“I already don’t like where this is going.”

“It’s called a PR stunt. It happens all the time. Non-disclosure agreements are signed. Public events are planned and staged. Everyone smiles pretty and plays the part for a set amount of time before irreconcilable differences make it too hard to continue.”

“I’m aware. I’ve seen it with my own eyes—it’s Hollywood, after all . . . but you don’t think the judge knows this?”

“Which is why I planted the seed I planted. Now it’s up to you to water it and make it grow.”

I level my brother with a dubious glare. “I’m not a fucking gardener. This is my damn life.”

“Then maybe you should treat it as such.” His words are a stark rebuke that I let roll off my back. “Abigail and I have compiled a list of suitable women we think would be willing to step into the role. Women we think Watkins would find suitable as well.”

I take a seat, prop my elbows on my knees, and hang my head. This is really fucking happening, isn’t it?

“We’d make the breach of confidentiality so damning that they wouldn’t risk telling anyone that they weren’t madly in love with you after a secretive, whirlwind romance.”

“Great. I’m so fucked up that you have to threaten a woman to marry me. And in the same breath, how is it a whirlwind if we’ve been together for months?” I look up and meet his eyes.

“We’d iron out the details obviously, get the story and timeline straight before we went public. I’m just talking hypothetical right now.”

“Fucking perfect.” I lean my head back and chuckle. It sounds like desperation.

But my brother gives me the moment to think. To hate the idea. Then to come to terms with it. And then to realize how much I loathe the fake bullshit in this town—the one that surrounds me on the daily and that I try to avoid.

“Go home. Sleep on it. Abigail will be here tomorrow at eleven. She’s going to bring the three potential business partners with her for you to meet—”

“Christ,” I mutter and put my sunglasses back on as if that’s going to help the matter. “Business partners? That’s the last thing I’d call my fake wife.”

“She’s going to email their profiles to you later for you to check out, but she’s pretty sure she has your type down.”

“Sounds so romantic.”

“Since when are you into romance, brother?”

“Let me guess, one’s a wannabe model, another’s trying to get her big break in the music industry, and the other is . . . let’s finish out the trifecta . . . is sick of sleeping on directors’ couches—to put it politely—and might benefit from changing things up.” I stand and shake my head. “No. No. And no.”