Page 2 of The Billionaire's Pawfect Match

“However,” he continues, “there is a condition attached to your inheritance.”

A pause, and then the absurdity hits: “In order to fully assume control of the company, you are required to take care of Baxter, your father’s golden retriever.”

The words hang between us, a cruel joke masquerading as a legal stipulation. My jaw clenches, eyes narrowing. That dog, the favored “son,” the recipient of all the affection and pride I spent a lifetime chasing. It’s a final test, a challenge from the grave. Dad always said Baxter had a knack for spotting character. What does it say about mine that I don’t like that dog one bit — that I would drop him off at an animal shelter before I so much as patted him on the head?

“Take care of him?” I repeat, the question a bitter echo. Carol’s hand finds my arm under the table, a silent reminder for me to control my temper.

My exhale burns my nostrils, and I do my best to keep my cool. Yelling at the lawyer will do no good. In fact, it might only delay this meeting — one which has suddenly and disappointingly turned on its head.

“Indeed,” Mr. Harrington confirms, either oblivious or indifferent to the turmoil churned up by the clause. “It was your father’s belief that Baxter’s companionship would be… beneficial for you.”

Beneficial. As if the void left by a titan can be filled by a creature whose greatest concern is the next belly rub or tossed ball. Yetthere it is, the absurd gauntlet thrown down by a man who no longer breathes yet still commands obedience.

“May I have a moment?” The words are icy as they slip from my lips.

There’s a collective inhale from the lawyers, as if my request is unreasonable and they can’t believe I would dare steal precious time from them. I know they would much rather get this meeting over with, but unfortunately for them they have no other choice.

“Of course.” Mr. Harrington’s eyebrows rise just slightly, revealing his surprise. I’m sure he’s thinking I must be crazy to not immediately agree to the terms laid forth.

But, despite being a lot of things, I am not my father’s puppet. Not since I was ten and learned that I could never truly count on him. I am my own person, my own man, and I will not be yanked around. I stand, nodding at Carol, silently asking her to join me.

We step out into the adjoining antechamber, the heavy door muffling the murmurs we leave behind. I pace the carpet, my hands balling into fists.

“Isaac…” Her brow furrows in concern. “It is a strange ask; I understand…”

I face the window, the city skyline blurring as I blink rapidly. “He’s doing it again,” I murmur, more to myself than to her. “Dangling what I want most with strings attached.”

“Strings?” she questions softly.

“Chains,” I correct, my reflection’s eyes darkening. “He knew how much I wanted… no,neededthis.” My hand flattens against the cool glass, the city sprawling beyond; so close, yet now gated by an unforeseen keeper. “It’s Baxter or nothing.”

Carol shifts closer. “It’s just a dog, Isaac. And isn’t this — running Lennox Realty — what you’ve been working toward your entire life?”

She’s right, of course. It’s only Baxter. A golden retriever with no concept of the empire he’s now entwined with. How difficult could it be to fulfill this one last request? Yet, it feels like a leash around my neck, a reminder of every hoop jumped, every approval never quite caught, regardless of my leaps.

“Fine,” I exhale, turning from the cold pane. I need to get it together. “Let’s go back in.”

Together, we reenter the boardroom where the lawyers wait with grumpy expressions.

“I’ll do it,” I say, and it’s as if I can hear the chain links rattle.

My father’s final test, perhaps, or his ultimate lesson. Even in death, Robert Lennox is able to remind me that all things come at a price. Baxter’s care is mine to shoulder now, along with the colossal responsibility of an empire.

“Very well, then,” Mr. Harrington says as I take the pen, its touch cold against my skin. “Taking care of a dog can’t be too burdensome, surely.”

The statement hangs in the air — a question, a challenge, a taunt — and as I scrawl my name across the document’s line, I have to wonder just how heavy this new collar will feel.

CHAPTER 2

EMILY

Crouching down, my knees pressed into the cool concrete floor of the shelter, I reach out slowly toward Finn. The pit bull mix gazes back at me with eyes filled with worry, his body tense as a wound spring. He’s come a long way since he first arrived here — skinny, skittish, and scarred not just on the surface.

“Easy, Finn,” I murmur, my voice as soft as the late afternoon light spilling through the high windows. “You’re doing so good, buddy.”

A small wag teases the end of his tail, a hopeful flicker that tells me he’s starting to trust this place — and maybe even me.

As I run my hand over his sleek brindle coat, I feel the ripple of muscles under my fingers, the quiet strength in him waiting to emerge. But it’s like there’s a shadow over him that dims the brightness of his intelligence — the anxiety that makes everything harder than it should be.

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