Sign the papers, sweetheart, or my father will make sure you never work in

I picked up the pen. Vivian’s smile widened. Julian shifted next to me, his hand finding my knee under the table, squeezing once, an apology I could feel through the silk. I didn’t sign. I turned to the second page, the third, reading every line the way my grandmother taught me to read a contract before she passed, back when she was still cleaning offices in Pittsburgh and saving every dollar she earned. On page seven, I found what I was looking for. I set the pen down. “Mrs. Crestwood,” I said, “this clause references the Crestwood Holdings Trust. The one your late husband restructured in 2019.” Her smile flickered. “That’s none of your concern.” “It is, actually.” I pulled my phone from my clutch and opened an email. “Because my firm was hired last month to audit the building at 442 Park. The one the trust quietly transferred to a shell company three years ago. The same shell company that’s been billing the trust eighteen million in phantom renovations.” The color left her face in stages. Julian stared at me. I’d never told him what I really did, not the boring part, the part where I worked nights doing forensic structural audits for the SEC. “My report goes to the commission Monday morning,” I said softly. “Unless, of course, the trust voluntarily corrects the filings before then. I imagine your son would prefer not to inherit a federal investigation.” Vivian’s hand trembled around her wine glass. “Who are you?” “I’m the woman your son is going to marry,” I said, sliding the unsigned prenup back across the table. “Without this.” Julian started laughing, quiet and stunned, and kissed my temple right there in front of his mother. Vivian sat frozen, pearls rising and falling with each shallow breath. I picked up my menu. “I’ll have the halibut,” I told the waiter. “And Mrs. Crestwood is paying.”