 1.2. All scheduled public appearances (as defined in Exhibit A) require mutual agreement. All familial appearances are considered mandatory.
1.4 Conduct. The Parties' conduct in public and in the presence of family shall be consistent with the committed relationship described in 1.2. This includes, but is not limited to, verbal affirmations, physical proximity, and other demonstrations of affection typical of a couple in a committed relationship.
— Preface and Clause 1, the Matrimonial Cohabitation and Non-Disclosure Agreement.
***
Less than twenty-four hours after signing his stupid contract, and Malachai Shaw is already breaking his own rules.
I glare down at my phone, where two unanswered texts glare back at me like they hate my guts:
5:15 PM: Dinner is at 8.
7:30 PM: Are you coming?
Both unread. Both unanswered. Somehow, I'm not surprised.
After spending my Sunday morning in his office instead of in bed like a normal human being, Malachai drove me home (which I'd only agreed to because I was too tired to argue) and then walked me to my door (which he insisted on).
His gaze swept over the faded brickwork and slightly chipped paint of the lobby and he'd said "Quaint," in a tone that suggested he was trying to be polite about a fungus he'd just discovered on his imported loafers.
I didn't appreciate it, but I was too exhausted to care. Turns out, waking up from a nightmare, sprinting through downtown Seattle in heels, and spending an hour debating whether to sign yourself over to a man via a dubious and morally questionable contract really takes it out of you.
Plus, by then, I'd already read my mother's messages. Her texts always make me tired.
So I let him escort me upstairs, only wondering briefly how he knew exactly which door was mine without asking. I murmured, "Well, this is me. Thanks for the ride."
He studied me for a moment, that unreadable expression softening just a touch. "Are you all right, Ms. Monroe?"
"Just tired," I said, leaning against the doorframe. "Busiest Sunday morning I've had since I was a choir girl."
That had made him laugh—a short, warm, genuine sound that seemed to vibrate right through his chest.
"You were in the choir?"
His laughter, that question, that openly curious version of Malachai threw me off. "Take a lady on a date before you start interrogating her," I shot back, mid-yawn.
"As the lady desires," he replied smoothly, and it took me half a second too long to realize I made things weird.
There was no paparazzi watching us, no curious employees whispering in the hallways, no family breathing down our necks. Without an audience, there's no reason to act like we liked each other.
I'd rushed to fill the quiet. "Uhm… my Mom's invited me for dinner this evening."
"Is that so?"
"She requested that I bring you."
He hummed, a considering sound. "I don't know… it's a bit too soon. And I have other engagements tonight."
"Clause 1, subsection 5."
"It's subsection 4, actually," he corrected smoothly. "And I'll see what I can do. Now hand me your phone."
That's how I got Malachai Shaw's private number. And now, standing on my parents' pristine doorstep in a dress that's too long to be practical, I stare at it, wondering if calling him is even worth it.
Maybe he's busy. Maybe he's laundering money or torturing someone. Maybe he's just sitting in his penthouse, arranging stacks of drugs in a briefcase for trade purposes.
Whatever the case, he's not coming.
And I'm about to walk into this hell alone.
I tuck my phone into my purse, rub my sweaty palms on my skirt, and give myself a silent pep talk.
Come on, Juniper. It's just dinner. An hour of bland food, boring conversation, and parental judgement. Nothing you're not used to. You'll be fine. You'll be—
The front door swings open before I can knock.
"Juni! I thought I heard someone out here!"
Chloe stands framed in the golden glow of the foyer, her strawberry-blonde curls sitting perfectly on her shoulders like they always do. She's holding Butterscotch so tightly that his bug-eyes look ready to pop onto the welcome mat.
I give him a sympathetic glance. "You okay there, buddy?"
He wheezes softly, which feels like a yes and a cry for help all at once.
"Oh! Butterscotch is fine," Chloe waves a dismissive hand. "You know I pick him up when he gets fussy and you have been fussy all night, haven't you cutie? Haven't you?"
She chucks the dog under its chin. He makes another helpless sound. She turns back to me and chirps. "What are you doing out here? Come in, come in! Dad's in his study, but Mom's in the kitchen. You're just in time."
"Lucky me." I step inside, kicking off my shoes. The house smells like lemon polish, old wood, and roasted chicken—three scents that, when it comes to my family, put me in flight or fight mode.
Chloe's eyes dart behind me. "Where is he?"
I do the only thing I can. I feign ignorance, walking past her and shutting the door. "Where is who?"
"Oh, don't play dumb, Juni." She hugs Butterscotch closer, making him grunt. "You know who. The man you're all over those gossip sites with. The one who got you all those gifts." Her eyes gleam. "Your secret admirer—Mr. S."
I arch an eyebrow. "Ah, Mr. S. Couldn't make it. Last I heard, he was on a mission for Queen and country."
"That's not funny, Juni!" she says, sounding genuinely wounded. "We're American! Isn't that treason?"
I give her a look and she huffs indignantly, jiggling the now-sniffing dog. "It's not fair! I'm your sister. Seriously, why don't you talk to me about these things anymore?"
Because the last thing I told you about, you had no problem sleeping with.
The words burn the back of my throat, but I swallow them like poison. Instead, I smile tightly and head toward the kitchen.
"Mom, I'm home."
Mom pulls a golden-brown chicken from the oven, her pearl earrings glinting. "Oh, Juniper, you're just in time. The table's almost—"
Her voice fades.
Because I've just spotted Liam.
Blonde hair, dimpled smile, and all.
Liam, with his fit torso and ridiculous forearms, reaching up for the nice plates on the top shelf like he used to when he was mine.
My heart does a painful little backflip.
"What is he doing here?" I demand, my voice cracking halfway through.
"Liam?" Mom looks mildly annoyed, as if I've asked why the sky is blue. "Why, he got off work early and decided to come for dinner after all."
Chloe bounces into the room, Butterscotch trotting behind her, and throws her arms around Liam's waist. "Isn't he the sweetest? He just couldn't wait to see me!"
Liam has the audacity to give me a pained, 'what-can-I-do?' look. "Hey, Juniper."
I keep my eyes on my mother, my voice trembling. "You said he wouldn't be here."
"Juniper, don't start with your theatrics now," she says, wiping her hands on a towel. "I thought you were over this."
"Yeah, Juni," Chloe chimes. "Don't be so dramatic."
Butterscotch barks. Not the damn dog too!
My dramatics?
My dramatics?
The room tilts. They know. They all know what he did. How it felt to have my future publicly shredded. But no, I'm the one causing a scene. Because not wanting to be in the same room as my ex-fiancé who cheated on me with my sister counts as me being 'difficult.'
"Over this?" I echo, heat rising behind my eyes.
"Oh, come on, Juni." Chloe's voice is syrupy, sweet. "There's no need to cause a scene."
"Speak some sense into your sister, Chloe."
My voice rises and breaks, brittle from the anger it carries. "You. Said. He. Wouldn't. Be. Here."
"Juni, please," Chloe coos, kissing Liam's cheek. "Really. He's just here for dinner too, isn't that right, babe?"
"I'm not here to upset you, Juniper," Liam says, his voice soft with a contrition that makes me want to scream.
Of course he isn't here to upset me. His very existence upsets me. His presence in my parents' kitchen, next to my sister, is a walking, talking, cheating sack of 'upset'!
"I can't do this," I whisper, turning to leave.
"Oh, not this again," my mother sighs.
"I don't know why she hates me so much," Liam murmurs to no one in particular, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Shh, babe, it's not your fault," Chloe says soothingly.
I storm out of the kitchen, biting the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood.
Footsteps sound on the stairs. My father. "Leaving already?"
"Your daughter saw Liam and immediately decided to throw a fit," my mother informs him.
"Stop with this childishness at once," he barks, descending the steps, immaculate in his pressed short and ever-present scowl. "What kind of a child walks out of dinner with their parents? You haven't even greeted me."
"Dad—"
"Your mother cooked all day. Why do you have to be so rude?"
"But Liam's here!" I snap. "She said—"
"For heaven's sake, Juniper," Dad cuts in, his face going red. "You're an adult. Start acting like one. The world doesn't revolve around your heartbreak."
The walls close in. Perfect Chloe. Childish, dramatic, selfish Juniper. The narrative is so familiar, so airtight, I can barely breathe. Hot, angry tears prick the back of my eyes.
The doorbell rings, a sharp, clear chime that slices through the toxic air.
"I'll get it," I say emptily, before anyone can argue.
The cool air outside hits my flushed face as I open the door, it carries the strong scent of…
Malachai.
Always showing up when I least expect like the devil when you speak of him. Still in the same dark suit and coat from earlier, like he's stepped out of the shadows just to appear on my doorstep.
Relief so strong washes over me that, for a half-second, I actually forget how to breathe.
"I hope I'm not too—" His brows pull together the moment he sees me. "Juniper, what's wrong?"
His hands come up, cupping my face, his thumbs gently brushing my cheeks. The touch is so startling, so intimate, I almost believe the fierce worry in his eyes is real. A traitorous, watery smile touches my lips, but I can't make it stick.
"I'm fine," I manage to say, my voice trembling.
He studies me, unconvinced. "You're clearly not fine. If anyone hurt you, I'll—"
Footsteps patter behind us. "Mom wants to know who's at the—"
Chloe's voice cuts off in a sharp gasp.
Time slows.
I don't think. I act.
I step forward and wrap my arms around Malachai.
His coat smells like some expensive, spicy cologne. His body is solid, immovable, like he could hold up the world if he wanted to. He stiffens for a fraction of a second before his arms closed around me, strong and sure, pulling me tight against him. He holds me like he means it. No one would think that we weren't in love.
He really is perfect. I chose well.
"I'm fine, Malachai. I promise," I whisper against his chest, my voice muffled. Then I pull back just enough to look up at him, my smile now steady and ready to deceive. "Now come meet my family."