Page 39 of Jett

This is important, Jett.

I didn't read his email. I skimmed through it late last night.

He's offering me ten million dollars if I agree to this arranged marriage, and he wants my answer by the time I return to New York. It sounds like he’s in a rush.

It would be a real marriage, he says. But with no strings attached. Something fake that we’d need to do for a year, but the specific terms of the deal could be ironed out to suit me.

I shiver in disgust.

I couldn’t do that to Brooke.

But she would have a mother.

I don’t want a mother for her to beboughtor temporary. This isn’t what I want for my daughter. Or me. It’s the first time it hits me that money can’t buy everything.

My father’s demands echo in my head, and no matter what I do, it’s never enough. He always talks business, pushing me into meetings I don’t need, deals I’ve already wrapped up. When it comes to control, the man can’t help himself.

I exhale, rubbing my forehead. I’ll deal with this when I return. There’s no point reasoning with him when I’m hundreds of miles away. I’ll kill this idea when I see him next.

As I glance out the window, I feel the heat from the afternoon sun, its rays shining over turquoise waves. This trip should feel like an escape, but it’s already turning into another battlefield—just in a different setting.

I check with my bodyguard. “Has the luggage arrived yet?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve already moved it upstairs.”

“Thank you.”

I head back upstairs. Brooke is still sound asleep in her bed, her little chest rising and falling in steady, peaceful breaths. I lean down, brushing a kiss on her cheek. She doesn’t stir. Good. She needs the rest. Tonight’s barbecue might be more than she can handle.

As I turn, I notice the adjoining door is open. Cari’s standing by the window, staring out at the ocean, completely unaware of me as I observe her. She seems lost in thought, with a dazed expression on her face. I can sense that she feels out of place here, and this might have been too much to put on her. I should have just accepted her resignation instead of binding it to a favor.

Every time we’re in close quarters, something shifts between us. The walls I’ve built around myself are crumbling piece by piece. I clear my throat. “I trust the room is fine?”

She spins around, startled. I didn’t knock. I should have, but there are times when I feel an unspoken connection between us, and I feel it now, on this trip. Sometimes, she just knows I’m there before I say anything. There are too many moments like that lately. Moments I shouldn’t dwell on.

“It’s wonderful.” Her cheeks turn pink like they always do when she’s flustered.

“I gave you this room with the connecting door to Brooke’s. Figured you’d want some privacy, but you’ll still be close enough to check on her.”

Her smile is tight, a little awkward. “This is great. Thank you. It’s … it’s a beautiful place.”

She’s not wrong. The Knight mansion is one of those rare gems, it looks like a spectacular show home but is very much lived in and loved. This place is filled with wonderful memories for being so grand and opulent. The tropical blooms, swaying palm trees, and manicured gardens stretching towards the ocean give it a light and airy feel.

We spent many happy summers here and it makes me think of time spent with my mom, Dex, and Zach. Unfortunately, those memories are faded and blurred. Nothing is in sharp focus. I can barely recall my mom’s face or fine features. It’s all based on what I've seen in old photographs. I do know that it was a happy time. I remember that she looked happy. We looked happy. But all the pictures are of her and us, and our father is not in any of them. There's not a single picture of the two of them together.

Cari lets out a soft, nervous laugh, her hand brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “What’s so funny?” I ask, tilting my head.

“It’s … just that ... what's not to like? My entire apartment could fit in this room.” She gestures around, her eyes wide and filled with that disbelief I’ve seen so many times.

I remember her apartment well. “You think so?”

She gives me a wry smile. “You have no idea how most people live, Mr. Knight.”

Her bluntness catches me off guard, though it shouldn’t. She’s always spoken her mind—about business, at least. But she never comments on personal things. On relationships. On me.

I bite back a sharp retort. “I see the luggage is here,” I say, redirecting the conversation. “Good. You’ll need a change of clothes for tonight.”

She frowns. “I will? For what?”

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