Sienna Monroe pulled her handkerchief from her clutch and dabbed at the thin sheen of sweat forming at her hairline. The morning sun blazed overhead, the light so white it seemed to flatten every contour of the wooden planks beneath her feet. She glanced at the unsteady dais crafted from driftwood on the sandy shore of Martha's Vineyard, heart hammering in her chest. Behind her, a small brass band clanged out the opening chords to "Here Comes the Sun." It was absurd—a wedding in June, heatwarping the shoreline air, bridesmaids in layered chiffon; she could practically smell the sweat and salt of the ocean, but she forced herself to steady her breathing.
A few feet ahead of her, Grayson Cole stood with his back to the turquoise water, hands clasped behind his broad frame. He wore a charcoal-gray linen suit that looked crisply tailored despite the wind whipping at the hem of his jacket. His dark hair—almost black, like melted licorice—was damp at the temples, as if his nerves were causing him to perspire. Sienna swallowed, brushing a strand of chestnut hair behind her ear. She tried to recall Eleanor Monroe's instructions from last night—"Keep your face calm. Don't let them see you sweat" (literally). But her pulse in her throat betrayed her a little, making her feel ridiculous for standing here at all.
Beside Sienna, Lila Benne lit a small hand-held fan. The breeze fluttered the tulle of her cornflower-blue dress. Lila leaned in and whispered, "S, don't go limp on me now. You promised you'd look like you meant it—whatever "it" is." She pressed a damp cloth into Sienna's hand. "Use this for your neck."
Sienna smiled, though it felt forced. Lila squeezed her shoulder. "You got this. Just think salty air, think salty air—like you usually do, not like this is business bullshit."
Sienna took a shuddering breath. "Business bullshit," she murmured. The phrase tasted bitter.
Behind the dais, a cadre of local photographers—tourists with single-lens reflex cameras crammed around their necks—jostled for space. Sienna's mother, Eleanor Monroe, stood a step away from Grayson, watching Sienna with sharp, satisfied eyes. Eleanor's hair was pulled into a tight chignon, speckled with gray like fine ash. She held a small metallic vase of lavender sprigs in one hand; the other rested on Grayson's elbow, as though to steer him if needed.
Sienna forced her shoulders back, stepping onto the dais. The planks beneath her high-heeled sandals felt scorching—she suppressed the urge to grimace. She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders as if bracing for a hawk to swoop down. The wedding officiant, a local justice of the peace who had flown in from Boston, cleared his throat.
"Friends, family, and well-wishers," he began, voice booming over a battered PA system. "We are gathered here this morning to officiate the marriage of Sienna Monroe and Grayson Cole, pursuant to a binding agreement—"
Sienna nearly flinched at the words "binding agreement," but she kept her gaze level. The officiant continued, unmoved. "This union under the laws of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts shall bind the parties in a contractual marriage for a period of one year. At that time, either party may dissolve the marriage—subject to financial terms outlined in their prenuptial agreement."
A tumble of whispered cameras clicked. Someone in the crowd gasped. Sienna's pulse leapt into her throat, but she didn't flinch. Instead, she stood tall, lifted the lace square of her bouffant gown, and took the few steps toward Grayson. The blue of the ocean beyond the dais clashed with the neutral tones of her dress, making the lace seem almost transparent—she felt every eye on her, as though the wind had stripped her of everything except her fear.
Grayson turned to face her, his dark brows drawn together. He took one step toward her, then stopped, as though uncertain whether the next step would be real or just part of a script.
Eleanor stepped forward, placing a gloved hand on Sienna's elbow. "Honey," she murmured—too loud, almost obnoxiously so—"you know what comes next."
Sienna pressed her lips together and let the officiant continue.
"By signing this agreement," he read, "both parties acknowledge that this marriage is entered into for mutual financial benefit, and that neither party is consenting due to feelings of love or affection." He paused, looking up. Officiants don't do that; it felt performative. "Please state your intentions."
Sienna closed her eyes for a second and breathed in through her nose, trying to find a center she didn't feel. "I—" she began, but her voice came out scratchy. She swallowed and tried again: "I intend to uphold this contract for one year, to merge Delacroix Heritage with Cole Industries and ensure its independence within that framework." That was her "I do," said with more spunk than she felt.
Grayson's voice was low when he spoke: "I intend to uphold the terms to integrate Delacroix Heritage into Cole Industries' Everspan portfolio, for a minimum of twelve months. Beyond that, we'll evaluate mutual options."
Sienna forced her gaze to lock on Grayson's. She saw only mirrored calm there, almost mocking. She didn't meet his eyes again as she stepped forward to collect the ring. The officiant offered a small velvet box. Sienna took it with a gloved hand, her fingers shaking.
Grayson slid his thumb under the satin ribbon on the box and offered Sienna a thin band—stainless steel with a tiny inset sapphire. She slipped it onto her ring finger, aware of how heavy the metal felt, how perfectly it fit, like it had been waiting for her hand all along.
She returned the box; now it was Grayson's turn. He looked down at the box in her hand—a slim platinum band engraved with "Delacroix 2024." Whether he noticed the gaze, she couldn't tell. His face was carved from marble. He slid it onto his ring finger, then set his hand flat on the dais, closing his palm in a loose fist around hers. They held hands—her left in his right—for a brief, silent instant. Neither of them squeezed.
The officiant cleared his throat. "By the authority vested in me, I now declare you married—husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."
Grayson pressed his hand against Sienna's hip almost reflexively. Shocked by the sudden surge of warmth in his touch, Sienna lifted her gaze from the floor to his face. For a moment, she thought she heard the ocean behind them hush. He leaned in and brushed his lips against her temple—no fanfare, no flourish, just a ghost of a touch. It felt like an echo of what marriage should be. Sienna let her eyes flutter shut.
A burst of camera shutters cracked like rifles. Someone from the crowd—possibly Tyler Brooks—whispered, "Yeah, that's the shot. That's the money shot." Sienna snapped her eyes open, heart slugging to a stop.
She stepped away from Grayson and motioned for Lila, who pressed her bouquet into Sienna's hands. Lila gave her a tight‐lipped smile. "Play along, Queen Bee," she mouthed.
Sienna forced a small nod and turned to face the crowd. Applause rippled through the onlookers—families of high‐profile investors, press, and a handful of local Martha's Vineyard residents who had rented cameras to "catch a celebrity wedding." She offered a brief curtsey and stepped off the dais, determined to keep her composure.
Behind her, Grayson stood motionless, the officiant's last words echoing: "You are now husband and wife." The salty breeze caught at Sienna's veil, making it swirl around her shoulders like a stormcloud, but she brushed it aside. She had come here—to Massachusetts's storied Vineyard—thinking this would give Delacroix Heritage a shot at survival. She just hadn't realized how quickly her life would feel like it belonged to another person.