Chapter 9: Terms and Conditions
593 Words
The contract arrives before breakfast.
Not printed. Not signed.
Spoken.
He waits for me in the kitchen, jacket off, sleeves rolled up like this is a normal morning and not the aftermath of a choice that could destroy me. The sunlight through the glass walls turns him almost human.
Almost.
“There are boundaries,” he says, pouring coffee. “You’ll stay out of my west wing. My study. And anything labeled confidential.”
“You labeled half the building confidential,” I say.
He slides a cup toward me. Black. No sugar. He remembers.
“That half will never concern you.”
I take the cup but don’t drink. “And in return?”
He leans against the counter, crossing his arms. The silence stretches. He’s watching me—not my face, not my body, but my reactions. Waiting for a crack.
“You attend events with me,” he says. “Public ones. Appearances that require credibility.”
My stomach tightens. “Your fake girlfriend.”
“Don’t romanticize it,” he replies. “You’re a stabilizing factor.”
I laugh quietly. “I’m a liability you’re dressing up.”
“Semantics.”
I finally sip the coffee. It’s strong enough to bite. “And if I refuse?”
“Then we go back to yesterday,” he says calmly. “You leave. I protect myself.”
There’s that word again.
Protect.
From me.
I set the cup down. “What happens if people recognize me?”
“They won’t,” he says without hesitation. “And if they do, they won’t matter.”
The ease with which he dismisses the world unsettles me more than the deal itself.
“And what do I get?” I ask.
He meets my eyes. Fully. Directly. No games.
“Safety.”
The word settles deep in my chest, heavy with things I don’t want to need.
“And answers,” I add.
A pause.
“Some,” he concedes. “When it’s necessary.”
I nod slowly. “Then here’s my condition.”
His brow lifts slightly. Approval? Curiosity?
“You don’t touch me,” I say. “Not for appearances. Not for comfort. Not to remind yourself who’s in control.”
The room stills.
“You think I would?” he asks softly.
“I know you could,” I reply.
Something unreadable crosses his face. Then he inclines his head.
“Agreed.”
The silence that follows is intimate in the worst way—like standing too close to a fire you swore you wouldn’t approach.
“I have an event tonight,” he says after a moment. “Charity gala.”
I snort. “Of course it is.”
“You’ll wear black,” he continues. “Minimal jewelry. No backstory. Say little.”
“Your favorite kind of woman,” I mutter.
His gaze sharpens, but he doesn’t rise to it.
“I’ll pick you up at eight.”
“Like a date.”
“Like an obligation.”
I stand. “Same thing, different lie.”
As I turn to leave, he speaks again—quieter this time.
“You should know something.”
I stop.
“If you’re seen with me,” he says, “people will assume things about you.”
“I’m used to that.”
“No,” he corrects gently. “They’ll assume you belong to me.”
I look back at him. “And do I?”
The question hangs between us, dangerous and alive.
He doesn’t answer.
Which is answer enough.
- Writer
