Sir, Our Contract Is Over

Chapter 2

25 days until the contract expired.

The Baxter family held a monthly family dinner. Clause 7 of the contract stated that at all family functions for either party, Party B had to act the part of a loving spouse.

This time, Angela Brady was there too.

She was Franklin's college girlfriend. She'd gone abroad later and hadn't been back in 5 years, and Franklin's mother, Eleanor, had always doted on her.

When I arrived, the seat next to Franklin at the main table was already taken.

Angela was wearing a white dress and waved at me. "Ms. Buchanan, you're here? Did I sit in the wrong seat?"

Franklin glanced at me, but said nothing.

He used to say right away, "That's my wife's seat."

Even if it was all just an act.

I smiled a little. "It's fine. Go ahead and sit, Ms. Brady."

I sat down next to Eleanor. She glanced at me, then turned and went back to talking with Angela.

I played my part for Clause 7 perfectly the entire meal.

I passed Franklin dishes, helped him handle toasts, and handed him water when he coughed.

Every single movement was exactly the same as it had been for the past 3 years. Only now, there was no extra expression on my face.

After a few rounds of toasts, one of Angela's friends, drunk, came over with his cup and looked me up and down.

"You must be Ms. Buchanan, right? I heard you used to do that stuff... professional girlfriend?"

The whole table went dead quiet in an instant.

The guy fished a few bills out of his wallet, rolled them up into a tight tube, and slapped them down on the table in front of me with a grin. "How much do you charge an hour? I want to hire one too, to come home with me for the holidays."

The edges of the bills scraped against the table.

I looked over at Franklin.

He was holding his wine glass. He glanced at the man, then at me, and finally said, "She used to do that. Don't make a scene."

Angela giggled behind her hand. "Franklin, you shouldn't talk about her like that."

Every single person at the table was staring right at me.

I picked up the rolled-up bills from the table, unfolded them, and counted them slowly. $800 total.

I folded the money neatly, tucked it into my bag, and gave the guy a small nod.

"Thanks, boss."

I said steadily, "But I don't take clients anymore. Let's just say you're treating me to coffee, yeah?"

The guy froze. Franklin slammed his wine glass down on the table with a loud thud.

He didn't say a single word the whole car ride home.

Right when we were almost to the house, he finally spoke, his voice tight and strained. "Why did you take that money back there?"

"My dad's dialysis next week costs $8,400. I'm still a bit short."

"Why didn't you tell me you needed money?"

"Mr. Baxter," I said, staring out the window, "I did tell you. You said that wasn't in the contract."

His knuckles went bone white where he gripped the steering wheel.

When we got home, he lingered outside my bedroom door for a long time, then knocked twice.

"Camille, today... I didn't stop him."

I said through the door, "No need to apologize, Mr. Baxter. Clause 7 of the agreement only said I had to play the part well. It didn't say anyone had to treat me with respect."

Silence fell on the other side of the door.

My mind drifted back 3 years, to the 3 months Elizabeth was in the hospital.

I'd been sent by the agency, paid by the hour.

Every day from 2 p.m. to 8 p.m., I'd sit by her hospital bed, read the newspaper to her, peel apples for her, and listen to her talk about Franklin when he was a kid.

One night, it rained hard. I didn't have an umbrella when I got off work, and Franklin ran out of the ward and shoved an umbrella into my hand.

"If you get soaked, who's going to sit with my grandmother tomorrow?"

He said it harshly, shoved the umbrella into my hand, and ran through the rain to the parking lot.

I stood under that umbrella at the hospital entrance for a long time.

Later I found out that umbrella was a gift from Elizabeth, and he'd used it for 10 years.

That night, I secretly wrote a line in the blank margin of the contract. I think... maybe I don't want to stay for only 3 months.

That umbrella still sat on the umbrella stand at our house. But in the 3 years since, he never once opened it for me.