Bid on the Groom

Let me be clear: I despise Nolan Ashworth.

He parks in my spot. He "reply-alls" to emails that concern two people. He once ate my clearly labeled lunch and left the empty container in the sink like a sociopath.

So when he appeared at my desk at 6 p.m. on a Wednesday with a manila envelope and the audacity to say "I need you to marry me," I said what any reasonable woman would say.

"Absolutely not."

"Two hundred thousand dollars."

I paused. "I'm listening."

---

The terms: his grandfather's will required marriage by age thirty-two. The old man had been traditional, paranoid about the family name dying out. Nolan turned thirty-two in twenty-six days.

"Why me?" I asked, skimming the contract in a coffee shop far from our office.

"Because you hate me," he said simply. "You won't catch feelings. It's clean."

I signed on page fourteen.

---

The ceremony was at his family's estate in Connecticut. I met his mother, his aunt, three cousins with trust funds and cheekbones. They looked at me like I was a puzzle piece they couldn't place.

"She's lovely," his mother said, touching my arm. "He never brings anyone home."

Nolan's hand found my waist. "Because I was waiting for the right one."

I almost choked.

At dinner, his cousin Marcus leaned close. "You know, I never thought Nolan would settle down. He's always been... guarded."

"He's different with me," I said, because it was the line.

Nolan caught my eye across the table. For one second, he didn't look guarded at all.

---

The guest room they'd prepared had one bed. Of course.

"I'll sleep on the floor," Nolan said.

"With your family down the hall? They'll hear you. Just—stay on your side."

He stayed on his side. Rigidly. Like the mattress had a force field down the center.

At 2 a.m. I whispered, "Are you awake?"

"Yes."

"This is weird."

"Extremely."

Silence. Then: "Thank you, Priya. For doing this."

It was the first time he'd used my first name without sarcasm. I didn't know what to do with the softness in it.

---

Over the next two weeks, we performed. Brunch with his mother. A couples' cooking class. His hand on my knee under restaurant tables. Each touch deliberate, contractual, and increasingly difficult to categorize.

Then Marcus started texting me.

Friendly at first. Then flirty. "Dinner Saturday? Nolan won't mind—he's not the jealous type."

I showed Nolan the messages expecting him to laugh. Strategy meeting. How to deflect without blowing cover.

He didn't laugh. His jaw tightened. He took my phone, typed a reply—*She's busy Saturday. And every Saturday.*—and handed it back.