"This is outrageous! What was Grandfather thinking? I won't have children with some stranger," Claire shouted once the video ended. She stood and stomped, and her face turned red.

The large office was brightly lit by the huge window that looked at the Manhattan landscape. The Empire State could be seen to the right. To her left, on the wall, were bookshelves full of what seemed to Claire to be law books.

Behind the oak desk where Doyle sat, displayed in its full glory, was what Claire recognized as Caravaggio's Nativity. Is that real?

He had a bemused smile as if this scene was one he had already imagined.

"C'est complètement absurde! Comment Grand-père a-t-il pu imaginer que je me plierais à une telle mascarade?" She continued in perfect French. Pacing around the office and gesturing like a windmill.

"Il doit se retourner dans sa tombe à l'idée que j'accepterais cette folie sans lutter."

"Miss Claire, I assure you that the assets are in a trust that you will not be able to access unless you comply. Your Grandfather was most adamant about the requirement," explained Mr. Doyle.

"And what do you think of all this?" She whirled on Roger angrily.

"Lady, I have no idea. I'm just a pre-med student that helped out an old man. After that, I had no contact with him!" Roger answered defensively.

"I mean, you're a looker, but I wouldn't marry you!" He added.

"And why wouldn't you marry me?" Claire added incredulously. How could this vagabond not want to marry her? He should count himself lucky to be in the same room as her.

"Lady, you have a temper. We're from very different backgrounds, and some other things my mother taught me not to say."

Idiot!

"Don't call me lady. I'm about your age. You can call me Miss Williams," she said haughtily.

Roger didn't answer.

"Mr. Doyle, I'm really not interested in any inheritance. Right now, I need a job and a place to live. If you can help me with that, great. If not, I'll be going 'cause I don't want to sleep on a park bench tonight," Roger said.

"Mr. Catzín, there's a room for you at the Williams' mansion, and if you acquiesce, the trust will cover all your living expenses for the next year," the lawyer explained.

Roger was silent.

"You can concentrate on your studies!" He added enticingly.

"Miss Claire, if you do not follow his instructions, you will be terminated by Williams Holdings immediately, and you can no longer stay at the Williams' mansion. You will be homeless, like Mr. Catzín. I'm sorry. I argued with Chester about this, but he was adamant. His words: if you can't handle living in the same house with a good-looking young man for a year, then you can fend for yourself."

Claire seethed. She had worked very hard for the last five years at Williams Holding. She had earned her position as CEO. It wasn't given to her. How could Grandfather do this? Fine, if that's what he wants, his legacy can die for all I care.

"I have money, and I have a family. For all I care, Williams Holding can rot. I'm leaving. Mr. Catzín, I hope never to see you again!" She stormed out of the room, and Mr. Doyle followed. She wasn't cattle to be handed over for mating!

"Miss Claire, please listen. The requirements are quite straightforward. Please come back and hear me out. It isn't as bad as the video made it out to be."

Claire stopped. This is the classic negotiation tactic my Grandfather taught me. Now, he will present a palatable option that will seem fantastic in comparison.

She returned to the office and sat. She knew she was going to cave but didn't want to admit it.

"To comply, you need only marry and live together for one year. Nothing else is required," Mr. Doyle explained. Roger listened with a frown.

"You live at the mansion and continue your life as normal," he added, smiling.

"I can see the benefit for the vagabond here," she said, pointing to Roger, "no offense, but you are homeless. But why should I do it?"

"First, because of the inheritance. At the end of the year, you will get 100% of your grandfather's assets," he paused for a second, considering. "Second, well, that one you'll find out in time. I can't reveal it now, but it's substantial, perhaps more than the first one."

What could be so substantial?

She sighed, "Ok, Let's say I agree," she said, "What are the cohabitation rules?"

"None. There are no requirements in that regard," he said. "Both of you can agree to whatever you want. There is no need to announce it to anyone. There is no need for a grand wedding. There is no need to sleep together. You don't even have to talk to each other."

"Mr. Doyle, what about my DACA?"

"The law firm will handle all of those matters. I can assure you it won't affect your status. Chester talked to the Chief of Staff about your case before his passing. There won't be any problems." Grandfather went that far for this guy!

Claire moved to sit opposite Roger at a small conference table. She took a paper clip and started to straighten it.

Silently, they looked at each other. Minutes passed. Claire weighed the options. A husband in name only doesn't seem that bad. The mansion is so large I can probably avoid him all year.

Her shoulders slumped, "I can agree if Mr. Catzín agrees that I will set the cohabitation rules, and he will follow them to the letter!" The paper clip in her hand broke at the bend.

"Lady, I can agree as long as there's nothing weird," Roger said, taking a handful of paper clips from the tray.

"Great, please sign these documents. They're just to get the marriage license." Mr. Doyle presented them with some forms.

Roger glanced through them for a minute.

"Lady, all I need is a room. If you can help me with that, I'll sign, and you'll only see me when I come to sleep or leave for work," he said as he arranged a straight line of paper clips on the table.

She nodded, engrossed in reading the documents.

They both signed.

"If you wait here, I'll have an associate do this, and then Judge Clark will marry the two of you. It will take a couple of hours." Mr Doyle left them in the office. Another paper clip broke in Claire's hand.

An awkward silence ensued. Roger scooped the paper clips and returned them to the tray, then closed his eyes.

"Why are you still in school? Aren't you a little old for pre-med?" Claire asked, more to break the silence than from any genuine interest, while a third piece of metal in her hand was subjected to her will.

"Lady, not everyone has everything handed to them," Roger answered bitterly.

"Call me Claire; if you're going to be my husband, you can call me by my name." She smiled.

"Lady, how about we keep our distance? I'm not very social, and I don't want any problems, ok?"

"Problems?"

"Look, lady, for a guy like me, you're just a problem. One word from you and I end up in jail or worse in Mexico."

"I have no animosity toward you, Mr. Catzín. I just want a set of rules," Claire added defensively. She looked at him directly.

"One. We are not a couple in any sense of the word. Don't expect me to help you with anything, and I won't expect any help from you." She drew a symbolic line between them in the air. Then, she absently continued playing with the broken metal pieces in her hand.

"Two. You will live in the guest house. It has its own facilities, so there's no need for you to go into the main house."

"Three. You will not tell anyone about this arrangement—no family, no friends, not even strangers." She made wide circles with her hands as if roping everything in the room.

"Four. If you follow the rules, I don't know how much you'll get after a year, but I'll add ten million." She smiled while throwing the paper clip corpses in the trash bin.

"Three simple rules; I'm sure you can follow them." Her hands were outstretched, palms up, elbows at a forty-five-degree angle, signaling she had finished.

Roger thought for a second. He took another handful of paper clips and started to arrange them in the outline of a house.

"Look, Lady, I appreciate the place to stay. I'll just ask the same. I want my privacy if I stay at the guest house, room, or whatever. So each one in their own space," Roger countered.

He paused—the paper clip house complete.

"Keep your money. I helped your Grandfather when he was attacked. I would have done that for anyone. Besides, my grandfather taught me never to profit from..." He didn't finish the sentence.

"My grandfather was attacked?" She looked shocked, surprised. She wondered why he didn't finish what he was saying.

"Yes. A few months ago at Central Park. I took him to the Hospital. He had been knifed in the back."

"Tell me all the details!" She leaned toward him. Why didn't I hear about this? What was he doing in Central Park? The questions popped into her head. What had her grandfather been up to? And how did this Catzín guy fit in?

If it were just gratitude, her grandfather would have cut the guy a check, and that would be it. There had to be a deeper reason for him doing this. In part, that was why she had agreed.

Just as Roger started to explain, Mr. Doyle came back.

"Ms. Claire, Mr Catzín, please come with me. The judge will now marry you."

They entered a large meeting room.

"Henry, this is the happy couple!"

When Mr. Doyle dropped him off at the guest house, it was 9 p.m. Claire had left alone after the ceremony. He laughed, recalling the judge's look when they had shaken hands during the "You may kiss the bride" part.

Mr. Doyle had given him a credit card for his expenses. "Charge whatever you need. Tuition, clothing, a computer, a phone. There's no real limit on that black card," he had told him. There was a three-series BMW for his use.

He had pushed the card back toward Mr. Doyle but had stopped halfway.

"I'll pay everything back when I'm on my feet again," he said to the empty house. I need to find a job.

He spun in place, taking in the luxury. The memory of being thrown out of a bar when his card declined surfaced—his "party friends" drinking and laughing as he lay on the street.

He rubbed his eyes and walked around the living room, dazed. As he passed a porcelain figurine, he paused and gently caressed it. He remembered a figurine in his house in Arandas, as his mother cleaned it with care.

"Honra y dinero se ganan despacio," he heard her say, the warning coloring the sudden opulence.

He felt foreboding—a feeling of "when is the other shoe going to drop"—it was unfathomable that twelve hours before, he had been sitting on the curb, homeless.

Two drawers of the large dresser in the main bedroom held all his clothing. His winter coat became the only inhabitant in the closet.

He put the wilting fern to the side of the window so it would not get direct sunlight.

He sat on the bed, looking around the room. This bedroom is larger than my apartment. The faint floral scent of the sheets invited him to lie down.

But his stomach's grumbling made him get up and scavenge the kitchen. The double-door fridge was fully stocked. His eyes opened wide, and he gasped. There were things in there he had only seen in commercials.

He sliced bell peppers, tomatoes, and onions, salt-peppered a flank steak, and grilled everything. While it cooked, he made pico de gallo, adding avocado, habanero, and cilantro to the mix. Lastly, he heated corn tortillas for quick, delicious tacos.

"Betsy" rang, interrupting his first bite.

"Roger, would you like to have dinner or a drink?" Claire blurted without even saying hello a little excitement in her voice.

"Miss Williams, I'm just having dinner. I'll also remind you of your rules." He put the taco down.

"Call me Claire; we're married, after all. I just want to talk about the attack on my grandfather. I did a little digging after our... wedding." He looked at the food and sighed.

"Miss Williams, I made dinner. How about you join me here so I don't break your rule of entering the main house?" His voice with a tinge of exasperation.

"I'll be over in a few minutes. Just let me change into normal clothes."

An interesting, albeit frustrating woman, he mused as he finished his taco and put the meat on low heat while he waited. He wondered if she was a flour or corn tortilla type of gal.

Translations

C'est complètement absurde! Comment Grand-père a-t-il pu imaginer que je me plierais à une telle mascarade? 

It's completely absurd! How could Grandfather have imagined that I would bend to such a masquerade?

Il doit se retourner dans sa tombe à l'idée que j'accepterais cette folie sans lutter.

He must be turning in his grave at the thought that I would accept this madness without fighting.

Honra y dinero se ganan despacio

Honor and money are earned slowly.

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Did Roger make the right choice?

What does Claire Williams want?

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Thanks for reading!