His Stand-in Bride

“Our name is a crown, Annie. But a crown can strangle just as easily as it can shine.”

My mother’s voice echoed in my head, as clear as if she were sitting beside me. Instead, I sat at a long glass table surrounded by men old enough to be my father, their suits dark as vultures’ wings, their voices sharp with impatience. The Mendes name lay bleeding in the center of the table, and I could feel the crown tightening around my throat.

The boardroom lights hummed overhead, too bright, too unforgiving. The faint smell of burnt coffee and old paper clung to the air. My father sat stiffly at the head of the table, his once-powerful frame hunched, his tie askew, his eyes shadowed by sleepless nights. He tapped a trembling hand against his water glass, trying to maintain authority he no longer had.

One of the investors leaned forward, slamming a file down. “We can’t keep stalling, Tate. The lawsuits are piling up. Creditors are circling. You promised us a turnaround.”

My father’s jaw tightened. “We’re negotiating new terms. Mendes Corp isn’t going under. I won’t allow it.”

A hollow laugh broke from another man. “Won’t allow it? The numbers don’t lie. Bankruptcy is staring you in the face. Unless you can pull a miracle out of your hat, you’ll be lucky to avoid prison.”

Prison. The word sliced through me like ice. My fingers clenched in my lap, nails biting into my palms. No one looked at me. Not once. I might as well have been a shadow at my father’s side.

I studied him quietly. His once-black hair was streaked with gray, his eyes bloodshot, his hands restless. For years I’d watched him play king, commanding boardrooms with his booming voice, but now he looked like a man dragged down by chains.

The men argued over numbers, contracts, who would jump ship first. Their words blurred, replaced by the pounding in my head. I thought of my mother again, her jeweled hand stroking my hair when I was little, whispering that our name meant power. She never told me power could rot.

A voice jolted me back. “The press is already sniffing around,” an investor snapped. “Once the headlines hit, it’s over. The only thing keeping us quiet is the possibility of a buy-in from Reynolds. Has he even returned your calls?”

My father shifted in his chair. “He’ll come through. Nate Reynolds doesn’t walk away from an opportunity.”

Reynolds. The name made my stomach twist. I’d heard of him, of course. Who in New York hadn’t? Billionaire. Ruthless. A man who turned failing companies into gold or ground them into dust, depending on what suited him.

The meeting dragged on for another hour. I didn’t speak. No one asked for my opinion, though I wanted to scream. By the end, my father’s shoulders sagged as if the weight of the room had crushed him.

When we left, his face was ashen. In the hallway, I