The Worst Contract, The Perfect Match

7. Old?

Julian Mackenzie's POV

The next day, the sun was barely beginning to paint the sky when I was already up. My exercise routine wasn't just for vanity; it was the only way to release the tension built up from what awaited me.

After a quick shower, I slipped into one of my tailored suits. The cut was perfect, accentuating my shoulders with the precision that only money and good taste can buy.

In the kitchen, the aroma of coffee and pancakes filled the air as I prepared breakfast for Alina. It's my favorite ritual, the only moment of the day when the world shrinks to my daughter's smile.

She appears in her school uniform, a whirlwind of energy, and gives me a kiss. Her blue eyes, a carbon copy of mine, shine with that light that only innocence can give. My parents and my grandfather Bruce join us at the table. The smell of home gives me a false sense of peace.

"Family, I have a surprise. I'm taking you out to dinner tonight. I want you to meet someone very special."

Alina looks at me curiously, her eyebrows arched in a silent question.

"Baby, I know you're going to love it," I say, stroking her cheek. "Your grandparents are picking you up today. I have things to do, but I'll see you tonight."

She nods, reassured, and smiles.

"Julian, what's this all about?" My mother's voice cuts through the familiar atmosphere, that tone that's known all my lies since I was old enough to understand.

"Relax, Mom," I say, getting up and straightening my shirt cuffs. "I'll just say that I listened to your advice."

I wink at her and leave before she can ask any more questions. The echo of her doubts fades as I close the door.

It's eight in the morning. Zara must be waiting for me.

I arrive at the hotel with an iron will. I order the manager to bring breakfast up to my suite. I don't know her tastes, so I order everything. A calculated excess. This is my territory, and I want her to know it from the first bite.

I knock on the door. When she opens it, my pulse quickens. It's not a reaction I can control, but one I won't admit aloud either.

Zara is perfectly dressed. A dress that clings to her curves, her hair pulled back in a ponytail that reveals her neck, elegant and fragile at the same time.

"Good morning, Zara."

"Good morning, Julian," her voice is as soft as silk.

I made my way into the room without waiting for an invitation. Dominating the space was part of my nature.

"I ordered breakfast. How about we eat and then go to my office?"

She nods, a minimal but firm movement. However, when the waiter entered with the excessive number of trays, Zara rolled her eyes with an elegance that I found both irritating and fascinating.

"Don't you think this is an excessive amount of food?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

I shrugged, leaning against the window frame to get a better look at her.

"No," I replied, shrugging as I sat down. "I didn't know what you liked, so I ordered everything on the menu."

I sat down in one of the chairs facing the small table and gestured to the one opposite with a slight nod: an order disguised as an invitation.

"Come, sit down and enjoy."

"Thank you," she said, moving with that distinctly British grace.

She looked young, too young. If I hadn't met her in the hospital, I would have sworn she wasn't even of legal age yet. She has a sweet air about her, yes. But also a quiet determination.

"Zara."

"Yes?"

"How old are you?" Curiosity got the better of me.

"I recently turned twenty-six. And you?"

"I'll be thirty-six in two months," I replied, and for the first time in my life, feeling that ten-year age difference weighed heavily on my chest.

"Wow... you're old," she remarked with a nonchalance that struck a blow to my ego.

The word stings. No one, absolutely no one, has ever called me old in my life.

"Old?" I paused before adding, "My father is ten years older than my mother and he's never looked old next to her," I retorted, my voice dropping an octave, laden with that possessive virility. "The men in my family are very... vigorous. My grandfather married my grandmother when he was twenty years older."

She let out a laugh that broke the tension.

“You don’t need to explain,” she said, regaining her composure with a speed that made me doubt my own judgment. “In a marriage of convenience, age isn’t important. After all, we’ll be free in a year.”

Damn it, she was right. Why was I justifying my age?

“That’s true. So, if you’re finished, let’s go. We have a lot to do,” I said, regaining my composure.

We arrived at my office in record time. My secretary, a woman I trusted completely, who had seen me climb every rung of my career as a lawyer, greeted us with a surprised smile at seeing me accompanied, since I've never brought a woman here who isn't a family member.

I gestured for Zara to take a seat in the chair across from my mahogany desk, while I sank into my leather armchair, reclaiming my territory.

Susan looked at us, bewildered; I suppose that seeing Zara, a complete stranger, sitting across from my desk as if she were born to be there, must feel like the end of the world.

"Susan, no one is to interrupt us," I ordered.

She nodded and left.

"Let's clarify the terms," ​​I began, crossing my fingers on the desk. "I've drafted the basic clauses, but I want to add a crucial one: if my daughter shows the slightest sign of discomfort with you, the contract is null and void. Immediate divorce, regardless of how much time has passed." I exclaimed, making it clear that my daughter was untouchable.

"I understand," Zara replied, unfazed. "That sounds perfect. But I also have a couple of clauses to add."

I look at her with a wry smile. So now the giraffe doctor has demands?

"Go ahead," I replied, leaning back in my chair, expecting some absurd financial request.

Forgetting that Zara wasn't like the others.

She leans slightly forward, and suddenly the air in the office becomes thick.

"Julian, marriage is a serious commitment. Even if it's by contract, I want it to be handled with seriousness. Number one: we're going to make it a rule that, at least three nights a week, you have dinner with Alina and me. You'll also be obligated to take us on a trip once a month. My father, no matter how much work he had, was always there for us, and we were his priority. I want to give your daughter that example, the same one I grew up with."

I remain silent, assessing her. It's not a request. It's a sentence.

“Number two,” she continued, her voice firm, “as your wife, you will respect my place both in public and in private. And by that, I mean you will commit to being faithful to this contract and the marriage bond we are about to enter into. You understand, right? That your ‘nighttime adventures’ end for the duration of our marriage?”

My blood boils, but not with anger. With disbelief. Does this little girl intend to set limits for me?

I lean forward, resting my elbows on the desk, my gaze hardening.

“I understand the fidelity,” I said, my voice a low whisper. “But I will add a condition. You will fulfill your role as a wife. Both in public… and in private.”