Nolan Wolfe

"If incompetence were a commodity, we'd be drowning in surplus right now," I say, my voice sharp enough to cut through the thick tension in the room. The boardroom falls dead silent, and the faint squeak of someone nervously shifting in their chair only makes the moment heavier. I don't bother softening the blow—there's no point sugarcoating the situation when the stakes are this high.

I tap the tip of my pen against the table, my gaze sweeping across the room. "This rollout is a disaster. We're late, we're unprepared, and worst of all, we're scrambling. I don't scramble. Wolfe Enterprises doesn't scramble. So, someone tell me—how are we fixing this?"

The heads of my department look at each other, hesitant. I can practically hear their thoughts: *Who's going to take the bullet?* Evelyn, my head of marketing, clears her throat. She's easily one of the sharpest people I've got on the payroll, but even she looks like she'd rather be anywhere else right now.

"Well," she starts, "if we adjust the messaging on the marketing end and delay the official announcement by a week, we could..."

"Delay?" I interrupt, my tone a razor's edge. "Delay is how you buy time to clean up a mess. I'm asking how we prevent one."

The room stiffens again, and for a moment, I wonder if I'm being too harsh. But no—this is business, and the world doesn't wait for us to get it together.

Wolfe Enterprises didn't become a billion-dollar empire because I held people's hands or coddled them.

Finally, Daniel, the head of operations, speaks up. "If we reallocate resources to prioritize the product's backend integration, we can stabilize the system enough for the initial launch. It won't be perfect, but it'll buy us goodwill with investors and keep customers happy."

I nod slowly. "That's a start. And how do we ensure this doesn't happen again? Because I'm not interested in slapping a Band-Aid on this and calling it a day."

Evelyn chimes in again, her voice steadier this time. "We'll need to overhaul the workflow between marketing and operations. There's a disconnect there that's holding us back."

"Good," I say, my tone leveling out. "Fix it. Immediately." I glance at the clock on the wall. "You've all got two hours to send me a detailed action plan. Meeting adjourned."

The team files out in silence, the tension easing the further they get from my line of sight. I stay seated for a moment, letting the adrenaline settle. Meetings like this drain me, but they're necessary. This company isn't just a business to me—it's my life's work, my legacy, and I won't let anyone tarnish it.

As I stand and gather my notes, the door opens, and Johnny, my assistant, steps in. He's holding his tablet, his usual unflappable demeanor replaced by something... uneasy. That's the first red flag.

"Johnny," I say, raising an eyebrow. "Is there an Issue?"

His eyes dart to the ground before meeting mine. "Well, Sir…Your grandfather's here."

I freeze. "Grandfather? Here? At the office?"

Johnny nods, his voice quiet. "He's in the boardroom. Said he wanted to see you. Wouldn't say why."

I set my notes down, my pulse quickening. Harold Wolfe doesn't show up unannounced. Ever. The man runs on precision and intent. If he's here, it's because something is brewing—and I have a sinking feeling I'm not going to like it.

Without another word, I stride toward the boardroom, Johnny trailing behind me. My mind races as I try to piece together why he's here. Harold Wolfe is a legend, not just in the business world but in our family. He built Wolfe Enterprises from the ground up, and while he handed the reins to me years ago, he never lets me forget that it's his name carved into the foundation.

When I step into the boardroom, he's already seated at the head of the table, as if he never left. His suit is immaculate, his posture straight, and his piercing blue eyes lock onto mine the second I enter. For a man in his seventies, he's as commanding as ever.

"Grandfather," I say, closing the door behind me. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Sit," he says, gesturing to the chair across from him. His tone leaves no room for argument.

I take a seat, my back straight, my hands clasped on the table. "What's this about?"

He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he studies me, his gaze so intense I feel like I'm being dissected. Finally, he speaks. "You're 34, Nolan."

I blink, caught off guard. "And you're 76. Is this a numbers game?"

He doesn't smile. "You'll be 35 in eight months. And by then, you need to be married."

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. For a moment, I just stare at him, waiting for him to elaborate—or laugh and tell me this is some kind of twisted joke. But he doesn't. His expression is stone.

"Married," I repeat slowly, as if saying it aloud will make it make sense. "You're kidding."

"I'm not," he says, his tone firm. "It's in the bylaws of the company. Your grandmother insisted on it when we founded Wolfe Enterprises."

I feel a headache forming. "And you're just telling me this now? After all these years?"

"It wasn't relevant until now," he says, leaning back in his chair. "Your grandmother believed that a stable family life was essential for a strong legacy. And I agreed with her."

I scoff, the irritation bubbling to the surface. "This is absurd. My marital status has nothing to do with my ability to run this company."

"It has everything to do with it," he counters, his voice sharp. "Wolfe Enterprises isn't just a business, Nolan. It's a family legacy. And a legacy requires continuity. Stability. You've built an empire, and I'm proud of you for that. But what happens when you're gone? Who carries it forward?"

I clench my jaw, my frustration mounting. "You're basing the future of this company on outdated ideals. Marriage isn't a business strategy."

"It's not about strategy," he says, his eyes narrowing. "It's about values. Your grandmother believed in building something that lasts beyond us, and so do I. If you can't see that, then maybe you're not the right person to carry this forward."

That stings more than I care to admit. "And if I don't get married?" I ask, my voice tight.

"Then the company goes to someone else," he says simply. "You've got eight months, Nolan. I suggest you use them wisely."

He stands, straightening his suit. I open my mouth to argue, but he cuts me off with a look. "This conversation is over."

And just like that, he walks out, leaving me sitting there, stunned and furious. Eight months. Eight months to find a wife—or lose the empire I've spent my life building.

It's not just absurd—it's impossible.

I stare at the table, my hands clenched into fists so tight my knuckles ache. Anger churns in my chest like a storm, sharp and unrelenting.

It's ridiculous. It's infuriating. And worst of all, it's serious. My grandfather doesn't bluff. If he says the company will go to someone else, then it will.

I rub my temples, trying to think, but my thoughts are a tangled mess. I built this company. I sacrificed everything to take Wolfe Enterprises to where it is today. My relationships, my free time, my personal life—it's all been poured into this empire. And now, he's telling me that none of it matters unless I slap a ring on someone's finger?

The anger boils over, and I slam my palm on the table. The noise echoes, but it does nothing to ease the frustration tightening my chest.

What the hell am I supposed to do?

I lean back in the chair, exhaling sharply. My mind races through the options, though none of them seem realistic. Eight months isn't enough time to build a genuine relationship, let alone get married. And even if I could, how could I trust anyone to see me for who I am and not the billions attached to my name? People don't date Nolan Wolfe; they date the idea of him, the CEO, the businessman, the name in Forbes.

My grandfather's words replay in my head.

Legacy. Stability. Family values.

He made it sound so simple, so reasonable, but it's anything but. I grit my teeth and stare at the empty chair he was sitting in just moments ago. He's always been a step ahead, always thinking five moves in advance. But this? This is a move I never saw coming.

Minutes pass as I sit there, dazed and unsettled. Slowly, the anger begins to cool, replaced by something sharper: clarity. I can't let my emotions cloud my judgment. That's not who I am. Harold Wolfe wants me to get married? Fine. I'll give him what he wants—but on my terms.

The idea forms in my mind like a spark in the dark. It's audacious, maybe even reckless, but it's the only way I can see out of this mess. If my grandfather wants the image of stability, of family values, then I'll give him that image. I'll give him the perfect picture of an engaged man—a man ready to settle down and carry forward the Wolfe legacy. It doesn't have to be real. It just has to look real.

I sit up straighter, the seed of a plan taking root. A fake engagement. It's the perfect solution. It buys me time, keeps my grandfather off my back, and satisfies the board. And, most importantly, it allows me to maintain control of my life.

The only question is: Who?

I stand abruptly and stride to the door, my mind already working through the logistics. As soon as I step out into the hallway, I see Johnny Carter, my assistant, standing near my office. He straightens when he sees me, his tablet in hand, his expression as calm as ever.

"Johnny," I call out, and he follows without hesitation as I lead him into my office. I close the door behind us, ensuring privacy.

He looks at me expectantly, but I don't speak right away. I pace behind my desk, trying to organize my thoughts. Johnny knows me well enough not to interrupt. He's been my assistant for years, and while I don't often praise people, I can admit—only to myself—that he's damn good at his job.

Finally, I stop pacing and turn to face him. "I need you to find me a woman."

Johnny blinks. For the first time in a long time, I see genuine confusion flicker across his usually composed face. "A woman, sir?"

"Yes," I say, crossing my arms. "A suitable woman. Someone I can... work with."

He cocks his head slightly, clearly trying to piece together what I mean without asking too many questions. "Work with in what capacity, if I may ask?"

I let out a sharp breath. "A fiancée. A fake one. The perfect woman to play the part of my soon-to-be wife."

Johnny's brows shoot up, but to his credit, he doesn't react otherwise. "I see," he says, his voice carefully neutral. "And may I ask why?"

"No," I snap, then immediately regret the sharpness in my tone. I soften it slightly. "It's complicated, Johnny. Family politics. Just know that this is necessary."

"Understood." He nods, but I can tell he's still processing. "And what exactly are you looking for in this... candidate?"

I sit down behind my desk, leaning back in my chair as I think. "She needs to be believable. Someone who can handle the attention—because there will be attention. The press, the board, my grandfather... they'll all be watching. She has to be poised, intelligent, and capable of playing the role convincingly."

Johnny nods, typing notes into his tablet. "Any specific criteria? Age? Background?"

"She needs to fit the image," I say, gesturing vaguely. "Classy, but not pretentious. Attractive, but not in a way that screams 'trophy wife.' Someone who looks like they could hold their own in a conversation with my grandfather or a room full of executives."

Johnny's fingers fly over the screen as he takes down every detail. "And how long are we looking to maintain this arrangement?"

"Until my grandfather believes it," I say flatly. "And until I'm in the clear. After that, we'll end it discreetly. No harm, no foul."

He pauses, looking up from his tablet. "And if she doesn't agree?"

"She will," I say, my voice firm. "Everyone has a price, Johnny. Whether it's money, opportunity, or something else, I'll find it. Just find me the right candidates. The rest is my problem."

Johnny nods again, his expression unreadable. "Understood. I'll start immediately."

"Good." I lean forward, resting my elbows on the desk. "And Johnny? This stays between us. No one else can know about this."

"Of course, sir," he says without hesitation. "Discretion is my job."

I watch as he leaves the office, closing the door softly behind him. The moment I'm alone, I exhale and rub my temples again. The weight of the situation settles on my shoulders, heavy and unrelenting.

This plan is risky, I know that. If anyone finds out, it could blow up in my face. But what choice do I have? Harold Wolfe has forced my hand, and now I have to play the game.

Still, as I sit there in the quiet of my office, I can't shake the nagging feeling that this is only the beginning. My grandfather doesn't make moves without a reason, and if this is the card he's playing, then I have to wonder: *What else is he hiding?*

For now, though, I focus on the task at hand. A fake engagement might not be the ideal solution, but it's the only one I've got. And if there's one thing I've learned in business, it's this: when you're backed into a corner, you don't hesitate. You act.

And I will act. Because failure isn't an option. Not for me. Not for Wolfe Enterprises. And certainly not on Harold Wolfe's watch.