The heavy rain tapped against the tall windows of the penthouse apartment overlooking Chicago. Clara held the cold manila folder close to her chest, her knuckles turning bone white against the cardstock.

Clara: Julian, please tell me this is a joke. Tell me I didn't just read what I think I read.

Julian turned around slowly from the bar, holding a tumbler of scotch without a hint of warmth in his hazel eyes.

Julian: You shouldn't have gone into my private safe, Clara. Some things are kept locked away for your own protection.

Clara: My protection? You asked me to sign a prenup waiving every right to your modest bakery chain, and this file says you manage a nine-figure estate!

Julian: A man has a right to secure his family's legacy before walking down the aisle.

Clara: What about the other document in here? Who is four-year-old Leo, Julian? Why does our prenup say I forfeit custody of any future children if I ever speak his name?

The grandfather clock in the foyer ticked with deafening precision as Julian set his glass down on the marble counter.

Julian: You sign the paperwork tonight, Clara, or there is no wedding tomorrow morning. It is that simple.

Clara: You're threatening me twelve hours before two hundred guests show up at St. Patrick's Cathedral?

Julian: I'm giving you a reality check. You walked into this relationship with thirty thousand dollars in student loans and a secondhand sedan. Don't act like you're above signing an agreement.

Clara: I loved you for who you were when you had flour on your apron, not whatever monster is standing in front of me right now.

Julian: Love doesn't pay the mortgage on an estate like this. Sign the dotted line, hand me the folder, and tomorrow you become Mrs. Julian Vance.

Clara stepped backward toward the foyer, clutching the folder tighter as her phone buzzed in her pocket with a message from an unknown number: *Do not sign anything until you meet me at the diner on 4th Street.*