Chapter 3: A Merger, Not a Love Story

The Anderson and Walker families had been close for generations. Our names were woven into the fabric of Chicago society—old money, new ambition, the kind of dynasties that sponsor museum wings and have buildings named after them on campus.

Luke and I were childhood sweethearts—at least, in theory. Our mothers snapped photos at every charity gala, and our fathers traded knowing looks over bourbon at the Union League Club. But the reality was more complicated than the headlines.

But this infuriating man always seemed to look down on my carefree, spoiled lifestyle. I was the girl who ordered overpriced cocktails and danced on tables; he was the guy who rolled his eyes and left early.

Whenever I partied and drank, he’d sit in the corner, frowning. He had this way of crossing his arms and glaring like a disappointed soccer coach.

Whenever I laughed with friends, his face would darken like a thundercloud. Sometimes I wondered if he practiced that scowl in the mirror.

Tch, who cares if he likes me? The line of men chasing me could stretch all the way to Los Angeles. If he didn’t want me, plenty of others did—and they sent flowers, not glares.

So when our families announced the engagement, I wasn’t the least bit surprised. I saw it coming like traffic on the Kennedy at rush hour—inevitable, slow, and completely out of my hands.

Anderson Industries and Walker Holdings—two titans of the new energy sector—joining forces. It was a merger, not a love story. The press release wrote itself: "A union for the future of clean power in America."

I didn’t particularly like anyone else anyway; marrying whoever was all the same to me. Love, at this level, was optional. Security wasn’t.

But I insisted on putting on a sour face, just to annoy him, making it look like I was being forced. Call it theater. If I had to be a pawn, I’d at least make it entertaining.

I never expected him to be even more ruthless—he confronted his father at a family Thanksgiving dinner. Picture it: the Anderson mansion, crystal goblets, the smell of roast turkey, and Luke standing up, napkin tossed aside.

"I don’t agree to this marriage. Don’t force me." He said it so coldly, but his back was straight—there was a sort of ascetic allure to his rebellion. Even Grandma Anderson put down her fork, staring as if she’d seen a ghost.

Impressive. He’d rather burn bridges than marry me? The room went silent, everyone frozen mid-bite. For a second, I almost admired his guts.

Besides, Luke had started his own company with some college friends, so he wasn’t financially dependent on his father. He had the means to rebel. Their tech startup had already snagged a couple of venture capital rounds. He was the prodigal son who didn’t need to come home.

His mother had passed away early, and his father couldn’t control him at all. With no soft touch in the house, the Anderson men just circled each other, all pride and stubbornness.

If he hadn’t crashed his brain racing, this marriage might have dragged on until I hit forty. I’d be the world’s oldest debutante, still waiting for the ball.

The doctor said that once the blood clot in his brain dissolved, he’d go back to normal. The hope hung in the air, heavy and unspoken, every family member pretending to believe it.

Mr. Anderson was getting anxious and pulled me aside in secret. His voice was low, conspiratorial, like we were plotting a heist, not a honeymoon.

"Maddie, while he’s still not himself, hurry up and get pregnant. Three million, right into your account." His words tumbled out in a rush, as if afraid someone would overhear.

Luke’s face, that body—just sleeping with him once would be a blessing, and I’d get three million on top of it? The absurdity made my cheeks flush. Was this the American dream or a reality show gone off the rails?

What’s not to like? Money, sex, a dash of revenge—what more could a girl want?

Most importantly… when he returns to normal and finds out I slept with him, his expression will be priceless. That icy mask would finally crack, and I’d be there to see it.

Just thinking about it makes me want to laugh out loud. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning at the dinner table.