Chapter 10 Heart Rate Proof
# Chapter 10: Heart Rate Proof
The small, wood-paneled office of Judge Eleanor Simmons smelled of old books and furniture polish. Magnus straightened his already perfect tie as they waited, while Wynne smoothed nonexistent wrinkles from her cream silk dress.
"Nervous?" she whispered.
"Absolutely not," Magnus replied promptly, then caught her knowing look. "Perhaps slightly. This is the first legal document we've signed together since the original contract."
Judge Simmons entered, a kind-faced woman in her sixties who had known Wynne's family for decades. "All ready?" she asked, placing a folder on her desk. "This is certainly one of the more unusual documents I've notarized in my career."
What lay before them wasn't a standard marriage certificate. At Magnus's insistence and with Wynne's amused cooperation, they had created what the legal department had reluctantly titled a "Permanent Business Merger Agreement with Personal Covenants."
"The lawyers were horrified," Magnus admitted as the judge reviewed the paperwork. "They said marriage certificates exist for a reason and we should use the standard form."
"But you've never been one for standard forms," Wynne finished for him.
"Exactly."
Judge Simmons adjusted her glasses. "Well, the language is unconventional, but the legal requirements are all met. 'The undersigned parties hereby agree to permanently consolidate their personal and professional interests in a binding, exclusive arrangement recognized under state law as marriage.'" She looked up with raised eyebrows. "Romantic."
"There's a more traditional section on page three," Wynne pointed out.
The judge flipped forward, her expression softening as she read the handwritten portion. "Ah, yes. This is more along traditional lines." She cleared her throat and read aloud: "Beyond legal definitions and contractual obligations, I promise to cherish your brilliance, challenge your assumptions, support your ambitions, and remind you daily that some agreements are measured in heartbeats, not signatures."
Magnus shifted in his seat, color rising to his cheekbones. "That was a private addition."
"It's my favorite clause," Wynne said, reaching for his hand.
The signing itself took less than two minutes—names inscribed, witnessed, and notarized with efficient strokes of a pen. When Judge Simmons pronounced them legally married, Magnus seemed momentarily uncertain how to proceed, as if this one ceremony hadn't been outlined in his mental protocols.
Wynne solved the dilemma by simply leaning forward to kiss him, brief but meaningful, before whispering, "Contract executed, Mr. Perry."
His smile in response was everything she'd hoped for.
---
The decision to forgo a large wedding had surprised many, especially given Magnus's tendency toward grand gestures. But both had agreed that their relationship had endured enough public scrutiny. Instead, they'd arranged an intimate dinner at Wynne's favorite restaurant with only Lydia, Elena, and two of Magnus's oldest board members in attendance.
"To the most unusual corporate merger in recent history," toasted Wynne's sister, raising her champagne glass. "May your stock values only rise."
Magnus leaned close to Wynne as the others laughed. "Are you disappointed? Not having the traditional celebration?"
"Not at all," she assured him. "Though I'm a bit surprised you didn't secretly arrange for skywriters or rename another town square."
"I considered it," he admitted. "But I'm learning that some moments belong just to us."
After dinner, as they walked the few blocks to their apartment—they had chosen to live in Wynne's place rather than Magnus's sterile penthouse—he took her hand. "I do have one wedding gift for you, though it's not quite ready."
"Is it another childhood home?" she teased.
"Not exactly. It's..." He hesitated. "It's a foundation. The Valdez Initiative for Workplace Equity. Focused on addressing power imbalances and harassment in professional environments."
Wynne stopped walking, turning to face him fully. "Magnus..."
"Your experience with the governor's chief of staff—what happened to you shouldn't happen to anyone." His expression was earnest. "The foundation will provide legal support, career counseling, and advocacy for policy changes."
Tears pricked at Wynne's eyes. Of all the extravagant gestures Magnus could have made, this one—addressing the painful chapter of her past and transforming it into something constructive—touched her most deeply.
"Thank you," she said simply, knowing he would understand the depth of meaning behind those two words.
---
Three months into their marriage, Perry Group's human resources director knocked tentatively on Magnus's office door.
"Sir, about the new employee orientation video..."
Magnus looked up from his work. "Is there a problem?"
"Not exactly, but..." The director fidgeted. "We traditionally include a message from the CEO, and the production team was hoping to use footage from the quarterly address. However, the only recent recording we have is, well..."
"Is what?" Magnus prompted, impatience edging into his voice.
"It's the security footage from when you... that is, when you were practicing your proposal in the stairwell."
Magnus went very still. "That was recorded?"
"Security cameras, sir. The footage was flagged because the system detected someone in the stairwell after hours. It's been circulating among staff for months. They find it... humanizing."
For a moment, Magnus looked like the old, intimidating CEO who would have demanded immediate deletion of such personal footage. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed.
"Use the quarterly address," he said finally. "But you can tell the staff that yes, I'm aware of the stairwell footage, and no, I won't be taking disciplinary action against whoever preserved it."
After the HR director left, Magnus leaned back in his chair, reflecting on how much had changed. Six months ago, the thought of employees witnessing such a vulnerable moment would have horrified him. Now, it seemed a small price for the life he'd gained.
His intercom buzzed. "Mr. Perry, your wife is here."
Wynne entered carrying lunch, closing the door behind her. "I brought sustenance. You've been in budget meetings all morning."
"How did you know?"
"Lydia texted me. She said you were getting that crease between your eyebrows that appears when you're about to fire someone."
Magnus accepted the food gratefully. "The HR team has footage of me practicing my proposal to you."
"I know," Wynne replied, settling into the chair across from him. "I've seen it."
"You have?"
"Lydia showed me weeks ago. I thought it was adorable."
"Adorable is not a term typically applied to CEOs," he noted dryly.
"Get used to it. Your staff now knows you're human." She unwrapped her sandwich. "Speaking of staff, have you reviewed the adoption assistance policy updates I suggested?"
The casual way she introduced the topic almost made him miss its significance. Almost.
Magnus set down his food slowly. "Adoption assistance?"
Wynne met his gaze steadily. "Yes. The current policy is outdated. If Perry Group is going to support employees starting families, the benefits should be equitable regardless of how those families are formed."
"Is this a theoretical concern, or...?"
"Let's call it forward planning," she replied carefully. "For now."
A warmth spread through Magnus's chest—the now-familiar sensation of barriers dissolving, of life expanding beyond what he'd once permitted himself to imagine.
"I'll review the proposals this afternoon," he promised, reaching across the desk for her hand.
---
One year to the day after their first meeting, Magnus led Wynne through the Perry Group executive floor after hours, a mysterious destination in mind.
"Where are we going?" she asked as they passed darkened offices.
"Patience," he replied, guiding her toward a door she'd never noticed before—a small access panel nearly hidden beside the main conference room.
Inside was a compact room lined with steel shelving units and climate control monitors. "The company's secure storage," Magnus explained. "For our most important documents."
He led her to a specific section and carefully removed a sealed preservation box. Inside, protected by archival materials, lay their original contract—the "fake relationship" agreement with its professional clauses and careful boundaries.
"Clause 13," Wynne murmured, spotting the golden text that had once warned them against emotional attachment.
"Our beginning," Magnus said, his voice soft with remembrance. "Imperfect but necessary."
Wynne traced the edge of the document where she had first noticed the strange ink stain—the anomaly that had nagged at her consciousness from the very beginning.
"I've always wondered about this mark," she said. "It never looked like an accidental smudge to me."
Magnus's expression turned slightly sheepish. "It wasn't."
"What was it, then?"
He carefully lifted the document, tilting it toward the light at a specific angle. Under the proper illumination, the "smudge" revealed itself as a tiny, precisely rendered heart shape, almost invisible unless one knew exactly how to look for it.
"You put a secret heart on our 'no feelings' contract?" Wynne asked, astonished.
"A moment of weakness," he admitted. "Or perhaps honesty. Even then, something about you made me want to break my own rules."
Wynne stared at the tiny heart, processing its implications. "You were interested from the very beginning."
"Terrified from the very beginning," he corrected. "But yes, interested despite myself."
As they carefully returned the contract to its preservation box, Wynne couldn't help but marvel at how far they'd come—from that first wary meeting to now, lives completely intertwined.
"By the way," Magnus said as they left the storage room, "I received a call today from the Museum of American Business History. They're curating an exhibition on unconventional corporate documents."
"Let me guess—they want our contract?"
"A temporary loan, yes. They find the 'No Falling in Love' clause particularly fascinating as a cultural artifact."
Wynne laughed. "Our relationship agreement as a museum piece. What's next?"
"Actually," Magnus said, his expression turning serious as they reached his office, "there is something next."
He unlocked his private safe, removing a document she hadn't seen before. "This is what I've been working on recently. Version one hundred."
Wynne accepted the folder warily. "I thought we agreed—no more proposal versions."
"It's not a proposal," Magnus assured her. "Open it."
Inside was not another romantic plan but a complete adoption application package—forms filled out in Magnus's precise handwriting, home study preparations, agency recommendations.
"You said the policy review was 'forward planning,'" he explained. "I thought perhaps we might be ready to move that plan forward."
Wynne looked up from the paperwork, eyes bright with emotion. "You want to start the adoption process?"
"If you're ready," Magnus said carefully. "The foundation work made me realize how much more we could do directly, personally. And I find myself thinking about family in ways I never permitted before."
Wynne set the folder on his desk and stepped into his arms. "I'm ready."
As Magnus held her close, he reflected on the journey that had brought them here—from a coldly negotiated contract to this warm, certain embrace. The careful walls he'd built around his heart hadn't just been breached; they'd been demolished and rebuilt into something entirely new—a space large enough for not just Wynne, but for the family they might create together.
---
Five years later, the Perry Group lobby underwent renovation to accommodate a new installation. At its center stood a climate-controlled display case containing a single document—the original contract with its golden Clause 13 prominently visible.
Beside it, a small plaque read:
"THE CONTRACT THAT FAILED
This document represents an attempt to regulate human emotion through legal parameters. Its spectacular failure led to the marriage of CEO Magnus Perry and crisis manager Wynne Valdez-Perry, the corporate rebranding to include the 'WV' insignia, and eventually, the establishment of the company's industry-leading family support policies.
The small heart hidden in the document's corner (visible under special lighting every hour) was the first indication that some agreements are made to be broken."
On the day of the installation's unveiling, Magnus stood at the back of the gathered crowd, seven-year-old Sophia balanced on his hip while nine-year-old James pressed against his side.
"Is that really your contract with Mom?" James asked, peering at the display.
"It is," Magnus confirmed. "The one that didn't work."
"Why didn't it work?" Sophia wanted to know.
Wynne appeared beside them, slipping her hand into Magnus's. "Because some things can't be controlled by contracts, sweetheart."
"Like what?" James pressed.
Magnus exchanged a glance with his wife, remembering the nervous CEO who once believed emotions could be regulated by golden clauses. "Like heartbeats," he said simply.
As if on cue, the display lighting changed, revealing the tiny hidden heart on the document's edge. The crowd murmured appreciatively at this detail of corporate legend.
"Your father," Wynne whispered for only Magnus to hear, "has always been much more romantic than he let anyone know."
"I had excellent motivation," he replied, squeezing her hand as their children raced off to examine the display more closely.
The evidence of their unlikely beginning now stood preserved for posterity—a failed contract that had succeeded beyond all reasonable expectations, proving that sometimes the most binding agreements are the ones written not in ink, but in the steady, persistent rhythm of two hearts that refused to follow the rules.
