The $300 Husband Is A Zillionaire

They walked out of the coffee shop into the drizzle.

Aisha stopped abruptly at the corner, her boots splashing in a puddle.

"Wait," she said. She turned to face him, hugging her arms around herself. "I need to know something. Before we go to City Hall."

Dominic stopped, hands in his pockets. "What?"

"Last night," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Did we... did you...?"

She couldn't finish the sentence. The thought that she might have slept with him-transactionally-made her skin crawl. Not because of him, but because she had no memory of it.

Dominic's face softened. The arrogance vanished.

He pulled his phone out of his leather jacket. He tapped the screen a few times and turned it toward her.

"I figured you might ask," he said, his voice low. "I know a guy on the security staff here. Owed me a favor."

It was a video. Grainy, black and white security footage.

Aisha watched as a woman-her-stumbled down a hotel hallway. She pushed open a door that was slightly ajar. She collapsed onto the bed, face down, fully clothed. The footage sped up slightly. It showed her tossing and turning, kicking off her heels. At one point, she sat up, groaning, and clumsily started tugging at the zipper of her gown, clearly uncomfortable. She managed to wriggle out of it, leaving it in a heap at the foot of the bed before collapsing back onto the mattress.

A minute later, Dominic walked in. He stopped, looked at her, looked at the hallway. He closed the door.

He walked over to the bed, pulled the duvet out from under her, and draped it over her. Then he grabbed a pillow and went to the sofa on the far side of the room.

The video ended.

Aisha let out a breath she felt like she'd been holding for ten hours. Her shoulders slumped.

"You slept on the couch," she whispered.

"I have a strict code of ethics," Dominic said, pocketing the phone. "I don't touch intoxicated clients."

It was a lie-the "client" part-but the sentiment was true.

"Thank you," she said. She meant it.

"Don't get used to it," he quipped. "Now, about this marriage. I assume you want a prenup?"

"Yes," Aisha said automatically. "My lawyer-"

"No lawyers," Dominic interrupted.

Aisha frowned. "What? Why?"

"Lawyers mean background checks. Background checks mean my... creditors... find me." He stepped closer, towering over her. "If we do this, we do it my way. No paper trail that leads to my past."

Aisha bit her lip. It was risky. Insanely risky. But she didn't have time for a lawyer anyway.

"Fine," she said. "But we write a memorandum of understanding. Right now."

She marched him to a park bench. The wood was damp, but she sat down and pulled a notebook from her purse.

"Clause One," she said, writing furiously. "No intimacy. We sleep in separate rooms."

"Agreed," Dominic said, sitting next to her. He stretched his long legs out. "Clause Two: You pay for my suits. I can't look like a trophy husband in rags."

"Fine. Clause Three: You have to attend family events and act like you adore me."

"I'm a great actor," he said, winking.

"Clause Four," she continued, ignoring the flutter in her stomach. "Monthly allowance. Five thousand."

Dominic looked at the number she wrote. He suppressed a laugh. That was less than he spent on wine in a week.

"Six thousand," he countered. "Inflation."

Aisha glared at him. "Fine. Six. But you do chores. Dishes. Trash."

"I don't do trash," he said.

"Then no six thousand."

He groaned. "Fine. Trash."

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He glanced at it. A text from Chester: Board meeting in 20. Where are you?

Dominic hit Ignore.

"Who was that?" Aisha asked sharply.

"Debt collector," he said.

Aisha's expression softened. She reached out and touched his arm. "We'll fix it. I promise."

Dominic looked at her hand on his jacket. He felt a strange twinge in his chest. Guilt? No, he didn't do guilt.

"Let's go get hitched," he said, standing up abruptly.