1
Walker
My gaze flicked over the neatly tri-folded stack of paper for the dozenth time, the inside of my cheek gripped firmly between my teeth as I chewed in contemplation. Nothing in the will had changed since it’d first been read to me by my father’s lawyer just days following his passing.
The Times New Roman font splashed over the yellowed letterhead read as ominously now as it had the first time.
‘…and finally, to my son, Walker Prince. I would like see him with controlling interest—my interest—in Royal Technology. But this controlling share must come with something more important: a wife with whom to share his wealth and prosperity as I once did with my own, who—’
I stopped reading then, giving a scoff. I’d been doing that a lot lately, every time I decided to torture myself by re-reading my father’s last words. Just like him, to bring my mother into this, too. As if that justified this sham of a last will and testament. What was this, some cheesy B-grade rom-com? When had the old man gotten so damn sentimental?
And now his sentimentality was being foisted upon me in the most ill-conceived plot-twist of anyone’s life.
I sighed and tossed the will down on the large mahogany desk in my office. It was a good goddamn thing Grant, my best friend, partner in crime—and the only person outside the family lawyer who knew about this ridiculous situation—wasn’t here. He found the whole thing entirely too fucking funny.
“Damn, I guess your father had a sense of humor after all. You? Married? Ha!”
Dick.
I shook my head ruefully, running a hand through my hair. Shit. He wouldn’t be laughing so hard if it were him. Grant could barely keep it in his pants; let him attempt a solid commitment for once.
Why hadn’t my father made this stipulation while he was alive? At least then it wouldn’t fall on me to do this hastily. The will clearly stipulated that I would be unable to claim my inheritance without proof of marriage. I hated the last-minute, rushed foolishness that this was—and apparently, it was all fully fucking legal, every ‘i’ dotted and every ‘t’ crossed. There wasn’t a single damn loophole to be found. Believe me, I had checked.
A buzzing sounded over my intercom, pulling me from my prolonged internal grumbling. Good—a distraction.
“Midday cleaning is heading up, Mr. Prince.”
“Thanks, Anna. Send them on in.”
I re-folded the discarded will and shoved it into my desk drawer, indulging in a brief daydream where the whole thing spontaneously combusted and released me from my father’s ridiculous obligations. But instead of going up in a well-timed inferno, the letter just sat peacefully in the drawer, taunting me.
I leaned back in my office chair, gaze cast up at the ceiling. Maybe I could find a way out of this. There had to be some way…
“Hello? Excuse me, sir.” A soft knock sounded at the door, and then it creaked as it opened. “I’m Mackenzie Henson, here to do the cleaning?”
I blinked and sat up so fast I nearly got whiplash as soon as I heard the name.
Ho-ly shit. Mackenzie Henson. I’d know that name anywhere, and as soon as I saw her, I knew it wasn’t just my brain making up a reason to slip back into the past.
It was really her.
She stood across from me, in a prim and proper black and white A-line dress and pristine white shoes. Her ebony hair, usually down and framing her face, was pulled back into a high ponytail. And—oh, sweet fucking hell, her face. I remembered it rounded with the faintest trim of baby fat years ago in high school, but now her cheek bones were high, colored slightly with a dusting of rosy blush, lips full and painted a respectable red.
And those eyes. Emerald greens more beautiful than any jewel worn by the wealthy elites of New York City, piercing in their black eyeliner frames. They were wide as dinner plates at the moment, as she stared back at me in disbelief. She stood like a statue titled Woman In Shock in the middle of my office, the cart of cleaning supplies just behind her.
“Mackenzie?”
I almost couldn’t get the word out. Surely, she was a ghost. An apparition.
“Walker…?”