Chapter 1

When I was seven, a single woman brought me home from the orphanage.

My adoptive mother taught me from a young age: "When you date a rich man, the one thing you must never do is fall for real."

"When he loves you, he talks feelings. Only when he stops loving you will he talk money."

At twenty-three, I was delivering flowers to the Hillcrest Estates.

That was when I saw Oliver Stephens climb out of a Maybach and crouch at the roadside in the rain, feeding a stray cat.

That same night, I changed my flower delivery route.

For the next three months, I walked past every day with my armfuls of flowers, and fed the cat along the way.

Oliver asked me why I came by every day.

I smiled and said, "I'm a florist. I have a long-term client over here."

The ninth time we met, he held an umbrella over me.

The seventeenth time, he asked for my number.

After that, we dated for four years.

But Oliver had a flaw. He respected me too much.

He gave his sister eight-figure jewelry, and gave me a ceramic cup he'd cracked in the kiln three times before it finally came out right.

Once, I deliberately stared at a two-million-dollar bag for seven full seconds.

The next day, he gave me a canvas tote he'd sewn himself. Cost: a hundred and sixty-eight dollars.

And he told me earnestly, "Expensive doesn't mean precious." I was so moved I hugged him with tears in my eyes.

Then went home and lay awake all night, furious.

Until the news of Oliver's arranged marriage broke.

That night, he asked to see me.

I put on the white dress he liked best, and before I left I bowed reverently to my adoptive mother's photo.

Mom, you were right.

A man's love has an expiration date, but a breakup fee doesn't.

...

Oliver had booked the restaurant where we'd had our first date.

Four years ago, the first time I sat here, I hadn't dared to drink more than one glass of water.

Not out of nerves.

Mostly because the bottled water on the menu went for eighty-eight.

Now I could order a sixteen-hundred-dollar fish without so much as a flinch.

It was the last meal anyway. Might as well eat up.

Oliver studied me for a while, then finally spoke. "The marriage. You saw it?"

"Mm. Fake?"

"Real."

My hand paused for a second over the fish, then kept cutting.

Good. Straight to the point. No sense letting it ruin my appetite.

Oliver leaned back in his chair, his voice flat. "The Swanson family has a few projects coming up that'll be tied to the Stephens family. My grandfather's health is poor. He wants the marriage settled before the year's out."

"Oh."

"Tilda Henson."

"Mm?"

"You don't have anything you want to ask?"

I thought about it seriously.

"When's the engagement?"

His brows drew down.

"That's all you care about?"

What else? Was I supposed to care how many tables were at the reception, whether there'd be an ex-girlfriend seat set aside for me?

I set down my knife and fork and gave him a smile.

"If I know the date in advance, I can steer clear of the press."

Oliver's face darkened further.

"No one's asking you to steer clear."

"So you want me there?"

"Tilda!"

It was the first time he'd said my name so hard.

I went quiet.

Oliver shut his eyes for a moment, like he was holding something back.

After a while, he reached over and took my hand.

"It's only a marriage. It won't affect us."

I almost thought I'd heard him wrong.

"What do you mean?"

"Michelle Swanson and I each get what we need. After we marry, I won't interfere with her, and she won't interfere with me."

He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"You go on living your life the way you always have."

I stared at him for a long moment. So this was how advanced high-society love was these days. The girlfriend even got pre-marital asset separation.

I slowly pulled my hand back.

"And what does that make me?"

Oliver paused.

"You're still you, of course."

Four words that nearly made me laugh from sheer anger.

"Oliver, can't I just be Tilda? Do I have to moonlight as the other woman too?"

His face went dark in an instant.

"Don't put it so crudely."

"Why be afraid of crude, if it's the truth?"

"Michelle knows about you."

"Wow."

I couldn't help clapping.

"How very big of her."

"Tilda."

There was already a warning in his tone.

I picked up my wineglass and took a sip.

"Then let's break up."

Oliver didn't move.

Several seconds passed before he asked, "What did you say?"

"I said, let's break up."

"Because I'm getting married?"

"Or should it be because you've been losing hair lately?"

His jaw snapped tight.

"I already told you, the marriage won't affect you."

"It will, though."

I looked at him.

"It'll affect me finding the next one."

He stared at me for a long time, then let out a cold laugh.

"The next one? Decided that fast, did you?"

Heavy on the sour. Anyone who didn't know better would think I was the one getting married.

"A person has to look forward."

Oliver slammed his glass down on the table.

Wine splashed across my hand.

When he saw it, he pulled out a napkin on reflex to wipe it for me.

The motion was as careful as ever, but his voice was cold as death.

"Fine. You want out, you can have it. What do you want?"

My eyes lit up at once. Here it came.

This was the line I'd been waiting for.

I quickly opened the notes app on my phone.

"The greenhouse up on the hillside."

Oliver looked up.

"And?"

"Thirty million."

His hand went still.

"Tilda."

"Mm?"

"When did you get so vulgar?"

I blinked.

"I've always been vulgar. Your love filter was just too thick."