Hazel: Energy
1813 Words
I woke up with the taste of the Metropolitan’s scotch still coating my tongue. The room was too big, the air too still. I shifted, the green satin of my discarded dress a crumpled heap on the floor, reminding me of the way Archer’s hand had felt against my spine.
My mind had been a relentless, looping reel of the previous night—the blinding flashbulbs, his grip on my lower back, and the stunned, ashen face of his uncle Cyrus as I took apart his pride.
A soft, authoritative knock broke the silence of the suite. Before I could answer, the door swung open, and Gail marched in, carrying a silver tray, looking like a general inspecting her troops. She set the tray down on the small table near the window, her sharp eyes flicking over my exhausted posture.
"Breakfast, Miss James," Gail said, her tone clipped but not unkind. "And your required reading for the morning."
I pushed myself up against the headboard, pulling the duvet over my chest. Next to a steaming pot of black coffee and a plate of untouched fruit sat a sleek, silver tablet. I knew what it was before I even picked it up. My stomach gave a sickening lurch as I reached for it, the three-carat rock on my left hand catching the grim morning light.
I tapped the screen. My face stared back at me, caught in a strobe-light blur. Archer’s hand looked like a dark blotch against the emerald fabric of my waist, his fingers digging in just enough to show the world I was his. The caption underneath didn't call me a consultant.
A ‘price.'
I scrolled through the articles, my throat tightening with every word. They praised my poise, my mysterious entry into high-society, and my intellect. Someone at the dinner had leaked the interaction with Cyrus. The financial columns were ablaze with rumors that Archer Hayes had just found a wife and a secret corporate arsenal who could audit a portfolio over a plate of caviar.
I dropped the tablet onto the mattress, burying my face in my hands. My lungs constricted. The air thinned.
A power player...
I was a desperate woman who had sold her freedom to keep her brother breathing. But looking at those pictures, seeing the grip in Archer’s stance and the seamless way my name was now legally and socially tethered to his, the ring felt like it was pulling at my hand.
There was no stepping out of character.
For the next three hundred and sixty-four days, Hazel James was dead, and Archer Hayes’s fiancée had taken her place.
***
By ten o'clock, the quiet of the estate was shattered by the arrival of Delero. Archer’s lead attorney moved like a shark through water—silent, gray, and cold. He loomed over the long oak dining table, setting his leather briefcase down. The click of the latches echoed in the room.
Archer sat at the head of the table, nursing a cup of black coffee. He wore a dark suit, the tailored fabric straining against the broad lines of his shoulders with every breath. He hadn't looked at me since I walked into the room, his attention focused on the tall stacks of documents Delero was producing. I sat two chairs down, my hands folded tightly in my lap, the metronome in my chest pulsing to a fast, anxious beat.
"The press from last night was favorable," Delero said, his voice a dry, monotone hum. No congratulatory smile. "The board is satisfied. Cyrus’s camp has gone silent this morning. We bought ourselves the necessary room to solidify the quarterly margins."
"Get to the point, Delero," Archer said softly, his voice rough with impatience. "I don't pay you to read me the morning news."
Delero slid a document across the polished wood. "The final addendums to the marriage contract. The board’s morality clause." He moved closer. "The conservative faction requires undeniable proof of domestic stability. They have private investigators on retainer. They will be watching the estate."
A cold prickle of dread crawled up my spine.
"Watching the estate?"
Delero turned his dead, flat eyes toward me. "No mistakes, Miss James. You and Mr. Hayes must stay together for the rest of the year. No separate residences. No vacations apart. Present on this property, together, for three hundred and twenty days."
"I am already living here," I said.
"Under the same roof is not enough." Delero tapped a manicured finger against the paper. "Rumors leak. The arrangement must appear genuine behind closed doors. Share a room. If the board discovers you are sleeping in separate, locked wings, Cyrus will have the excuse he needs to void the CEO trust."
My throat tightened.. I looked at Archer, waiting for him to object, to tell his lawyer he wouldn't allow this invasion to his personal space. But Archer just stared at the paperwork, his jaw locked in a hard, unforgiving line. He picked up his pen and signed the paper.
Delero slid the paper back into his briefcase.
"One year. No exceptions. If you leave this property without his say so, Miss James, the contract is breached. Your brother’s funding is revoked. Welcome to the family."
The afternoon stretched before me. After Delero left, Archer retreated to his private study, sealing the tall wooden doors behind him, shutting me out. I was left alone in a house that was larger than a city block, surrounded by imported art, antique furniture, and stifling silence.
I wandered the halls until I found the estate’s library.
It was a two-s********m, lined floor-to-ceiling with dark walnut shelves, filled with thousands of leather-bound books. A beaded chandelier hung from the center of the ceiling, casting light across the plush Persian rugs.
It should have been a sanctuary.
But as I sat on a velvet chaise lounge, a book open on my lap, my skin crawled.
I couldn't read. The words blurred together.
For the past five years, my brain had operated at a breakneck pace. As a perfectionist; I couldn't leave a job poorly done. Now, I was sitting in a multi-million-dollar prison, wearing clothes I didn't buy, a ring I didn't want—
unemployed.
Snapping the book shut, I stood up and began to walk.
I hated the feeling.A decorative ornament placed on a shelf until the master of the house required me to smile. Fynn was safe, his heart monitor beeping steadily at St. Jude’s, but I needed something..
A spreadsheet.Anything. A compulsion gnawed at my bones. I walked to the tall windows, staring out at the churning waters of the lake, my fingernails digging into my palms.
"You are going to wear a hole in the rug, Hazel."
The deep, gravelly voice shattered the silence. I spun around. The organ in my chest did its thing, it skipped a beat. Archer stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame. He had discarded his suit jacket and tie; his white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to expose his corded forearms. A hooded, dark look crossed his features.
"Hi, how long have you been standing there," How did I not notice.
"You've been walking the exact same stretch of rug for the last,” he looked at his watch, "twenty minutes." Archer pushed off the doorframe and walked into the room..
"You look restless."
"Maybe I am," I crossed my arms tightly over my chest. "I appreciate that you paid my debts. I appreciate that you're keeping Fynn alive. But I am losing my mind in this house.. Sitting around reading first editions is going to drive me insane."
A dark spark of amusement flickered in his slate-gray eyes. He walked over to one of the wide tables in the center of the room and dropped a stack of red-taped folders onto it.
"What is that?" I asked, my eyes locking onto the messy paperwork.
" Take a look," Archer said, his voice dropping to a low rumble. "No summaries. Just the numbers. My team spent two months scrubbing it. They claim the margins are solid. But after watching you last night..."
He paused, resting his hands flat on the table, leaning forward. His presence washed over me, hot and demanding.
"Prove to me that I didn't just buy a pretty shield," he said.
My breath hitched.The restlessness in my bones faded, replaced by a rush of adrenaline. I stepped closer, my fingers tracing the edge of the top folder. I looked up at him, my blood humming.
"You want me to audit your own team?"
"Rip them apart." A smirk curved his lips. "If you can."
***
By midnight, we had abandoned the tables. The plush rug in Archer’s office was covered in a sea of spreadsheets, balance reports, and tax declarations.
The only light came from the desk lamp and the dying embers in the stone fireplace.
I sat cross-legged on the floor, my hair falling out of its knot, a red pen clamped between my teeth. I had taken off my shoes hours ago. Next to me, sitting with his back propped against the base of his leather armchair, was Archer, holding his Bordeaux.
"You’re looking at it wrong," Pulling the pen from my mouth,I tapped it against a highlighted column.
"Section 179 limits the deduction. You deferred millions here. And it's going to hit you with a gains tax when the lease comes to an end."
Archer took a slow sip of his wine, the dark liquid staining his lips. His dark eyes watched my mouth.
"My team said the setup was solid."
"Your ‘team’ is lazy," I shifted the paper towards me. "They didn't account for the state tax variations. If I was the auditor, I would flag this entire block of transactions and fine you for the penalties."
A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, dark and amused. "Remind me to fire my lead accountant tomorrow."
"Just send him this highlighted page and watch him panic," I said,reaching for my own wine.
As I leaned over, the heat radiating off his arm warmed my shoulder. I inhaled the scent of cedar and scotch.
My pulse fluttered.
We were sitting on the floor in the dark, sharing air, inches apart.
It was like the air around him was frozen by time and he could feel it too.The energy humming.
He slowly turned his head, his gaze dropping from my eyes to my mouth, then back up to my eyes. The space between us shrank.
"Come here," he said softly, a rough command wrapped in velvet.
My skin sang under his presence. I swallowed hard, staring into the dark, stormy depths of his eyes, realizing with a spike of panic that the lines of our arrangement had to stay as fine and unblurred as the ground beneath me.
- Writer
