THE STERLING INHERITANCE

**POV: Dominic**

The conference room at Sterling & Associates was designed to intimidate. Mahogany walls, leather chairs that cost more than most people's cars, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Elliott Bay. I'd been in this room dozens of times over the years, usually on the winning side of negotiations.

Today felt different.

Harrison's lawyers sat across from me-Gerald Morrison, senior partner, and two associates whose names I'd already forgotten. They'd been stalling for twenty minutes, shuffling papers and exchanging meaningful looks while I waited.

"Just tell me," I said finally. "Whatever conditions Harrison put in the will, I can handle it."

Gerald cleared his throat. "Mr. Cross, your mentor's estate is... substantial. As you know."

"Three billion, give or take. I helped him build most of it."

"Indeed. And he wanted to ensure it went to the right hands." Gerald slid a leather portfolio across the table. "However, there are conditions."

I opened it. Legal language filled the first page, dense and impenetrable. I skipped to the summary section.

Then read it again,like I knew nothing about the deal.

"This is a joke."

"I assure you, it's not."

"He's requiring me to get married? Within six months?" I looked up, waiting for the punchline. "That's insane. It has to be illegal."

"Actually, testamentary conditions regarding marriage are quite legal, provided they don't violate public policy. Mr. Sterling had every right to attach conditions to his bequest."

"Harrison died six months ago. You're telling me this now?"

"The will required a six-month waiting period before the marriage condition became active. That period ended yesterday." Gerald folded his hands. "As of today, you have exactly six months to marry, or the entire estate-including your controlling shares in Cross Industries-will be dissolved and donated to various charities."

The words blurred on the page. Marry or lose everything.

"There has to be a loophole."

"We've examined the will thoroughly. It's airtight."

I stood, pacing to the windows. Seattle spread below me, gray and drizzling. Somewhere down there, people were living normal lives. Dating without billion-dollar ultimatums. Marrying for love instead of inheritance clauses.

"Why?" I asked. "Why would Harrison do this?"

Gerald's expression softened. "He left a letter. Would you like me to read it?"

"Yes."

The lawyer pulled out an envelope, Harrison's distinctive handwriting on the front. *For Dominic, when he's ready to listen.*

Gerald began reading.

"Dominic, if you're hearing this, I'm gone and you're angry. Good. Be angry. But also listen. I made a fortune, built an empire, collected everything money could buy. And I died alone in a house with twelve bedrooms, surrounded by objects instead of people. You're headed down the same path, son. I've watched you work yourself to death for a decade, keeping everyone at arm's length, treating relationships like business transactions. A man with everything and no one to share it with has nothing. This condition isn't punishment-it's salvation. Find someone real. Build something that matters more than money. Don't end up like me."

The room fell silent.

"That's it?" My voice came out hoarse.

"There's more legal language, but that's the essence." Gerald closed the envelope. "He truly cared about you, Mr. Cross. This was his way of ensuring you didn't repeat his mistakes."

I returned to my seat, staring at the will. Six months. One hundred eighty-two days to find a wife or lose everything Harrison and I had built together.

"What are my options?"

"You could contest the will, but I don't recommend it. The language is solid, and litigation could take years. By then, the six-month deadline would have passed anyway."

"So I marry someone."

"Yes."

"Anyone?"

"The will doesn't specify particular qualities. Just that the marriage must be legal and in good faith-no arrangements that would obviously constitute fraud."

My mind raced through possibilities. There were women who would marry me in a heartbeat. Socialites, actresses, entrepreneurs who saw me as a means to an end. I could have my pick.

The thought made me sick.

"I've dated hundreds of women," I said quietly. "Dinners, galas, charity events. Not one of them was real."

Gerald raised an eyebrow. "Surely some of them-"

"They dated Dominic Cross, the billionaire. The name in the Forbes list. The man who could open doors and write checks." I thought of E.A.'s letters, her words from last night. *Do you ever feel like you're drowning in a room full of people?* "Not one of them wanted to know who I actually was."

"Perhaps this is an opportunity to find someone who does."

"In six months."

"People have married faster for worse reasons."

I laughed bitterly. "You're suggesting I find true love on a deadline."

"I'm suggesting you take Mr. Sterling's advice seriously. He knew you better than most."

The associates started gathering their papers, clearly eager to escape the tension. Gerald stood, straightening his suit.

"We'll need to schedule regular check-ins," he said. "To monitor your progress."

"You make it sound like a project."

"In a sense, it is. The estate is substantial, Mr. Cross. There are many parties interested in its disposition. If you fail to meet the terms, there will be considerable... complications."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning your competitors will be watching. Waiting. The moment that deadline passes, Cross Industries becomes vulnerable."

Perfect. Not only did I have to get married, I had to do it while sharks circled, waiting for me to fail.

After they left, I sat alone in the conference room, Harrison's letter on the table.

*Find someone real.*

My phone buzzed. Email notification. E.A. had written back.

*Dear D.C.,*

*Kids do make things less heavy. I hope your complicated choice gets easier. Whatever it is, I trust you'll do the right thing. You always seem to, even when it's hard.*

I stared at her words. Here was someone who knew me-really knew me-and thought I'd do the right thing. She had more faith in me than I had in myself right now.

She didn't know my net worth. Didn't know my name or face. Just knew my words, my thoughts, my fears. And somehow, that was enough for her to trust me.

*Find someone real.*

I typed a response.

*Dear E.A.,*

*I've dated hundreds. None of them were real. Except you.*

I deleted it. Too honest. Too revealing.

Besides, E.A. was a fantasy. A connection built on anonymity and distance. I couldn't marry someone I'd never met, whose name I didn't even know.

Could I?

The thought was absurd.

I closed my laptop and looked out at the city, six months stretching ahead like a prison sentence.

Somewhere out there was a woman I could marry. Someone suitable, appropriate, willing to play the part.

All I had to do was find her and convince both of us this was anything other than a business arrangement.

The rain picked up, streaking down the windows, and Harrison's words echoed in my head.

*Don't end up like me.*