Sir, Our Contract Is Over

Chapter 4

Zero days left until the contract expired.

It was a Wednesday.

At 6 a.m., my dad was wheeled into the operating room.

I signed my name in the family member column. I paused at the spouse line, wrote my mom's name, then crossed it out.

My mom had been gone for 12 years.

I sat outside the OR for 1 hour, then hailed a cab straight to the docks.

The cruise ship was moored at the riverside pier, blazing with lights. White balloons dotted every inch of the deck, each one printed with Angela's name.

I slipped into the evening dress Franklin had sent over, looped my arm through his, and walked into the banquet hall.

Angela spotted me the second we stepped in, her smile sickly sweet. "Oh, Ms. Buchanan's here too? Thanks for making time today. You're getting $800 an hour for this, right?"

The entire room burst out laughing.

Franklin's arm went rigid under my hand, but he didn't say a word.

Angela sauntered over, champagne flute in hand, tilting her head. "I heard people in your line of work have a rule. You do whatever the client tells you to, right? Ms. Buchanan, why don't you read that agreement of yours out loud for everyone? We're all so curious what $50,000 a month for 3 years buys you."

The crowd around whooped and cheered her on.

I glanced up at Franklin.

He stared back at me, his lips twitching like he wanted to say something, but all that came out was, "Go on. Once you're done, it's over."

I pulled the agreement out of my purse and read every single clause out loud, right there in front of every guest on the ship.

"Clause 3. In private settings, both parties treat each other with courtesy.

"Clause 5. Party B is not responsible for Party A's housework, meals, or daily needs.

"Clause 7. At all family functions for either party, Party B had to act the part of a loving spouse."

I read slowly, enunciating every word perfectly. I'd memorized this thing inside out over 3 years. I knew it better than he ever did.

I paused when I hit Clause 12.

"Clause 12," I said. "Upon expiration of the agreement, Party B shall return all gifts received from Party A. Neither party shall owe the other anything thereafter."

The room went dead quiet for a split second, then erupted into another wave of raucous laughter.

Only Franklin didn't laugh.

He stared right at me, his face draining of color little by little, until he was as pale as the white balloons strung across the deck.

Halfway through the dinner, Angela stepped up onto the stage with a microphone in hand, saying she wanted to thank someone special.

"5 years ago, right before I left the country, someone told me he'd wait for me." She locked eyes with Franklin, her eyes glistening bright. "Today marks 1 year since I came back. I want to ask him, does that promise still count?"

Every single person in the room turned to look at Franklin.

He was standing right next to me, a half-full glass of wine still in his hand.

I felt his eyes dart to me for a split second, just one quick look, gone before I could even register it.

Then he set his glass down on a nearby table and walked up to the stage without looking back.

My phone buzzed in my purse, hard.

It was the hospital.

"Camille Buchanan? Your father suffered a major hemorrhage during surgery. We're performing emergency resuscitation right now, and we need an immediate signature from a family member. Where are you?"

I hung up immediately, grabbed the hem of my floor-length gown, and sprinted for the exit as fast as my heels would let me.

By the time I burst onto the deck, the ship had already pulled away from the pier. The water was pitch black under the night sky, and we were still 40 minutes out from the nearest dock.

I glanced back through the glass doors into the banquet hall.

Franklin was standing on the stage, Angela's arm looped through his, and the whole room was cheering and clapping so loud I could hear it through the windows.

I pulled out my phone and called him.

He glanced at the screen, then hit decline.

I called again.

He declined again.

Third time, Angela picked up.

"Ms. Buchanan, Franklin's busy right now," she said, her voice thick with smug satisfaction. "Your job's done for today. You can clock out."

I stood frozen on the deck. The wind howled, whipping the hem of my gown so hard it flapped loudly.

My mind drifted back to the very last clause of the contract, Clause 12. Upon expiration of the agreement, Party B shall return all gifts received from Party A. Neither party shall owe the other anything thereafter.

I slid my phone back into my clutch and slipped the ice-cold wedding band off my finger.

40 minutes later, the cruise ship docked, and I was the first person off the gangplank.

That same night, Franklin walked through the front door at midnight.

The floor lamp in the living room was still on, and the whole place was spotless, not a single thing out of place.

A neat line of items sat spread out across the dining table. The wedding ring, a watch, two necklaces, a designer bag, and the scuffed old umbrella he'd carried around for 10 years.

Under every single item, a sticky note was tucked, marked with a date and a price.

Beneath the whole pile lay the original contract, plus a handwritten itemized list.

He worked his way down the list, line by line, slow and unblinking.

Wedding ring, first year. $38,000.

Watch, the second birthday. He had his assistant pick it out. $120,000.

Bag, second wedding anniversary. He forgot the date, bought this the next day as an afterthought. $46,000.

Umbrella, 3 years ago, outside the hospital. Priceless.

He kept reading until he hit the very last line.

The final line read, Contract term fulfilled. Thanks for your business.

Camille.