Terms Of Us

Chapter 4

Damian's POV

There were very few things in life that surprised me.

People were predictable. Money was persuasive. Power, when handled correctly, rarely needed to announce itself.

And yet, Isabella Vance had managed to become an inconvenience I found myself thinking about more often than necessary.

I was reading through a financial report when my phone vibrated.

Isabella: Where are we meeting?

I glanced at the message.

Me: The Atrium. Eight o'clock.

Isabella: Somewhere public?

Me: Unless you prefer a courtroom.

Three dots appeared.

Disappeared.

Appeared again.

Isabella: Eight o'clock, Damian.

I smiled faintly.

She had a remarkable way of making my name sound like an accusation.

The Atrium was one of those restaurants designed to make wealthy people feel even wealthier. Soft lighting, expensive furniture, discreet waiters and windows overlooking the glittering city.

I arrived ten minutes early.

Isabella arrived exactly at eight.

She wore a black dress that fell elegantly against her figure, her dark hair resting over one shoulder. There was nothing excessive about her appearance. No desperate attempt to impress.

She simply walked in as though the room had been waiting for her.

I stood.

"Miss Vance."

"Mr Blackwood."

She took the seat opposite me.

"You're punctual," I observed.

"And you're still annoying."

I pulled out her chair before sitting down.

"Good evening to you too."

She opened the menu without looking at me.

"Let's not pretend we're here for dinner."

"You're welcome to eat."

"I'm not hungry."

"Then you're going to spend the next hour being unpleasant on an empty stomach."

Her eyes lifted.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then, unexpectedly, she laughed.

It was brief. Almost reluctant.

But it changed her face.

I looked away first.

"Shall we begin?" I asked.

"Please."

I placed a folder on the table and slid it towards her.

She opened it.

Inside were the preliminary terms of the proposed arrangement.

Her eyes moved across the pages, growing colder with every paragraph.

"Two years?"

"Yes."

"Separate bedrooms?"

"Obviously."

"Public appearances as a married couple?"

"That is generally what marriage requires."

She looked up.

"Don't be clever."

"I wasn't aware I was trying."

She returned her attention to the document.

"Confidentiality clause. Financial penalties for breach. No interference in personal investments. No expectations of physical affection."

She paused.

"Did you have this drafted before or after you decided to propose to me?"

"Before."

Her expression hardened.

"How romantic."

"Is romance what you're looking for?"

"No. But basic human consideration wouldn't hurt."

I leaned back.

"Then tell me what you want changed."

She closed the folder.

"First, my company remains mine. Completely. You don't get shares, voting rights or authority over its operations."

"Agreed."

She seemed momentarily surprised.

"Second, I will not be expected to abandon my position as CEO."

"That would defeat the purpose of marrying a woman who built her own company."

Her lips pressed together.

I couldn't tell whether she was pleased or irritated that I'd said something sensible.

"Third, my family does not get to use this marriage to control me."

"Your family?"

"Your family too. I don't want your mother deciding what I should wear, where I should attend events or how I should behave."

A faint smile touched my mouth.

"I doubt my mother would survive a week of attempting to control you."

"Then we agree."

"On that point."

She turned another page.

"And there's something else."

I waited.

"If either of us develops feelings for someone else, the arrangement ends."

The words settled between us.

I studied her face.

"You're anticipating infidelity?"

"I'm anticipating reality. People don't always remain in the situations they initially agree to."

"Marriage is not a revolving door, Isabella."

"Neither is my life."

There it was again.

That stubborn refusal to let anyone dictate the shape of her existence.

I folded my hands on the table.

"You're forgetting something."

"What?"

"This arrangement is not entirely about you."

Her eyes narrowed.

"I beg your pardon?"

"My company needs the Vance network. Your company needs the financial stability Blackwood Global can provide. Neither of us is doing the other a favour."

"Then stop speaking as though I'm the only one who has something to lose."

For a moment, I said nothing.

She was right.

And I disliked how easily she had made me acknowledge it.

"Fair enough," I said.

She blinked.

Perhaps she hadn't expected me to agree.

I reached for the folder and turned it towards myself.

"We'll include your conditions. But I have one of my own."

"Of course you do."

"Your financial difficulties remain private. I won't have the press turning our marriage into a story about a billionaire purchasing a struggling company."

Her expression changed.

Something vulnerable flickered beneath the sharpness.

Then it disappeared.

"My company isn't for sale."

"I know."

"Do you?"

"Yes, Isabella. I do."

I held her gaze.

"That's why I proposed to you and not your board."

For the first time that evening, she had no immediate response.

The waiter approached, and Isabella finally ordered something to eat. I did the same.

When we were alone again, she looked at me over her glass of water.

"Can I ask you something?"

"You can."

"Why marriage?"

I considered the question.

"Because a business alliance can be broken with a signature. A marriage creates a level of commitment that investors, governments and business partners understand."

"That's the business answer."

"It's the honest one."

"No." She placed her glass down. "It's the convenient one."

I watched her carefully.

"Why does it matter?"

"Because I'm being asked to marry a man I barely know. I'd like to know whether there's something about him that I should be worried about."

A quiet laugh escaped me.

"You're worried about marrying me?"

"I'm worried about marrying anyone."

That answer was more honest than I expected.

I looked towards the window.

Outside, Aurelia glittered beneath the night sky. Thousands of lives unfolding beneath the same city lights, most of them unaware of the negotiations taking place in expensive rooms.

"My father believed marriage was an obligation," I said eventually. "He believed a man could provide everything a woman needed without ever having to understand her."

Isabella remained quiet.

"He was wrong."

I hadn't intended to say that much.

I rarely spoke about my father, especially to strangers.

But Isabella wasn't looking at me with curiosity or sympathy. She was simply listening.

It was strangely uncomfortable.

"And you?" she asked softly. "What do you believe?"

I met her eyes.

"I believe people should know exactly what they're agreeing to."

She looked down at the folder.

"Then I suppose we're going to need a very long contract."

"Apparently."

A small smile appeared on her lips.

Not the polite kind she wore in boardrooms. Something quieter.

Something real.

And for reasons I couldn't quite explain, I found myself wanting to see it again.

By the time dinner ended, we had agreed on most of the preliminary terms.

Nothing was signed.

Nothing was final.

But the possibility of our arrangement had become considerably more real.

I walked her towards the entrance.

"Your car?" I asked.

"Outside."

"Allow me to have someone escort you."

"I can manage."

"I wasn't questioning your ability to walk to a car, Isabella."

"Then don't."

She stepped outside before I could respond.

I watched as she approached a black car waiting near the entrance. Before getting in, she turned.

"Damian?"

"Yes?"

"One more thing."

I waited.

"If we do this, don't expect me to fall in love with you."

Her words were firm.

Almost defensive.

I slipped my hands into my pockets.

"That makes two of us."

She held my gaze for a moment before getting into the car.

The door closed.

The vehicle disappeared into the night.

I remained where I was, listening to the distant traffic and the faint music spilling from the restaurant.

It should have been a successful evening.

We had negotiated. We had made progress. We had moved closer to an agreement that would benefit both our companies.

There was no reason for me to feel unsettled.

And yet, as I returned to my car, one thought followed me.

Isabella Vance wasn't afraid of marrying me.

She was afraid of losing herself in the process.

I understood that fear more than I cared to admit.

My phone vibrated.

A message from Sebastian.

So? Did your future wife say yes?

I stared at it for a moment before replying.

Not yet.

His response came almost immediately.

Try not to fall in love before she signs the contract, brother.

I locked my phone.

Ridiculous.

Absolutely ridiculous.

I had proposed a business arrangement, not a love story.

And I intended to keep it that way.