Chapter 5
1692 Words
Lara-Jean POV
"You understand that signing this makes you Mrs. Peter Kavinsky in the eyes of the law."
I stared at the woman across the conference table. Ms. Chen, head of legal, severe in a black suit, her hair pulled back so tight it looked painful. Forty-seven pages of legalese sat before me. My future, reduced to numbered clauses.
"I understand," I said.
Peter sat across from me. Across the massive table, like we were opposing counsel instead of engaged. His expression was unreadable—the mask firmly in place, the silver-blue eyes giving nothing away.
Three days since the photoshoot. Three days since his lips brushed mine and my world tilted on its axis. Three days of texts that stopped just short of meaning something, of calls that lasted too long and ended too abruptly.
That man—the one who'd asked may I? like I was something precious—seemed very far away right now.
Ms. Chen began reading. "Section one: Financial provisions. The betrothed, Ms. Lara-Jean Song, shall receive a monthly allowance of twenty thousand dollars for personal expenses, deposited into an account in her sole name. Additionally, upon successful completion of the twelve-month marriage contract, Ms. Song shall receive a settlement of two million dollars, tax-free, with no further obligations to the Kavinsky estate."
Twenty thousand a month. Two million dollars.
A year ago, I couldn't afford groceries. Six months ago, I was sleeping in my car. Now I was being paid more money than I'd ever imagined to marry a man who made my heart stop.
I signed page one.
"Section two: Living arrangements. The betrothed shall reside in Mr. Kavinsky's penthouse for the duration of the marriage. Separate bedrooms are stipulated. Mr. Kavinsky's staff shall be informed that the arrangement is traditional, and privacy is to be respected."
Separate bedrooms. Of course. This was a contract, not a romance.
I signed page two.
"Section three: Public appearances. The betrothed shall accompany Mr. Kavinsky to a minimum of three public events per month, including but not limited to charity galas, corporate functions, and family gatherings. Additional appearances may be requested with forty-eight hours' notice."
Three events a month. Smile for the cameras. Play the happy fiancée.
I signed page three.
Page after page. Financial disclosures. Confidentiality agreements. Non-disparagement clauses. A detailed breakdown of what would happen if either of us was caught in a "romantic entanglement" with someone else.
Romantic entanglements. The words felt like acid. As if either of us had time for love. As if love had anything to do with this arrangement.
I signed my name on page after page, feeling something die inside me with each signature.
Then I reached the last section.
Clause 47 stared up at me. I read it once. Twice. A third time, because surely I'd misunderstood.
In the event that the marriage is consummated, the financial terms outlined in Section 1 shall be null and void, and the marriage shall be considered permanent unless dissolved by mutual consent with no payout.
Consummated.
Permanent.
No payout.
The words blurred. I looked up at Peter. His jaw was tight, a muscle jumping beneath the skin.
"I didn't write that clause," he said quietly. "It was added by the family trust lawyers. My uncle's people."
Ms. Chen cleared her throat. "It's standard in arrangements of this nature. To prevent... complications."
To prevent me from trapping him with a pregnancy. That's what she meant. To ensure I didn't get pregnant and claim half his empire.
The implication was so insulting, so dehumanizing, that I couldn't breathe.
"I won't sign this."
My voice was steady. Good. Inside, I was shaking apart.
"Ms. Song—"
"No." I cut Ms. Chen off, my eyes locked on Peter. "Not because I'm planning to trap anyone. Because this clause assumes I'm a gold-digger who would use my body to steal from him."
Silence. The lawyers exchanged glances. Peter's expression was unreadable for one long, terrible moment.
"If you think that's who I am," I said quietly, "tear up the whole contract. I'll resign today."
The words hung in the air. My heart pounded. I meant every single one.
Peter stood.
He walked around the table, slow and deliberate, until he stood beside my chair. Then he reached down and took the contract from my hands.
Without looking away from me, he tore Clause 47 out of the document.
The sound of ripping paper was deafening in the silent room.
"Remove this entirely," he told Ms. Chen. His voice was ice. "And add a new clause: if Lara-Jean walks away from this marriage for any reason, she receives double the settlement. No questions asked."
My eyes widened. "Peter..."
He leaned down, his lips close to my ear. Quiet enough that only I could hear.
"You're not the gold-digger. I am." His breath was warm against my skin. "I'm digging for something I have no right to claim."
He straightened. Walked back to his seat. His expression gave nothing away.
The lawyers scrambled to revise the documents.
I sat there, my heart pounding, and wondered what the hell he meant.
An hour later, the revised contract was complete.
Peter stood at the glass, his back to me. Broad shoulders. Perfect suit. The most powerful man in the city, and he looked... lonely.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly.
I joined him at the window. "For what?"
"For the clause. For my family. For making you sit through that." He didn't turn. "You deserved better."
"It's a contract. I understood what I was signing up for."
He turned then. His silver-blue eyes found mine, intense and searching.
"Did you?"
The question hung between us.
"Because I'm realizing I didn't." His voice was low, rough. "I thought I could do this. Spend a year with you, pretend to be your husband, keep my distance. But after the photos, after today..."
He trailed off. But I heard the rest. After the kiss.
"Peter." My voice was soft. "We agreed. One year. Nothing more."
"I know." He stepped closer. Close enough that I could feel the heat of his body, could see the faint scar through his shirt where I'd pressed my scarf to his wound. "But I need you to know something."
His eyes held mine.
"That clause...the one about consummation...it's not in the contract anymore. But if you ever... if we ever..."
He struggled for words. This man who commanded boardrooms and billion-dollar deals, who faced down hostile takeovers and ruthless uncles without flinching—he couldn't find the words for this.
"If it happens," he finally said, "it won't be because of a clause. It won't be because of money or contracts or obligation. It will be because you want it. Because you want me."
His eyes bored into mine.
"Do you understand?"
I nodded. Unable to speak. Unable to breathe.
He reached up. His fingers brushed a strand of hair from my face, feather-light. The touch burned.
"Good." His voice was barely a whisper. "Then we understand each other."
He stepped back. The moment broke.
But something had shifted between us. Something that wasn't in any contract. Something that neither of us knew how to control.
***
I should have gone home. Should have called a car, retreated to my apartment, processed the day in private.
Instead, I followed him to the penthouse.
"I have wine," he said as the elevator doors closed. "And I don't want to be alone."
"Me neither."
The penthouse was different at night. Softer. He poured wine—red, expensive, probably older than me—and we sat on opposite ends of his massive sofa.
Silence. Comfortable. Strange.
"Can I ask you something?" I said.
"Anything."
"Why me? Really? There are a hundred women who would marry you in a heartbeat. Women with pedigrees and trust funds and families who wouldn't cause scandals."
He was quiet for a long moment. Swirled his wine. Stared into the glass like it held answers.
"Because you saw me bleed," he said finally. "Because you didn't run. Because you used your last money on a stranger and asked for nothing in return." He looked up. "Because when I'm with you, I forget to be Peter Kavinsky, CEO. I'm just Peter. And I didn't know how much I needed that until you gave it to me."
My heart cracked. Just a little. Just enough.
"Peter..."
"I'm not asking for anything." He set down his wine. "I'm telling you the truth. You deserve that much." A pause. "My father used to say that in business, everything is negotiable. But the heart doesn't negotiate. It just... wants."
"What does your heart want?"
The question slipped out before I could stop it.
He looked at me. Really looked. And for once, there was no mask, no calculation, no control.
"You," he said simply. "It wants you."
The word hung between us. Heavy. Terrifying. Beautiful.
I should have left then. Should have called a car, retreated to safety, protected myself from a man who could destroy me without meaning to.
Instead, I set down my wine.
And I moved closer.
My phone buzzed. Maya.
'How bad was it? Do I need to bring wine and ice cream?'
I typed back: 'I signed away my life for two million dollars.'
'Worth it?'
I looked across the penthouse. Peter stood by the windows, his back to me, giving me space. Giving me choice. Always giving me choice.
'Maybe. I'll let you know in a year', I typed.
'Or sooner, based on the way you look at him in those photos.'
I didn't respond.
Because Maya was right. And that terrified me.
Peter turned. Caught me watching. His lips curved—just slightly, just enough to be called a smile.
"Still here," he said quietly.
"Still here."
"Good."
He didn't move closer. Didn't push. Just stood there, silver-blue eyes warm in the city lights, giving me all the space I needed.
And I realized that was the most dangerous thing of all.
Not the money. Not the contract. Not even the kiss.
It was the way he made me feel safe enough to want to stay.
- Writer
