My date told me I wasn’t her type, and ten minutes later the woman beside us asked me to marry her

*Word count target: ~3,000 words*

That evening, I received a text from Claire: *“My townhouse. 7 PM. Wear the tuxedo.”*

"I don't own a tuxedo," I texted back.

*“There's one in your closet. Check the garment bag.”*

I walked into my bedroom, bewildered, and opened the closet. Hanging there was a bespoke Tom Ford tuxedo in my exact measurements, along with matching patent leather shoes. The woman was thorough to a terrifying degree.

When I arrived at her gated estate in Cherry Hills Village, the house was a masterpiece of modern glass and stone—stunning, immaculate, and entirely devoid of personal warmth.

Claire opened the door herself. She was wearing a breathtaking emerald-green evening gown that matched the stones in her necklace, her auburn hair swept up into an intricate chignon. For a second, I forgot how to breathe.

"You look..." I started, losing my train of thought.

"Acceptable," she finished for me, stepping aside to let me in. "Come in. We need to practice."

"Practice what? Walking down a red carpet?"

"Practicing being married," she said, leading me into a sprawling, minimalist living room where a fire crackled in a bio-ethanol fireplace. She handed me a glass of scotch. "Julian is moving faster than anticipated. He’s hired a private investigator to dig into our backgrounds. He knows we had never met before Friday night at that restaurant."

I took a slow sip of the scotch, letting the warmth burn my throat. "Well, that shouldn't be a surprise. It’s the truth."

"The truth is irrelevant," Claire said sharply, pacing across the hardwood floor. "What matters is what people *believe*. On Friday night, at the Whitman Foundation Gala, Julian is going to corner us. He’s going to ask intimate questions about our relationship—how we met, favorite memories, quirks. If we slip up once, the board will declare the marriage fraudulent, and Julian wins."

"Alright," I said, setting my glass down. "Then we study. What do you want to know? My favorite color? Done. Where we had our first date? A pretentious Italian bistro where I got dumped over bread."

Claire stopped pacing. She looked at me, her green eyes softening just a fraction. "Thank you, Ethan. For not running away."

"I was tempted," I admitted, stepping closer to her. The scent of her perfume—jasmine and rain—was intoxicating. "Especially when your cousin threatened to turn me into a parking lot."

"Julian is a shark. But he underestimates you. Everybody underestimates the guy in the gray sweater."

"Hey," I protested with a grin. "I have three identical gray sweaters, and they command respect."

A genuine, soft laugh escaped Claire’s lips. It was the first time I had heard her laugh without a hint of calculation, and it transformed her face from intimidating to breathtaking.