RAYMOND REDDINGTON

Reddington pursed his lips, studying the prenuptial agreement. His godfather, an old mafia boss, left an absurd condition in his will: to gain access to the family capital Raymond will have to marry the mobsters daughter, a 28-year–old pleasant young lady, to live with her for a year as husband and wife. In other case he won't gain access to family money-laundering schemes in Switzerland, they will go to her ex-fiance by another notarial agreement.
For the first time in his life Raymond Reddington got outsmarted. Meh.

Still in mourning, she is both upset and outraged by her father's will. Irritably straightening a lock of hair, she folds her arms over her chest and gives him a sharp look:

"It is decided. We stick together for a year, then we get divorced."

"What a great evening for an engagement," he quips, signing the contract with a flourish and handing her a pen.

"Any girl's dream," she grimaced in response, also scribbling her signature before slamming the pen against the mahogany table surface. "Especially the points about separate bedrooms and pretending in public."

The wedding ceremony took no more than seven minutes.

━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━

They had just returned from an official reception where they had spent three hours pretending to be the lucky couple. Her silk dress rustled a little.

"You overplayed your hand today," Reddington threw his jacket on a chair. "Stroking my shin under the table was bold."

"Maybe I really got carried away with the role, husband," She passed so close that the perfume intoxicatingly hit his nose.
Hearing him sit down in an armchair and the tinkling glass stopper of expensive alcohol bottle, she turns around to face him.

"Is it your ritual again? Cognac, cigar and a sad look out the window? What a predictable midlife crisis." She notes, rolling her eyes.

Lighting a cigar, he breaks into a grin and replies:

"Honey, when you reach my age, you'll understand: some cliches become classics for a reason."