Wife Me Up

Chapter 1

Gemma

I should have known this was going to be a disaster the moment Tasha said the words “charity auction.”

I don’t belong here.

This room? This glittering, champagne-soaked cesspool of the ultra-rich? It’s like stepping into a different planet—one where people casually drop six figures on a single dinner date and wear custom designer gowns like it’s just another Tuesday.

I tug at the neckline of my dress, shifting uncomfortably as I wait behind the velvet curtain. The silk is tight, hugging my curves in ways I’m painfully aware of. Tasha, my best friend and traitor extraordinaire, shoved me into it and declared that it would “help drive up the bids.”

I hate that she might be right.

Because let’s be real: the only reason I’m here is desperation.

Houston Textile Conservation is drowning. I’ve worked years—my entire fucking life—to build a business restoring rare, historical fabrics, and thanks to a series of financial disasters, I’m one bad week away from losing everything.

So here I am.

Standing on a stage, waiting to be sold off to the highest bidder like a particularly well-dressed escort.

“Next up, ladies and gentlemen,” the auctioneer booms, his voice obnoxiously cheerful, “we have the stunning Gemma Houston!”

The curtain swings open, and I’m blinded by the stage lights.

A polite round of applause ripples through the crowd. I lift my chin, fake a confident smile, and force my legs to move.

The auctioneer grins at me, his white teeth blinding. “A talented textile conservator and business owner, Gemma is a woman of beauty and brains! Let’s start the bidding at five thousand dollars!”

The number makes my stomach turn.

Someone actually bids.

“Five thousand!”

“Seven!”

“Ten!”

A laugh bubbles in my throat, wild and slightly unhinged. I can’t believe this is actually happening.

The numbers climb higher.

“Fifteen thousand!”

“Twenty!”

I shift on my feet, trying not to look as uncomfortable as I feel. A few men in the front rows are eyeing me like a goddamn meal, and my skin crawls.

I don’t know how much longer I can take this.

Then—

"Fifty thousand."

The entire room freezes.

I blink, sure I misheard.

The auctioneer stumbles over his words. "Ah—fifty thousand dollars! That’s—"

I turn toward the voice, searching for the absolute lunatic who just threw down a small fortune for a single dinner date.

And that’s when I see him.

Alistair. Fucking. Finch.

Oh, hell no.

He’s sitting at a private VIP table, half-hidden in the shadows. He looks out of place here, like he’s enduring this event out of obligation rather than enjoyment.

Messy dark-blond hair. Wire-rimmed glasses. Sharp cheekbones. A tailored black sweater that probably costs more than my entire studio rent for the year.

And those blue eyes—piercing, unreadable, locked directly on me.

I swear to God, there’s no amusement in them. No cocky grin. No flirtation.

He’s just staring me down like I personally offended him by existing. What is he doing in a place like this? I lick my lips in nervousness. 

The man always manages to unnerve me. I’ve worked with some of his pieces a year ago, and he’s undoubtedly a man hard to please. All rough edges and with money worth more than ten lifetimes. 

He holds my gaze, lingering far longer than necessary. I shake my head, trying to stay compose, then I put my attention on the auctioneer, trying to dispel thoughts of him. 

The auctioneer looks around, waiting for another bid.

No one else speaks.

Of course they don’t.

Because Alistair Finch just ended the game.

The gavel slams down.

"Sold! To Mr. Finch!"

The crowd erupts into whispers, but all I can hear is the blood rushing in my ears.

I cannot fucking believe this.

I don’t bother looking for him.

Because he finds me.

I’m backstage, yanking off my heels, when his voice cuts through the air.

“You’re avoiding me.”

I whip around, glowering. "No shit, Sherlock."

Alistair Finch is leaning in the doorway, hands in his pockets, looking like he regrets every life choice that led him here.

"Why the hell did you bid on me?" I demand.

"Because it was necessary."

"Necessary?" I let out a bitter laugh. “You just spent fifty grand like you were buying a cup of coffee. That’s not necessary—that’s fucking insane.”

He doesn’t flinch.

Instead, he steps forward, voice low, measured, careful.

"I need a girlfriend."

All of my attention is on him.

Then I laugh even harder. He needs a girlfriend? A woman? From the way he treated me a year ago on the textile project he commissioned, he clearly doesn’t like working with “women.” 

He treated me like this, questioning my capability and even mentioning that men would do better work than me. Damn him. 

"Okay. You have officially lost your fucking mind,” I say, point blank without sugar coating it. 

"I’m serious."

I rub my temples. “Oh, you’re serious. That’s even worse.”

He exhales sharply, adjusts his glasses. "It’s complicated."

"Right. Sure. Let me guess—you need to distract the press? Make some PR nightmare go away?"

His jaw tightens, and that’s my answer.

I sigh. "Finch. I don’t do fake relationships."

“I’ll pay you.”

I stop.

He sees it—the hesitation, the tiny flicker of holy shit, I actually need the money—and he goes for the kill.

“Three hundred thousand dollars,” he says smoothly.

My heart stops.

My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

"You’re serious."

"Painfully."

I gaze at him. At his calm, unreadable expression, at the way he doesn’t look away, doesn’t second-guess himself.

And suddenly, I get it.

This is desperation. It’s no longer what he wants from me. 

He needs this. Badly.

And I?

I need the money.

Three hundred thousand dollars could save my studio.

I should say no.

I should walk away.

Instead, I take a deep breath and look him in the eye.

"Fine."

His shoulders relax, just barely.

"You have a deal, Finch."

I am going to regret this.