Chapter 2
“Looks like they missed the boat,” Wyatt said. “Come on. You owe me twenty dollars and breakfast.”
***
The Cup & Saucer diner was six blocks away, nestled beneath the rusted steel bones of the elevated subway line. It smelled of sizzling bacon, burnt robusta coffee, and decades of diner history.
Piper slid into the cracked red vinyl booth, her legs finally threatening to give out from the adrenaline crash. She reached into her canvas tote, pulled out the crumpled twenty-dollar bill and the brown paper bag containing the poppy-seed bagel, and laid them neatly on the formica table.
“A Holloway always pays her debts,” she said, blowing a stray strand of dark hair out of her eyes.
Wyatt slid into the booth across from her. In the dim amber booth lighting, his presence seemed to fill the entire booth. He hung his grease-smudged mechanic’s jacket over the seat back, revealing a charcoal thermal shirt that clung to broad, hard-carved shoulders and a tapered waist.
He didn't touch the money. He pushed the twenty back across the table with a blunt forefinger.
“Keep it,” he said. “Consider it my contribution to the joint household.”
“We’re married, not pooling funds,” Piper countered instantly, crossing her arms. “And the deal was twenty dollars. Take it, or I’ll feel like I took advantage of a working man.”
A faint, amused smirk tugged at Wyatt’s lips. “A working man can afford to spot his wife twenty bucks.”
“Fake wife,” she corrected.
“Legal wife,” he countered smoothly. “The county database just accepted the filing. As far as the State of New York is concerned, Mrs. Brandt, you belong to an independent auto mechanic who works seventy hours a week covered in synthetic motor oil.”
Piper let out a ragged, half-strangled laugh, rubbing her temples. “Mrs. Brandt. God. My father must be spinning in his grave. Not because you’re a mechanic,” she added quickly, checking his face to ensure she hadn't offended him. “Dad started out as a tool-and-die machinist in Detroit before he built Holloway Logistics. He respected people who built things with their hands. He would have despised Landon. Landon has never held a wrench in his entire manicured life.”
“Then why was your stepmother trying to push you into his lap?”
A waitress dropped two thick ceramic mugs of steaming black coffee and a laminated menu onto their table. Piper wrapped her chilled hands around her mug, welcoming the burn.
“Because my father died six months ago,” she said, her voice dropping into an icy, steady register. “And before his will could be formally read, Beatrice produced a revised family trust agreement that miraculously named her sole executor until I ‘settle into a traditional domestic partnership.’ Landon’s hedge fund offered her a ninety-million-dollar cash injection to bail out her personal investments if she delivered my father’s remaining voting equity.”
She took a sharp sip of the bitter coffee.
“The trap was airtight,” Piper continued. “If I refused Landon, Beatrice had the legal authority to freeze my trust fund, declare my father’s estate insolvent, and liquidate the company. But there was a loophole. My dad wrote the original charter thirty years ago. In section nine, paragraph four: if I enter into a legally recognized marriage before my twenty-sixth birthday, my father’s founding shares bypass the executor entirely and vest directly into my personal possession within thirty days.”
Wyatt raised an eyebrow, watching her with an intensity that made the back of her neck prickle. “Smart.”
“Dad knew Beatrice was a shark. He just didn't realize how quickly she’d encircle the boat after he had his stroke.” Piper leaned forward, her amber-brown eyes flashing with fierce resolve. “Tomorrow is my twenty-sixth birthday. Today was the deadline. So, thank you. You just saved me from being sold off like surplus inventory.”
She paused, narrowing her eyes as her risk-analyst instincts took over. She leaned in, studying the symmetry of his cheekbones, the absolute stillness in his posture, and the heavy tungsten band on his thumb.
“Now explain you,” Piper said, her tone sharpening. “Men who look like you don't stand outside a marriage bureau on a Tuesday morning with an industrial wedding ring in their coat pocket, waiting for desperate women to offer them baked goods. And don't tell me you carry tungsten bands for luck. What’s your angle, Wyatt?”
Wyatt picked up his mug, taking a slow sip. He didn’t flinch, but his eyes locked onto hers with an unnerving, predatory focus.
“Family drama,” Wyatt said evenly. “My family trust has an archaic covenant tied to my thirty-second birthday—which happens to be today. My late uncle’s conservative syndicate holds a secondary lien over my commercial operations in Long Island City. Under the deed covenants, an unmarried sole proprietor without designated succession triggers a mandatory trustee receivership at noon. They were lining up a forced merger with an outside partner I despise to strip my operating authority. My only move to retain unilateral control was to present a certified marriage license before twelve o'clock.”
Piper’s eyes widened with immediate, fiery solidarity.
“Predatory lien covenants!” she gasped, slamming her palm lightly on the table. “A forced corporate-style receivership disguised as family probate! That is disgusting. Your uncle’s syndicate was trying to muscle you out of your own garage with an archaic domestic clause?”
“Precisely,” Wyatt murmured, watching the righteous fury burn across her features. “I bought the ring this morning to close the loophole. You just happened to cross the street before I hired a legal proxy.”
“Well, you picked the right analyst to marry,” she declared, tapping the table with her fork. “I spent the last four years doing forensic risk assessment. I can sniff out predatory liens in an audit blindfolded. We’ll draft an ironclad co-proprietorship addendum tonight. Your uncle won’t be able to touch a single lift in your shop.”
Wyatt lowered his cup slowly. A peculiar, unreadable expression crossed his chiseled features. “You’re an analyst?”
“*Was* an analyst,” Piper said, her voice curdling with sudden, venomous disgust. She stabbed her paper napkin with her thumbnail. “Until forty-eight hours ago.”
“What happened forty-eight hours ago?”
“I got hit by an algorithm.” Piper sneered, her cheeks flushing with genuine rage. “I was working at Brandt Global Capital. Senior risk evaluation. It was the only thing keeping me afloat—my own paycheck, completely separate from my family’s toxic trust fund. And then, without warning, the mysterious phantom of Wall Street decided to optimize his margins.”
Wyatt’s fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around his ceramic mug. “The phantom?”
“Wyatt Brandt,” she spat, the name tasting like acid on her tongue.
The booth went completely silent.
Piper froze mid-breath. Her eyes snapped to his face, dropping down to his broad shoulders, then darting back to the certified marriage receipt sitting on the formica between their coffee mugs.
*Wyatt E. Brandt.*
Her eyebrows drew together in a sharp, suspicious v-shape. Her analytical brain, trained to flag anomalous correlations across millions of data points, locked onto him like a radar ping.
“Wait a second,” Piper said slowly, her voice dropping into a tense, interrogative hush. “Your name on the license was Wyatt Brandt.”
Wyatt met her gaze without a flicker of evasion. His heart rate remained completely flat, his hazel eyes cool and unhurried. “It is.”
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