CHAPTER THREE: HER PRICE ISN’T MONEY MAREN POV

Stellan’s blue-grey eyes remained fixed on me, evaluating the sudden intensity in my stance with the rapid precision of an executive used to managing volatile assets. “Yes,” he said, his voice controlled and deep. “If those records fall within the approved scope of the governance review.”

“And who decides the scope?” I asked, refusing to let my posture break.

“Legal drafts it,” he replied, leaning back slightly against the edge of his mahogany desk. “I authorize it.”

Of course he did. He held the keys to the entire corporate vault. “Then I want that access explicitly included in writing,” I said, stepping closer to the desk.

His expression shifted, a subtle hardening taking hold along his jaw. “You haven’t agreed to marry me, Maren.”

“No,” I replied cleanly. “I’m telling you one of the non-negotiable conditions under which I would even consider it.”

“That sounds dangerously close to a negotiation.”

“It sounds like I’m walking out that door.” I turned toward the heavy timber exit, reaching for the brass handle.

“Maren.” I stopped, looking back over my shoulder as he commanded, “Tomorrow morning. Nine o'clock.”

“You already gave me a deadline.”

“I’m giving you a meeting time,” he corrected without a single trace of hesitation. “Bring your lawyer.”

That was the first sensible thing he had said since proposing marriage. “I will.” I stepped out into the quiet corridor and left before he could turn the interaction into another executive order he expected me to obey.

By the time I reached the private elevator bank, my heart was beating far too fast. Four million dollars. Twelve months. A legally binding marriage to Stellan Thayer. And unrestricted access to corporate records that might contain the long-buried truth about my father. My answer should have remained an absolute no—money alone would never have been enough to change my mind. Four million dollars could replace the lost Mercer account and insulate my firm for years, but it wasn't the reason I had paused at his office door.

It was the historical corporate records. For twelve years, I had searched for answers whenever I thought no one was paying attention—sifting through public SEC filings, archived courtroom transcripts, and old news articles. I had searched line by line for anything that could explain how Gareth Bellamy had gone from a brilliant financial director to the man blamed for millions in fraudulent vendor payments. I had found endless questions, but never answers. Now those answers might be sitting inside a restricted archive that only a member of the Thayer family could unseal, and Stellan had just offered to hand me the keys.

I called my attorney, Tessa Grant, from the back seat of my car on the drive home. She answered on the fourth ring. “If this is about the Mercer Biomedical renewal, I’m in court until four.”

“It isn’t.”

“What happened?”

“I received a marriage proposal from a client,” I said.

A long silence stretched over the line. “I’m sorry, what?”

“He needs voting shares to stop a board takeover.”

“That did not make the situation sound any better.”

“I know.” I glanced out the rear window at the looming glass facade of the Thayer Rivington tower as the car merged into the avenue traffic. “It's Stellan Thayer.”

The silence lasted much longer this time. “Tell me you said no,” Tessa said flatly.

“I told him I would bring my lawyer to his office at nine tomorrow morning.”

“That isn’t a no,” she noted. When I didn't counter, she asked, “What do you want out of the agreement?”

That was precisely why I had called her. Tessa was a ruthless corporate attorney who rarely wasted time asking what a client felt when the only useful question was what they intended to achieve.

“I want my company, my personal finances, and my career completely insulated,” I said. “I want to keep my apartment, and I want every public obligation strictly defined in advance.”

“Reasonable. Standard prenuptial terms.”

“And I want a formal, authorized position in their historical compliance review.”

Tessa went completely quiet. She knew enough about my father’s case to understand the implication immediately. “Maren, that could give you direct access to old internal files connected to Gareth.”

“Possibly.”

“Does Stellan know that is why you’re demanding the position?”

“He knows Gareth was my father.”

“That was not my question.”

I looked out at the passing streetlights. “No.”

“You understand the legal exposure here, don't you?” Tessa warned softly. “You would be entering a marriage partly to obtain confidential records your future husband doesn't know you are searching for.”

“I only want to see whether internal documents support the board's public version of what happened.”

“And if they don’t?”

“I don’t know.” It was a lie. If the records proved my father was framed, I would burn down whichever board member had set him up.

Tessa knew me too well to believe my answer, but she didn't waste breath arguing. “Send me whatever summary he handed you. I’ll meet you in his lobby tomorrow.”

At eight fifty-eight the following morning, Tessa and I walked into the main boardroom on the executive floor of Thayer Rivington. Stellan was already seated at the head of the long conference table. Opposite him sat Martin Hale, the firm’s senior outside counsel. A clean draft of the preliminary agreement waited in front of every empty chair. Mine was already covered in yellow sticky notes and Tessa’s handwritten red ink.

Stellan glanced from the annotated pages up to my face. “You’ve been busy.”

“You told me to bring a lawyer.”

“I did.”

“You should be more careful with your invitations.”

Martin hid a subtle smile behind his tablet. Tessa didn't bother hiding hers at all as she took her seat and opened her leather briefcase. “We have extensive amendments.”

“I assumed you would,” Stellan replied smoothly. He sat back, looking as immaculate and controlled as he had yesterday—no visible sign that he had proposed a fake marriage to a crisis consultant without legal pre-approval. I hated that I’d spent half the night staring at my ceiling while he looked like he’d slept nine uninterrupted hours.

Tessa laid out her clean copy. “First: Bellamy Risk Consulting remains Maren’s sole property before, during, and after the marriage. Any appreciation in its valuation belongs exclusively to her. Her business revenue, investments, and personal assets remain separate, with the same protection applying to any future entity she establishes.”

“Agreed,” Stellan said instantly, ignoring the brief look Martin cast his way.

“Maren retains her personal apartment.”

Stellan leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms against the dark mahogany table. “You would be required to live primarily at my residence to satisfy the trust examiners.”

“Primarily,” I countered. “That doesn't mean surrendering the only home that actually belongs to me.”

“The trustees may question why my wife maintains a separate property.”

“Then explain to them that your wife had a life before she met you.”

A faint shadow of a smile touched his mouth. “I won’t ask you to sell it.”

Tessa turned the page. “All public obligations must be scheduled in advance. No surprise media appearances or corporate galas unless there is a genuine emergency.”

“What qualifies as genuine?” Stellan asked.

“Anything that threatens the company, the trust, or either party’s reputation,” I replied.

“You’re a crisis manager, Maren. You can make almost anything sound like an emergency.”

“That is precisely why you’re marrying me.”

Martin looked down at his notes, clearing his throat as Tessa continued. “Maren retains absolute control over her clients, employees, and operations. Stellan may not contact her clients or use Thayer Rivington’s influence to interfere in her business.”

Stellan’s posture straightened, his focus sharpening. “That is unusually specific.”

“It needs to be,” I said. “I’m ensuring you never start.”

For a long moment, neither of us looked away until he said quietly, “Agreed.”

“No access to each other’s private accounts,” Tessa added. “No joint liabilities without written consent. Maren will also retain her name professionally.”

“I wasn’t going to ask her to change it,” Stellan said.

“You won’t mind that I remain Maren Bellamy?” I asked.

Something unreadable crossed his face—a brief, dark flash before his expression smoothed over. “No.”

The name sat heavily between us: Bellamy. The exact surname his board had spent twelve years dragging through the mud.

Tessa moved to the final major rider. “Maren must be formally appointed to the historical compliance review as an authorized participant, with the exact same access granted to independent audit consultants.”

Martin stopped writing immediately. “That is significantly broader than standard spousal conflict disclosure.”

“That is the condition,” Tessa stated without warmth.

Stellan addressed me directly across the table. “Why do you require equal access to historical files?”

I had rehearsed the answer five times in the car. “Because I am attaching my name and my firm publicly to yours. Yesterday, an anonymous email cost me a major client simply because of my father’s history here. If I become your wife, that target becomes thirty feet tall.”

“That explains auditing current liabilities,” Stellan noted. “It also explains knowing which old problems could be weaponized against us tomorrow.”

Martin leaned back in his leather chair. “The historical review contains internal investigations and former executive personnel files.”

“I handle confidential data for a living, Mr. Hale.”

Stellan maintained his steady, quiet focus on me. “You disclosed Gareth’s history before we signed your first retainer,” he said softly. “And you have never allowed it to compromise your work.”

A sharp spike of guilt hit me. He was making my own argument for me, trusting me with the exact doorway I intended to use against his company. “No,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “I haven't.”

It was technically true. I had never compromised my professional work; what I intended to do with the archived files was a separate matter.

Stellan turned to his attorney. “Give her the appointment. Give her the same access as the independent audit team. Anything beyond that can require dual authorization.”

“The trustees might raise questions,” Martin cautioned.

“Then tell them I want my wife fully informed of the organization she is entering.”

My wife. I looked down at the contract before he could read the reaction in my eyes.

Tessa made one final check mark. “The four-million-dollar compensation remains guaranteed regardless of the board vote outcome, and regardless of who files for dissolution after twelve months—barring proven fraud or criminal misconduct.”

“Agreed,” Stellan said without hesitation.

The word fraud felt far sharper than it should have.

Tessa slid the final document toward me. “The principal terms are set.”

I picked up the pen, reading each page line by line. Signing felt vastly different from debating hypotheticals. Once my signature was on that parchment, I was no longer considering an absurd proposal—I was agreeing to marry Stellan Thayer. For his company, according to him. For my firm, according to the contract. For my father, according to the secret I hadn't shared with anyone in the room except my lawyer.

Stellan watched my hand. “You can still walk away, Maren.”

It was the only thing he had said all morning that made signing easier. He wasn't pretending I had no choice. I brought the pen to the line and signed Maren Bellamy. My signature looked clean and steady, even if my hands were cold.

Stellan pulled the document toward himself and signed cleanly beneath my name. Martin gathered the signed copies, but before I could pull my hand back, Stellan reached across the table and covered it with his own. His grip was warm, solid, and firm—far too personal for a corporate meeting room.

“Signing is the easy part,” he said softly.

I looked down at his hand over mine. “What is the difficult part?”

His thumb moved once against my skin. “Now we have to convince the rest of the world that we actually chose each other.”