Chapter 1: Terms of Surrender

Catherine Collingwood stood in the marble foyer of her grandmother's estate, the final notice from the lawyer crumpled in her fist. The paper had arrived that morning, its crisp legal language spelling out the end of everything her mother had built. Three months. That's all Eleanor Whitmore had left her to prove she was "settled."

Her boots squeaked against the polished floor as she paced. The scent of lemon polish and old money filled her nose. She hadn't been here in two years, not since the funeral where Eleanor had stared at her with those cold eyes and said nothing about the woman they had both lost.

The study door opened with a soft click. Eleanor sat behind her massive oak desk, silver hair pulled into that severe chignon, her walking cane resting against the chair like a scepter. She didn't stand.

"Grandmother," Catherine said. She forced her hands to stay at her sides instead of twisting the hem of her sweater.

Eleanor regarded her for a long moment. The silence stretched until Catherine's pulse hammered in her ears. The older woman's half-smile appeared, thin as a paper cut.

"You've read the terms, I presume. Good. Saves us both time."

Catherine swallowed hard. "This is ridiculous. The bookstore is turning a profit. Small, but steady. Mom built it from nothing. It's not some hobby."

"Your mother built many things from nothing," Eleanor replied, her voice crisp as autumn leaves. "And walked away from everything that mattered. I won't watch you repeat her mistakes."

The words landed like stones in a still pond. Catherine tucked a stray curl behind her ear, her fingers lingering there a second too long. She thought of the hidden notebook in her apartment, pages filled with letters she'd never send.

"I have roots," Catherine said, her voice lower now. "They're just not the ones you approve of."

Eleanor tapped one manicured nail against the desk. "Three months, Catherine. Show me stability. A partner. A life that demonstrates commitment beyond your little shop and those ridiculous late arrivals to every family function. Or the building reverts to the estate."

Catherine shoved her hands into her pockets. The fabric bunched under her grip. She could sell her car, take out another loan, but the numbers didn't lie, and neither did Eleanor.

"You're enjoying this," she whispered.

"I'm ensuring your future," Eleanor corrected. "Something your mother never allowed me to do."

The meeting ended as abruptly as it began. Catherine walked out into the gray coastal afternoon, rain beginning to spit from the sky. She drove without thinking, the wipers slapping rhythmically as her brain churned through impossible solutions.

---

The architecture firm appeared on her right almost by accident. Beaumont & Associates gleamed in steel and glass, a monument to everything her family had fought against. Malcolm's name was listed third on the sign.

She sat in her car for ten minutes, engine idling, calling herself every kind of fool. But desperation didn't leave much room for pride.

She found him in his office on the fourth floor, bent over a set of blueprints, his dark hair catching the light from the window. He looked up when she knocked, those sharp eyes narrowing in recognition.

"Collingwood," he said, straightening to his full height. "This is unexpected."

"Understatement of the year," she muttered, stepping inside and closing the door behind her. The room smelled of expensive coffee and the faint metallic tang of drafting pencils.

He crossed his arms, the fabric of his shirt pulling across broad shoulders. "If this is about the building again, my father isn't involved anymore. I'm not sure what you think I can—"

"Marry me."

The words fell between them like a grenade. Malcolm's eyebrows shot up, but his face otherwise remained composed. He rubbed the scar on his left thumb.

"I beg your pardon?"

Catherine laughed, the sound brittle even to her own ears. "Not really. Fake it. Three months. My grandmother's will is trying to take the bookstore unless I prove I'm 'settled down.' You need to get your family off your back about finding the right kind of wife. I did my research. Your brother's been circling your position like a shark."

He stared at her for so long she wanted to crawl under his desk. The rain picked up outside, streaking the tall windows. She could hear her own heartbeat in the quiet.

"Absolutely not," he said finally. His voice was deep, measured, with that faint Spanish lilt. "This isn't some romantic comedy, Collingwood. We can barely stand in the same room without arguing about historic preservation. The risk calculations don't add up."

"Which is exactly why it'll work," she shot back, stepping closer. Her hands gestured wildly now, the way they always did when she felt cornered. "No messy feelings. No complications. You get to look responsible and attached. I get to keep my mother's legacy. We both walk away in ninety days with exactly what we need."

Malcolm moved around his desk, putting it between them like a shield. He glanced at the messy drawer in the corner unit, then back at her, jaw tight.

"You hate me," he said. "Or at least everything my family stands for. Why would I trust you not to sabotage this the first time my brother looks at you sideways? Give me the blueprint, Collingwood. The full terms."

Catherine's fingers found another curl to tuck away. The memory of his father's offer on the building still stung, the way they'd talked about her mother's shop like it was an eyesore to be demolished. She met his gaze anyway.

"Because you need this too," she said quietly. "I saw the engagement photos your mother keeps posting on social media. That woman she wants you to marry looks miserable. And Diego? He's telling anyone who'll listen that you're not committed enough for the top spot."

His jaw tightened. For the first time, she saw a crack in the armor. He turned to the window, watching the rain, shoulders rigid. The silence stretched until she thought she might scream.

"Three months," he said at last, not looking at her. "We live together. Makes it more believable. My place is too exposed. We'll find something neutral. And we write every rule down. No deviations."

Her mouth went dry. Living together. The idea sent her reaching for the doorframe, steadying herself. She hadn't thought that far.

"The apartment above the bookstore," she offered, hating how her voice wavered. "It's small. But separate entrance. Neutral ground."

He turned back to her, expression unreadable. "Rules. We write them down. My family can't suspect, or this falls apart."

Catherine nodded. The bookstore's shelves flashed in her mind, the way the afternoon light slanted through the front windows, the smell of paper and coffee that meant home. She couldn't lose that.

"Fine," she said. "But if you touch my books without asking, the deal is off."

A ghost of a smile touched his mouth, gone so fast she might have imagined it. "Noted."

They left his office together, the weight of what they'd agreed to settling over them like the rain clouds outside. Catherine's car sat in the lot beside his sleek black one, a study in contrasts. She followed him to the bookstore, her hands gripping the wheel so tightly her knuckles ached.

After hours, the shop took on a different quality. The lights were low, casting warm pools across the wooden floors. Catherine flipped the sign to closed and locked the door, suddenly aware of how intimate the space felt with him in it.

Malcolm stood near the fiction section, fingers trailing lightly over a spine before he caught himself.

"Coffee?" she asked, needing something to do with her hands.

"Black," he said, then amended, "Actually, whatever you have."

She made it strong, adding three sugars to hers when he wasn't looking. They sat at the small table in the back, surrounded by unpacked boxes of new releases. Malcolm pulled a napkin from his pocket and began sketching something, his movements precise and economical.

"Rule one," he started, not looking up. "We tell no one. Not friends. Not family. The story is we reconnected six weeks ago at a charity event. Sparks flew. We've been keeping it quiet."

Catherine nodded, wrapping her hands around her mug. The heat burned her palms. "Rule two. No physical stuff beyond what's necessary for appearances. Hand holding. Maybe a kiss on the cheek. Nothing that... complicates."

His eyes met hers then, dark and assessing. "Agreed. This isn't real, Collingwood. Let's not pretend otherwise. We maintain separate spaces even under the same roof."

The words shouldn't have stung, but they did. She hid it behind a sip of coffee that was too sweet. "Rule three. We respect each other's space. You fix things if they break, fine. But don't reorganize my shelves or decide the window display needs updating."

He actually chuckled at that, a low sound that surprised them both. "I wouldn't dream of it. Though your mystery section could use some logical categorization."

"Don't push it, Beaumont."

They went on like that for nearly an hour, building their fake life one careful clause at a time. She learned he spoke Spanish when truly frustrated, muttering under his breath about "locura" as they argued over how often his family would expect visits. He learned she read the last page of books first, a habit that made him shake his head in disbelief.

"Why spoil the ending?" he asked, leaning back in his chair.

"Because life doesn't come with warnings," she replied, the words slipping out more honestly than she'd intended. "At least with books I can prepare myself."

Something shifted in his expression then, a flicker of understanding that made her look away. She didn't want his understanding. She wanted his cooperation and nothing more.

The rain had eased to a drizzle by the time they finished. Malcolm stood, stretching muscles that had grown stiff from the hard chair. Catherine noticed how his shirt rode up slightly, revealing a strip of bronze skin, and immediately looked elsewhere.

"We'll need to move some of my things in this weekend," he said. "Make it look lived in. My brother has a habit of showing up unannounced."

The thought of his clothes in her closet, his toothbrush next to hers, made her throat close up. This was a mistake. A necessary one, but still. She was trading one kind of loss for another.

"Fine," she managed. "But my mother's things stay where they are. The quilt on the couch. The photos."

He nodded, understanding in a way that annoyed her. Of course he would. Malcolm Beaumont always seemed to understand too much.

His phone buzzed on the table between them. He glanced at it, and his entire posture changed. Shoulders squared, jaw set. He turned the screen toward her without a word.

The text from Diego glowed accusingly: 'Grandmother just called. She wants to meet your new fiancée tomorrow night. What the hell is going on?'

Catherine's fingers tightened on her mug. Tomorrow. They hadn't even had twenty-four hours to get their story straight. She looked up at Malcolm, seeing her own panic reflected in his eyes for the first time.

"Well," he said slowly, rubbing that scar again. "Looks like the clock starts now."

She wanted to run. She wanted to tell Eleanor to take the damn shop and shove it. Instead she met his gaze, the air between them thick with everything they weren't saying.

This bargain would either save them or break them. And as the rain started up again against the windows, Catherine wasn't sure which outcome frightened her more.