CHAPTER 2
Chapter Title: The Price of Becoming a Williamson
Kimberly
The Williamson estate was built to intimidate.
A sprawling beachfront mansion framed by centuries-old oak trees and flanked with wrought-iron gates that groaned as they opened to let me through. The Chesapeake Bay glistened like liquid gold behind it, the sun beginning to lower in the sky, casting long shadows over the stone driveway and pristine hedges cut into unnatural perfection. Everything about it screamed old money—the kind that didn’t just buy things. It erased history and rewrote it with marble columns and oil paintings.
I pulled up in my white Audi, a wedding gift from Hank that had arrived six months early. I was dressed for the occasion—tastefully expensive but understated. A pale blue silk blouse tucked into high-waisted ivory trousers, and a pair of nude Louboutin flats. Hair curled just enough to say I tried, makeup soft but precise. Divine would find something wrong with me anyway, but I wouldn't make it easy.
As I stepped out of the car, the salty wind whipped my curls back, and I took a moment to breathe, smoothing my blouse and whispering the mantra I’d come to rely on lately: You are not their pet. You are not their pawn.
Then I walked to the front door.
It opened before I could knock.
Of course it did.
“Ms. Hastings,” the butler nodded, stepping aside.
“Kimberly,” I corrected with a strained smile.
He didn’t respond.
The foyer smelled like lavender polish and secrets. White marble floors stretched endlessly toward the grand staircase, while portraits of men with square jaws and cold eyes lined the walls. Every detail was curated, pristine. Lifeless.
Just like Divine.
She was waiting for me in the parlor, seated like royalty in a carved mahogany chair. Her steel-gray Chanel suit hugged her rigid frame, and a string of pearls—probably worth more than my bakery—rested against her collarbone like armor. Her pointed heels were crossed neatly at the ankles, her posture as straight as a sword.
Her expression didn’t shift when she saw me.
“Right on time,” she said, as if surprised.
“My lawyer’s already here,” I replied. “Shall we begin?”
She gestured to the long, polished table behind her. “Let’s.”
The negotiation was everything I expected and worse.
My lawyer, Janet Rivera, was brilliant—cool-headed, sharp-eyed, and armed with more patience than I deserved. She greeted Divine with polite hostility and unpacked a thick manila folder from her briefcase, setting it down between us like a weapon.
Divine didn’t even flinch.
“Let’s be perfectly clear,” Divine began, folding her hands. “What is Hank’s will remain Hank’s. And what is yours, though minimal, will remain yours. There will be no joining of assets—no shared accounts, no claims to inheritance. The Williamson estate is not a public trust.”
She said it without blinking, like she was reciting scripture.
Janet nodded, unbothered. “We understand. But if Kimberly is expected to give up her career, relocate, and—per your request—bear children, then we feel some form of security is warranted.”
Divine tilted her head. “Security? You mean money.”
“I mean compensation,” Janet replied coolly.
My stomach turned, but I stayed quiet.
I wasn’t surprised. But hearing it all said out loud—cold, transactional—still stung like acid. Apparently, my value could be quantified by two things: how long I could stay married and what kind of child I could produce.
“If Kimberly remains married to Hank,” Janet continued, “we ask for an annual financial stipend to ensure she maintains her lifestyle and independence within the marriage.”
Divine narrowed her eyes.
“She’ll receive five thousand dollars monthly,” she said, “to cover her personal needs. Anything more is unnecessary. She will not be living in poverty.”
Janet raised an eyebrow. “And what about the long-term arrangement?”
Divine’s lips pursed. “If she stays married for a full year, she’ll receive one hundred thousand dollars annually. As long as she remains a Williamson in name and duty.”
In name and duty. The words made me itch.
“And the matter of children?” Janet asked.
Ah, yes. The part that made me feel like livestock.
Divine answered without shame. “Should Kimberly bear a son—an heir to the Williamson name—she will receive a one-time sum of five hundred thousand dollars when the boy reaches the age of ten.”
My spine stiffened. “And if it’s a girl?”
Divine looked at me like I’d asked something stupid.
“Girls do not carry on legacies. If a daughter is born, she will receive the same sum only if she marries into a family of equal or greater wealth. And only upon the finalization of such a union.”
I could barely breathe.
“And what if I have dreams that don’t involve wombs and wedding planners?” I asked, finally finding my voice. “What if I don’t want to be your breeding stock?”
Divine smiled—a tight, brittle thing. “Then I suggest you reconsider marrying my son.”
Silence fell like a blade between us.
Janet leaned forward. “We’ll accept the terms,” she said, her tone clipped. “With an additional clause: Kimberly retains her business—Sweet and Savory—and its assets. No interference.”
Divine didn’t like it. But she didn’t argue. “Fine. If she insists on playing baker.”
The papers were drawn up. Signatures scribbled. One final clause: if I left Hank before five years, I got nothing. If I stayed, I could leave with what I’d earned.
Earned.
Like a salary.
By the time we finished, the sun had dipped low enough to paint the walls in gold. Divine stood, smoothing her Chanel skirt suit.
“Dinner is served on the patio,” she said, like nothing had just happened. “You’ll sit beside Hank.”
Of course.
Because nothing says welcome to the family like being sold off with legal precision and then being offered roast duck and heirloom carrots.
As I followed her through the glass doors toward the ocean view and perfectly laid table, I forced another smile onto my lips—this one more hollow than the last.
I had officially become a Williamson fiancée.
As we stepped out onto the back patio, the bay wind swept in soft and salty. The table was already set—long, elegant, flanked by uniformed servers and glowing with the golden flicker of candlelight. Hank stood near the head of the table, handsome in a navy blazer, his smile warm but brief. He kissed my cheek like a man kissing a porcelain doll—carefully, without pressure.
“Hey,” he said under his breath, his hand brushing my lower back.
I smiled, hollow and pleasant. “Hey.”
Divine had already taken her place at the head of the table, speaking quietly with Hank’s uncle, a man who looked like he bled stock options and yacht metaphors. I could feel the eyes of the guests, the staff, even the house itself watching me—evaluating, weighing. I was being fitted for a crown I hadn’t asked to wear.
“Excuse me,” I said softly, brushing Hank’s arm. “I need to freshen up.”
He nodded, already distracted by a server offering him wine.
I stepped inside, walking back through the cool, dim hallway until I found the ornate powder room tucked behind a carved wooden door. The sink was a polished porcelain basin shaped like a seashell, the faucet gold-trimmed and absurd. Everything in this house was excessive, meant to remind you how far beneath it you truly were.
I turned on the water and washed my hands slowly, letting the cold bite into my fingers. I stared at my reflection—perfectly done-up, polished, the picture of the Williamson bride-to-be. My lipstick hadn’t even smudged.
Then I smirked.
It had taken me two years to get to where I was today.
Two years of small-town smiles, of nodding politely, of pretending not to notice the barbed compliments and cold shoulders. Two years of holding my tongue, burying my ambition, and calculating every move like it was a chess game.
And now I was seated at the board.
“May the games begin,” I murmured to the mirror.
Then I dried my hands on the monogrammed towel, smoothed my hair, and stepped back out into the lion’s den—smiling.