Chapter 3 - Terms and Conditions
1040 Words
By the time I said yes, it didn’t feel like a decision.
It felt like gravity was weighing me down.
I spent two nights not sleeping, pacing my bedroom until the floorboards creaked in complaint. I ran numbers until they blurred, opened bank apps I already knew by heart, read the eviction notice until the paper softened at the folds. Every possible alternative collapsed under scrutiny. More shifts. Different jobs. Loans I’d never qualify for. Friends I couldn’t ask.
Mum noticed something was wrong but chose not to press. She never did when situations like this arose. Instead, she commented on the weather, on a neighbour’s new car, on a sale she’d found online. Denial, wrapped in small talk.
On the third morning, I rang Lucien.
He answered on the first ring.
“I was wondering when you’d call,” he said.
“I’m not agreeing yet,” I told him. “I just… need to understand exactly what I’d be agreeing to.”
“Of course,” he replied smoothly. “My solicitor will be in touch.”
That was it. No persuasion. No reassurance.
The meeting was scheduled for the following afternoon, in a building made entirely of glass and quiet confidence. Lucien’s name was nowhere on the directory, but the receptionist knew exactly where to send me.
The boardroom was all pale wood and floor-to-ceiling windows, the city stretched out beneath us like a private possession. Two lawyers were already seated when I arrived. One woman, one man. Both impeccably dressed. Both polite in the way professionals are when they don’t intend to care.
Lucien arrived last.
He nodded to me, businesslike. “Rowan.”
I nodded back.
“Shall we begin?” the woman asked, opening her laptop.
She introduced herself as Margaret Hale, no relation, a fact I noted with some irony, and her colleague as Daniel Reed. Lucien sat at the head of the table. I was placed to his right, close enough to remind me this was a joint endeavour, distant enough to reinforce the imbalance.
Margaret slid a thick stack of papers towards me.
“This is the prenuptial agreement,” she said. “And this,” another stack, “is the non-disclosure agreement.”
I stared at the documents. “That’s… a lot of paper.”
Lucien’s mouth curved faintly. “You should see the longer version.”
My throat tightened.
Margaret spoke again, her tone neutral, efficient. “The agreement outlines the terms of the marriage, financial arrangements, duration, and exit conditions. The NDA ensures privacy and protects all parties involved.”
“All parties,” I echoed. “Including me?”
“Yes,” she said.
Lucien folded his hands. “You’re welcome to have independent legal counsel review everything.”
I laughed quietly. “With what money?”
He didn’t answer.
We started with finances.
Debts would be cleared within forty-eight hours of the contract being signed. Rent arrears paid in full. Utilities settled. A monthly allowance deposited into an account opened in my name. The number made my stomach lurch, not because it was obscene, but because it was more than I’d ever allowed myself to imagine.
Housing would be provided in Lucien’s building. Security included.
“Security?” I asked.
“Standard,” Daniel replied. “Given Mr Blackwood’s profile.”
I glanced at Lucien. “I don’t need bodyguards.”
“You might,” Lucien said calmly.
The marriage would be public. A wedding within six weeks. Appearances at key events as required. No unsanctioned interviews. No social media commentary.
“No social media at all?” I asked.
“You may maintain private accounts,” Margaret said. “But nothing public-facing without approval.”
Approval.
Intimacy was addressed next.
“There is no expectation of a s****l relationship,” Margaret said. “Unless mutually agreed upon in writing.”
“In writing,” I repeated.
Lucien’s gaze flicked to mine. “It prevents complications.”
I nodded stiffly.
Rules followed. Pages of them.
Separate bedrooms. Separate schedules unless otherwise required. No unilateral travel without notice. No substance abuse scandals. No behaviour that could bring reputational harm.
“What defines reputational harm?” I asked.
Lucien smiled faintly. “We will.”
I felt something cold settle in my chest.
The duration was eighteen months, with a six-month buffer for discretion. The divorce would be handled quietly, with a settlement already specified.
“And if I want out early?” I asked.
Margaret hesitated. “There are penalties.”
“Of course there are.”
Lucien leaned closer. “Rowan. If you agree to this, you must commit to it.”
I looked at him. Really looked.
“You’re asking for my life,” I said quietly.
“No,” he replied. “I’m offering to stabilise it.”
The distinction felt razor-thin.
We broke briefly. I went to the bathroom and locked myself in a stall, pressing my hands to my face. I thought of Mum lighting candles we couldn’t afford. Of the way she’d frowned at my dress without understanding why I wore it.
I thought of the word eviction.
When I returned, Margaret slid a pen towards me.
“Take your time,” she said.
Lucien watched me, unreadable.
I flipped to the last page.
My name was already printed there.
Rowan Hale.
All that remained was my signature.
“This doesn’t make me yours,” I said suddenly.
Lucien’s expression didn’t change. “No. It protects you.”
I signed.
The pen felt heavy. Final.
As if something had closed around me the moment the ink dried.
Lucien signed next, swift and confident.
Margaret gathered the papers. “Congratulations,” she said. “You’re engaged.”
The word sounded wrong. Hollow.
Lucien stood. “We’ll announce it in forty-eight hours.”
“I should tell my mother,” I said faintly.
“Yes,” he replied. “Do that.”
Outside, the city moved as it always had. People laughed. Cars honked. Life continued, oblivious.
I stood on the pavement, contract copy tucked under my arm, and realised something fundamental had shifted.
I wasn’t choosing between right and wrong anymore.
I was choosing between collapse and containment.
And containment had won.
- Writer
