**Chapter 4: DRED** "What brings you here?" I stood in the doorway of my apartment, disbelief swirling in my stomach. Connor Grace loomed before me, a figure carved from shadows and light. His dark hair was immaculately styled, and his steel-gray eyes pierced through me with an intensity that made the world around us fade. Clad in black boots, dark-wash denim, and a snug black shirt, he appeared untouched by the summertime warmth, as if he were a sculpture created for a different season entirely. Beneath that shirt was a canvas adorned with mesmerizing artwork—a glimpse I had caught from afar during Tristan’s wedding in Aruba this summer. Beautiful, yes, but also entirely out of place in this dimly lit hallway, even more so in Lucy’s lavish home, where he seemed to fit just a touch better. I cast a furtive glance past him, noticing Flip’s door across the hall, suddenly aware of how precarious our situation felt in this moment. "I need to talk to you," Connor articulated, his tone dismissive yet undeniably firm. The very air shifted as my thoughts spiraled, his trained gaze dropping to Dewey, the hedgehog cradled in the crook of my arm. "What the heck is that?" "Dewey. My pet hedgehog," I replied, tugging him into the sanctuary of my apartment, swiftly shutting the door behind us. I had enough chaos in my life already without the two of them engaging in a fistfight on my doorstep. More urgently, a gut-wrenching fear gnawed at me—what if something had happened between Callie’s hockey game last night and now? The mere thought of Lucy in danger sent panic racing through my veins, but Connor’s presence offered a glimmer of relief; he didn’t appear shattered, though the prospect of losing her would leave wounds on both our souls. “Is Lucy okay?” I dared to ask, my heart thrumming with anxiety. “For now,” he replied, and the weight of his words crashed over me like a tidal wave. He clasped his hands behind his neck, allowing his gaze to wander through my small apartment, not with judgment, but with an air of curiosity—as if he sought insight into my world through its remnants. The clutter around me bore a testament to a life constructed by memories, mostly old books and board games that had once filled my grandmother’s home. When I inherited the space after her passing, I clung to these artifacts, unwilling to let go of the shared history that bound us, a fragile tether to her. “Let me put Dewey away,” I said, crossing the room to his condo, gently placing him inside before turning back towards Connor. “What do you need to talk to me about?” My hands danced nervously between crossing and uncrossing my arms. “Can I get you something to drink?” I asked, already moving toward the kitchen—a mere three steps away—and peering into the refrigerator as if it held the answers to my spiraling thoughts. Water, a single can of obscure lemon-lime soda, sweet strawberry cordial, and two light beers stared back at me. I grasped the beers with determination; Connor’s presence could mean trouble, and it was best to brace myself. I uncapped both bottles, handing him one as I chugged half of my own, wincing at the bitter taste. Connor set his beer on the table, his expression suddenly grave. “Please show me the letter that fell out of your purse when you were at Meems’s the other night.” Not this again. “Why do you want to see it?” I pressed, irritation bubbling beneath the surface. “Because I want to read the entire thing,” he insisted, eyes fixated on mine with an intensity that was unmistakable. “You already know the gist. What more could you possibly need to know?” I countered, confusion intermingling with curiosity. “Because I do,” he repeated, unyielding. As frustrating as this conversation was, I found myself too intrigued by his sudden appearance in my life to simply dismiss him. Reluctantly, I fished the crumpled letter from my purse, placing it in his hands. I had taken it to a lawyer that very day, and the crushing weight of reality had hit hard when he confirmed its legitimacy—a conversation that had been both expensive and agonizing. Connor examined the letter with an intensity that made my heart race. His brows furrowed like storm clouds encroaching on a clear day, and tempered steel flickered in his eyes as they lifted to mine. “Who else knows about this?” “No one,” I admitted, though doubt tainted the assurance in my voice. I had nearly considered confiding in Lexi, given that her father was an esteemed lawyer in New York, yet tied to Flip; I didn’t want this burden to taint any of our friendships. “Why haven’t you asked Flip for help?” Connor’s voice broke through my thoughts, probing deeper. “I won’t do that,” I replied, my conviction solidifying. “Why not?” he pressed, his curiosity shifting into concern. “Because it would change our relationship, and I don’t want that—for either of us,” I explained, the truth blunt and raw. “Do you love him?” His question cut through the air, instant and sharp. “Yes,” I admitted reluctantly. “Like family, but I’m not in love with him.” Connor studied me with a discerning gaze. He had clearly heard the whispers of our friends, who had often speculated about our bond. But this was a line I wouldn’t cross; I cherished Flip too much to let anything jeopardize our friendship. “It seems you also care about my Meems,” he remarked suddenly, shifting the conversation in an unexpected direction. “Of course. She’s been coming to the library for ages,” I replied, momentarily bewildered. “You have lunch with her every week.” “I do," I confirmed, a hint of pride leaking through my defense. “Do you love her like family too?” he asked, tilting his head slightly as he regarded me. I bit my lip, aware that admitting this might feel like revealing a vulnerable weak spot. But Connor’s keen observations weren’t lost on him. He nodded as if he were piecing together a puzzle—and I could see the gears churning behind those penetrating eyes. “I have a proposition for you.” His words hung heavy in the air, and immediate alarm bells rang in my mind. “That sounds ominous,” I replied, wary of the intricacies that often accompanied such offers. “It’s not ideal, but it will solve your problem,” he said, voice low and serious. “However, it will create a few new ones.” “Isn’t that always the way?” I muttered, skepticism threading through my tone. “Basically, yeah.” He crossed his arms tightly, a frown creasing his forehead. “My Meems adores you.” My heart fluttered at the thought; hearing him call his grandmother ‘Meems’ warmed something deep within me. “We’ve already established I adore her back,” I said, frowning. “I don’t see how that solves my problem.” He exhaled heavily, and I could see the tension lacing his jaw. “Without surgery, she has at most a year—maybe a bit longer if she’s careful. But her immune system is struggling—she could succumb to something as simple as the flu at any moment.” My stomach plummeted. “She’s that immunocompromised?” I gasped, a fresh wave of concern washing over me. How could she even come to the library, often swarmed with germ-laden, adorable children? He nodded gravely, and a well of sorrow pooled within me. I wanted to comfort him, maybe even offer a hug, but the thought of physical contact sent my heart racing in a direction I didn't want it to go. “You have nothing to apologize for. You didn’t do this to her,” he said, as if sensing my distress. Rolling his shoulders back, he steeled himself for what came next. “She wants to see me married and settled before she passes. She’s been quite adamant about me pursuing you.” My breath caught in my throat. “If you become my wife, it would not only bring her joy, but also solve your financial issues.” “How would marrying you solve my financial problems?” I asked, incredulity woven through my thoughts. “My family comes from money,” he stated bluntly, and for a fleeting moment, shock enveloped me completely. He wasn’t joking. The profound sincerity etched on his features revealed the truth that lay beneath. “But… until yesterday, we barely even spoke,” I managed, grappling with the absurdity of his proposal. “We don’t even like each other!” “I don’t dislike you,” he countered, averting his gaze as he swallowed hard. “Not disliking me is not the same as liking me,” I pointed out, daring him to dispute it. He shifted his weight, his posture signaling a vulnerability that belied the bravado he embodied. “I enjoy sitting beside you at Callie’s games,” he admitted shyly. “In silence,” I replied pointedly, not unkindly. “Sometimes silence is better than words,” he replied, a glimmer of resignation in his voice. The weight of his history hung in the air, a man hardened by the hatred of many—everyone, it seemed, except his ‘Meems’ and an adoring nine-year-old fan. “I will hire the top lawyer in the city to handle this for you,” he said firmly, holding the letter from my landlord up as if it were a shield. “I will cover all legal costs and any rent owed on the apartment. Plus, every single month we’re together—thirty days post-engagement—I will give you a quarter of a million dollars. When Meems passes”—he crossed himself as if warding off evil—“we will annul the marriage, and you will be free to live your life.” The proposal hung in the air, both staggering and sobering. The thought of Meems’ passing sent fresh waves of grief crashing onto my shores. If I accepted this twisted bargain, I would emerge with a small fortune—three million dollars—enough to liberate me from my financial struggles. “What’s the catch?” I asked, my heart racing, aware of the myriad complications bound to arise from this odd alliance. Connor frowned, his features hardening with the weight of truth. “You’ll be married to me for an undetermined time. It could be a matter of months, or it could stretch longer if something miraculous happens. You’ll also meet my family, who, to put it bluntly, loathe me almost as much as my teammates. That’s a significant catch.” He was painfully aware of the gravity of his offer, the unwavering rigidity of his exterior revealing a vulnerability I hadn’t anticipated. This wasn’t just a simple financial transaction; it was a gamble steeped in emotional stakes. Yet, it also illuminated a profound kindness in Connor—a desire to bring happiness to his grandmother, even if it was through an unconventional arrangement. “You said annul,” I reminded him, heart racing with unexpected anticipation. “That’s correct,” he replied, eyes momentarily flickering with concentration. “Which means… no consummating the marriage,” I clarified, my cheeks warming unexpectedly. Why were parts of me feeling a stirred excitement? He cleared his throat, averting his eyes again. “You would be under no contractual obligation to do so, though there may be moments when you’ll have to kiss me,” he warned, a hint of mischief creeping into his tone. “Like during the wedding,” I confirmed, a nervous laugh escaping my lips. He nodded. “Like the wedding.” “I assume you have some sort of legal contract prepared?” I queried, suspicion skimming the surface of my thoughts. Connor didn’t strike me as someone who would approach a matter this serious without adequate preparation. From his pocket, he produced a plain envelope and extended it toward me. “You should read it. I’ve had it drafted.” Taking a seat at the kitchen table, I scrutinized the contract he had handed me, pouring over its contents twice while Connor stood nearby, arms crossed, his expression betraying a calm detachment that contradicted the subtle tapping of his thumbs against his biceps. “If you agree, we would aim for a brief engagement,” he suggested quietly. “Won’t your Meems find that suspicious?” I asked, concern threading through my question. My friends would definitely have their suspicions. He glanced away, almost sheepishly. “I might have mentioned something about us sitting together at Callie’s games.” “You mean the few times we sat side by side?” I clarified, eyebrow raised. He dipped his chin, clearly expecting me to draw my own conclusions. That maybe, somehow, our routine attendance at these games was the foundation for a heated love affair—or something deeper. But perhaps his quiet company during those chaotic childhood hockey games held more significance than I’d realized. If I agreed, I would not only retain my apartment but also the newfound family I had fought so hard to build. The idea of relocating to afford lower rent was swiftly diminishing. Yes, Flip would be furious once he found out it was Connor, his resentment palpable, but he would come around; he always did. He loved me like a sister, and understood firsthand what it meant to juggle the burdens of life. I reached behind me, plucking a pen from a mug on the shelf, acutely aware of the weight of my impending decision. “You’ll have to pretend to like me,” Connor warned with a solemn expression. “You’ll need to convince my Meems that this is real.” “I know,” I replied, pressing the pen’s tip down to reveal its point. “And you’ll have to move in with me,” he added firmly. “You’ll need to live with me throughout our marriage.” Was he backpedaling now? I couldn’t tell. “Understood. I’m doing this for my sake and for Meems, in that order.” “Good,” he replied, a flicker of reluctant approval warming his features. I hovered the pen over the line denoting where my name should go. Signing felt akin to binding myself through a blood oath—a pact whose implications were both liberating and terrifying. But this was my escape from the tomb of my current circumstances—a lifeline crafted in cold contracts and unforeseen benefits. With one swift motion, I inscribed my name, followed by today’s date, my heart hammering in my chest as I completed the act. Connor leaned over to do the same, sealing our fates with his signature. “I’ll file this and send you a copy,” he said, tucking the folded document into his pocket. Then he withdrew a small, velvet box, not dropping to one knee as I had half-expected, nor did I find myself longing for that romantic gesture. This was a pragmatic arrangement, formed out of necessity, rather than desire. He opened the lid, revealing the most exquisite engagement ring I had ever laid eyes on, and I silently prayed it wasn’t a family heirloom. With a gentle but firm hand, he offered the ring to me. I placed my palm in his, a warm sensation racing up my arm at the touch, and the reality of the situation washed over me deeply. Marriage had never been on my radar; romance felt far too precarious for someone as haunted as me. But this was not about love; it was merely a business arrangement, a mutual agreement to help one another. Still, sadness flickered briefly in his gaze, as if he understood the bittersweet foundations upon which we stood. “You’re stuck in this nightmare with me now,” he said softly, a faint smile curving his lips even as trepidation traced the lines of his face. “It will likely get worse before it gets better, but I appreciate you doing this for Meems.” In that moment, I understood the gravity of our choice. We weren't just two lost souls making a desperate deal; we were bound together by a shared love for the same remarkable woman. A love that promised to weave our lives together in a kaleidoscope of complexity and change.