Page 6 of Real Fake Husband

“Of course.” Vance opens the folder and shuffles a few papers around. “In her will, Mrs. Blanche Ashford named you both as the inheritors of the sum of her estate, which includes this apartment, her storage locker in Queens, and a total of approximately 1.5 million dollars—”

“I’m sorry,howmuch?” Josie asks, her eyes wide.

There it is. Initially, Vance spoke of a “hefty amount.” I’m also surprised, but have a much better poker face. I knew Gran was well-off. She always told me not to make a fuss when I took care of her bills and hired a maid to clean for her. But I never realized the extent of her finances. That being said, $750,000 won’t change my life. Then again, I’m not here for the money. I’m here because I can’t say no to Gran’s last wish. It’s what she wanted, and I would never forgive myself for ignoring it.

Judging by the look on Josephine’s face and the fact that she’s willing to go through with this arrangement, she needs the money way more than I do.

“One-point-five million dollars,” Vance repeats. “As you know, I was instructed not to disclose the amount until both parties were present.”

“Go on, Vance,” I order.

“I know I spoke to you both separately, but it’s crucial that we’re all on the same page and there are no misunderstandings. The sum is to be split equally between Callum Ashford and Josephine Graham upon the completion of one month of marriage. The marriage must be conducted by Mr. Vance Lombardi of Sanford & Partners. Both parties must remain married and living together in Mrs. Blanche Ashford’s Twenty-third Street apartment for the entire thirty days. Neither party is allowed to renovate or change the furniture due to the value of the apartment. Only after the month is complete will both parties receive their half of the inheritance and the keys to the storage locker.”

“Wait,” Josie interrupts, drumming her fingers on the table. “We’re not allowed to renovate or change the furniture? We can’t even move furniture around or buy new things?”

“That was Mrs. Ashford’s wish, yes.” Vance gives a nod. “I trust you will respect her wishes.”

“Of course. No problem, but it’s rather…odd.”

Crazy is the word she’s looking for. This whole thing is batshit crazy. Although, when I think about it a bit, the furniture and renovation thing is weird, but not surprising. Dear old Gran was an eccentric and loved her antiques.

“Seems clear enough,” I say, finally looking at Josephine.

She’s staring at me, and her mind seems to be racing a million miles a second. She nods.

Vance draws out a single sheet of paper from a manila folder, and a pen from the front pocket of his suit jacket. He clicks it and holds it out. “Everything is taken care of. I just need you two to sign on the bottom line, and you’ll officially be married.”

I take the pen first, scribbling my signature with practiced ease before pushing the page toward Josephine. I hold out the pen for her.

Her eyes meet mine, and she seems to ponder.

What? Has she changed her mind? If she’s still the Nosy Josie I know, then she’s weighed the pros and cons a hundred times over. Why is she hesitating now?

When she reaches for it, our fingers brush. It’s only for a second—just the tiniest touch. But it’s enough for me to feel a spark—of something—but not the good kind. My nerves come alive, and my focus narrows in on nothing but her. Did she feel it too? If she did, she doesn’t show it. Annoying as ever. This month is going to be a nightmare, just like I thought it would be.

She snatches the pen from me and signs her name.

Done. She drops it and pushes the paper back to Vance.

“By the power vested in me by the state of New York, I now pronounce you husband and wife,” he says, gathering the paperwork. “Congratulations.”

“What happens if either one of us doesn’t go through with it?” she asks. “You know, moves out before the month is over?”

“Ah, right. Should either party violate Mrs. Blanche Ashford’s last wish, the money goes to”—he flips through his papers—“Mr. Chad Turtlemaw.”

“Who the hell is that?” I ask, slightly irritated.

“Mr. Turtlemaw runs a small YouTube channel about endangered algae and desires to create a heartfelt animated film about them, which requires him to own a custom eighty-two-foot cruising yacht, as well as a film production studio,” Vance explains matter-of-factly.

What the…? I raise my eyebrow, dumbfounded. I’ve never even heard of this guy.

“Evidently,” Vance continues without batting an eyelash, “your late grandmother was a huge fan of his work, and if you or Ms. Graham renege on the arrangement, there are explicit instructions to give the money—the full amount—to Mr. Turtlemaw.”

That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. A heartfeltanimatedfilm about algae? Okay, I’m all for saving the environment and shit, but how the fuck do you save the environment on a huge-ass luxury yacht? Eighty-two-foot! That’s not a yacht, that’s a fucking palace.

But honestly, it doesn’t surprise me. I told you she was eccentric.

Vance doesn’t stick around after that. He’s gone about two minutes later—not before wishing us good luck and expressing his sincere hope to see us here again on the last day of this month, with the annulment papers ready—leaving me and Josephine behind to process what just happened.

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