Sterling and Sloane

The Vance Proposal

The elevator to the 60th floor of Vance Hotels HQ doesn't ding. It whispers. Even the elevator here is too rich to make a normal sound.

I'm holding Maya's hand so tight my knuckles are white. My other hand is holding the strap of my backpack so tight it might snap. Inside that backpack are three pregnancy tests, a half-eaten granola bar, my Constitutional Law notes, and Sterling Vance's suit jacket that I still haven't returned. I told myself I forgot. I didn't forget.

"Sloane," Maya whispers as the doors open, "if they are mean, what's the plan?"

"Plan A is we are professional and calm," I whisper back.

"And Plan B?"

"Plan B is you cry dramatically, I threaten to sue, and we run."

"Perfect. I love Plan B. I'm already pre-crying."

The doors open and the Vance world hits me in the face.

All black marble. All glass. All people in identical black suits walking fast while holding iced coffees that probably cost more than my blazer. My blazer is H&M. I bought it for internship interviews. I thought it made me look like a lawyer. Here, I look like the intern who got lost on the way to get coffee.

And on a $20,000 leather couch in the middle of all this, eating a free granola bar from their lobby basket like it's his last meal, is Kevin Park.

Same wrinkled dress shirt from the Hamptons. Dress pants today, but I swear they are the same ones he wore with dinosaur pajamas underneath last time. And a tie. With a bright red ketchup stain right in the middle.

He sees us and jumps up, granola crumbs raining everywhere.

"ZARA DRESS GIRL! YOU CAME!" he yells, so loud that three assistants flinch. "I told him you'd come! He said, quote, 'She's not coming, Kevin, stop eating the lobby food.' And I said, 'Bro, she has your jacket, she HAS to come back!'"

My face burns. "Kevin, shut up... "

"—and then he started pacing! Like, for an hour! Like a sad, hot dog! Do you know how annoying it is when a hot billionaire paces? Very annoying!"

And then I see him.

Sterling Vance is standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, hands in his pockets, looking out at all of Manhattan like he owns it. Which, technically, his family kind of does. Black suit. White shirt. Hair perfect. He heard every single word Kevin just said. He doesn't turn around. He doesn't even move.

Next to him, standing like they were posed for a Forbes cover, are Richard and Evelyn Vance.

Richard Vance looks exactly like Sterling will look in 30 years if someone removed all the softness from his face and replaced it with quarterly reports. Evelyn Vance looks like she was sculpted out of ice and then taught how to smile without actually smiling.

"Sloane Parker," Richard says. He doesn't offer a hand. He looks at my H&M blazer. At my scuffed loafers. At Maya's thrifted dress that she cut to be more fashionable. At my backpack. "Thank you for coming on such short notice. My son has informed us of your... situation."

"It's not a situation," I say. My voice is steadier than my hands. "I'm pregnant. Four weeks. I'm keeping it. That's not up for negotiation."

I expect shock. I expect anger.

I get a nod, like I just told him the weather.

"Of course," Evelyn says smoothly. "We Vances take responsibility for our responsibilities. We would never suggest otherwise."

The way she says responsibilities makes me feel like a line item on a spreadsheet.

Sterling still hasn't turned around.

Richard slides a thick black folder across the glass coffee table towards me. It makes a soft, expensive thud. CONTRACTUAL MARRIAGE AGREEMENT is embossed on it in gold.

"Let's be adults here, Ms. Parker," Richard says. "My son has an IPO in three months. The board believes he is... unstable. Parties every night, girls in and out, rumors of tigers... "

"It was a dog," Kevin interjects from the couch. "A very large dog. And it was my idea. He was lonely."

"As I was saying," Richard snaps, glaring at Kevin like he wants to have him removed by security, "a wife. A child. A family man image. That stabilizes the stock. That fixes everything."

He opens the folder for me. I see numbers. I see clauses. I see my name next to his.

"One year of marriage. You live in the Tribeca penthouse with my son. You attend two, perhaps three events per month. You smile for photographs. You finish your Columbia degree quietly, no press. In exchange, we establish a $500,000 trust for the child, pay your tuition in full for your final year, and provide housing. After one year, a clean, quiet divorce. No further obligations. My lawyers have made it very generous. For a girl in your... position."

For a girl in my position.

Maya's hand crushes mine. I can feel her about to explode.

And Sterling finally turns around.

He looks at me. And for one stupid, traitorous second, I wait for it; for the softness from the balcony, for the guy who said his house was empty, for the note that said "don't do the dramatic sneaky exit thing."

I get nothing.

His face is blank. Cold. Nonchalant. Like I'm a stranger he met in an elevator.

"Sign it," he says.

That's it. Two words. No hello. No "are you okay." No "how are you feeling."

Maya actually gasps. "Excuse me?"

Sterling walks over to the table, to the contract. He flips a page with one finger, like he's bored reading it. He doesn't look at me when he talks to me.

"It's simple, Sloane," he says, voice flat, business-like. "You need money. You need tuition. You need a place that isn't a fifth-floor walkup with a leaking ceiling where you share a bathroom with three other people, Maya told Kevin, Kevin told me. I need the board off my back. A wife and a baby makes me look like I have my s**t together. Not like a guy who throws a party every night because he doesn't know how to be alone. Everyone wins."

He says it so casually. So nonchalantly. Like we're talking about splitting an Uber, not a baby.

"Is this a joke to you?" I ask, and now my voice does shake.

"No," he says, finally looking at me. Eyes cold. "It's business. You said it yourself that morning, remember? 'This was a mistake.' I'm just handling the mistake efficiently. That's how we do things in my world."

Efficiently. Cleaning up. Managing.

"You left that note on my pillow," I say quietly, so only he can hear. "You wrote 'stay for pancakes.'"

Something flickers in his eyes. His jaw tightens for half a second, so fast I almost miss it. His fingers press too hard on the edge of the folder.

Then he shuts it down. Slams the shutters closed.

"And you wrote 'don't try to find me,'" he says, just as quietly, just as cold. "So I'm not. I'm offering you a contract. No feelings. No complications. That's what you wanted, right? To pretend you were just one of the 200 people at the party?"

It hurts more than if he'd yelled. Because he's using my own words against me, and he's doing it like he doesn't care at all.

"Fine," I say, and I make my voice go just as cold. If he can be nonchalant, I can be nonchalant too. I am a Parker. We do cold when we are hurt. "Let's be nonchalant then. One year. Fake marriage. Roommates. You don't touch me. You don't talk to me unless there's a camera or your board is watching. No more parties in the penthouse. I'm not raising a baby in a nightclub."

"Done," he says immediately. No hesitation. "Separate rooms. You can have three bedrooms if you want. I don't care. You get your tuition. I get my IPO. No feelings. No complications. Just rules. Like you wrote."

He holds out his hand to shake.

To shake. Like I'm a vendor. Like we didn't spend three hours on a balcony talking about his secret dream to build an eco-resort his dad called unprofitable. Like we didn't both say "we shouldn't do this" and then "do you want to?" at the same time.

I stare at his hand. His warm hand. His hand that was on my waist four weeks ago.

I shake it. It's warm. His eyes are not.

"Perfect," he says, letting go too fast, like I burned him. He looks at his father. "We're done here. Send it to my lawyer."

Richard looks pleased. "See? Sterling can be very reasonable when he wants to be. Welcome to the family, Ms. Parker."

Evelyn smiles that ice smile. "We should go shopping. You can't wear H&M to a Vance gala."

I want to throw the contract at her perfectly contoured face.

And then, Kevin Park, who has been silent for a record-breaking three minutes, stands up on the $20,000 couch.

"OKAY BUT WHAT IF I MARRY MAYA TOO SO THEY AREN'T ALONE?!" he shouts at the top of his lungs.

The entire 60th floor goes silent. Assistants freeze mid-walk. Phones stop ringing. Richard Vance looks like he's having a stroke.

Maya chokes on the air. "WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?!"

Kevin points at me and Sterling, then at himself and Maya, like he's explaining math to toddlers. His ketchup tie is flapping with passion.

"Think about it! BOGO! Buy one get one free, sign one get one free, Double wedding! Two fake couples, one penthouse! Then Sloane won't be alone with Robo-Sterling who is acting like a sexy, sad Roomba right now! And Maya and I can be Fake Couple Number Two! I'm great at being fake! I'm also great at being real! I have a tie! It has ketchup but it's still formal! It's business formal!"

Maya: "YOU HAVE KETCHUP ON YOUR TIE AND YOU WANT TO MARRY ME?!"

Me: "Kevin, that's not how any of this works... "

Sterling, who has been trying so hard to keep his cold, nonchalant, I-don't-care mask on, finally breaks. He looks at Kevin with pure, unfiltered horror.

"Kevin. Get off the couch. You are not marrying anyone. Especially not her cousin."

"Why not? I'm loyal! I share pizza! Sometimes! And Maya is hot and she steals my pizza which means she likes me! That's how marriage works!"

Richard turns to Evelyn and whispers, very quietly, "what have we done?"

And Sterling, trying desperately to pull his cold mask back on, looks at me one last time. But his hand — his hand is still clenched in a fist from where he shook mine, like he's holding onto something he doesn't want to let go of.