Chapter 9:

🍙 🍙 🍙 🍙 🍙

Conrad woke me before sunrise. He was already dressed, already shaved, already holding two cups of coffee, and wearing an expression I’d never seen before: impatience mixed with pure, undisguised excitement. The man who negotiated billion-dollar deals without blinking was nervous about a trip to city hall.

“It opens at nine,” I mumbled, pulling the covers over my head.

“If we leave now, we’ll be first in line.”

“It’s five-thirty in the morning.”

“Exactly. Get up.”

We were, in fact, first in line.

The clerk handed us the marriage certificate with the bored efficiency of someone who processed a hundred of these a week. To her, it was a form. To Conrad, it was apparently the Holy Grail. He held it at arm’s length, studied it, read every line twice, then held it closer and read it again. The normally unreadable businessman stood in the fluorescent-lit corridor of the municipal building, gazing at a government-issued document with more tenderness than most people reserve for love letters.

Then he did something extraordinary. He took out his phone, photographed the certificate, and posted it on social media. Conrad Hadley, who guarded his private life the way dragons guard treasure, announced his marriage to the internet. No caption, no explanation. Just the photo.

I was still processing this when I heard the argument.

Across the corridor, near the building’s entrance, Phoebe was crouched on the marble floor. Her knees were drawn to her chest, her hair fell across her face, and she was crying with the ugly, heaving desperation of someone who has run out of strategies. Vaughn sat in his car outside, visible through the glass doors, engine running.

“I can accept not having a wedding for now.” Her voice was wrecked, raw in the way that performance can’t fake. “I’m not even asking for anything in return. I just want a marriage certificate. Is that too much to ask?”

Vaughn didn’t get out of the car. He rolled down the window far enough for his voice to carry.

“I already told you: as soon as you give me a son, I’ll give you an entire mansion if you want. That paper is nothing more than that. A paper. Our relationship is so good, what does it matter whether we have it or not?”

𝗥e𝖺𝖽 𝗍he 𝘭𝘢𝘵𝖾ѕ𝘵 tr𝘦𝗇𝘥𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗀a𝗅ոо𝘃е𝘭ѕ.𝗰𝗼𝗆
Phoebe’s fingers curled against the marble. “Just a paper…”

Then the grief burned off and rage took its place. She scrambled to her feet.

“But that paper is what I want!”

Vaughn’s patience, always thin, snapped cleanly.

“If you insist on marrying me today, then sign the prenuptial agreement. But then, even if you give me a son, you won’t get anything.”

He rolled the window up. The car pulled away from the curb, and Phoebe stood alone on the steps of the municipal building, watching it disappear into traffic. Her shoulders shook. She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes.

“Why? Why does Freya get everything so easily, while I have to calculate every move and still can’t get shit?”

When she lowered her hands and opened her eyes, she saw us. Conrad and me, side by side, the marriage certificate still in his hand. Her gaze traveled from his face to mine, from the ring on my finger to the document, and her expression went through something I can only describe as a controlled demolition. Every emotion collapsed inward until only one remained.

She waited until Conrad turned away. Then she stepped close enough for only me to hear.

“I’m warning you seriously. If I’m not happy, you won’t be either.”

Her voice was steady. This wasn’t Phoebe performing, Phoebe scheming, Phoebe angling for sympathy. This was a woman stating a fact about herself, and I believed her.

I wanted peace. I’d wanted it since the beginning, since before the destroyed room and the boiling water and the lies at the dinner table. But Phoebe didn’t want peace. She wanted to win, and if she couldn’t win, she wanted everyone to lose alongside her.

So I made a choice.

That evening, I sat on the couch with two phones and a plan. First, I had someone spoof Vaughn’s number and send a message to Darcy, one of Phoebe’s friends from the attack on my room. The message was simple: “7 PM, The Grandview Hotel, room 101.”

Then I used Conrad’s phone to send the same room number to Vaughn.

Finally, from my own phone, I sent the room number to Phoebe: “8 PM, The Grandview Hotel, room 101.”

Vaughn would arrive at seven. Darcy would arrive at seven. And Phoebe would arrive at eight, one hour into whatever she’d find behind that door.

I set both phones on the coffee table and leaned back.

Conrad, reading on the other end of the couch, glanced over.

“You look pleased with yourself.”

“I’m just having a good day.”

He studied me for a moment, then went back to his book. He knew better than to ask.

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