The Contract Between Us

9:47 PM. My apartment. One glass of cheap red wine too many. I stared at my phone screen, re-reading the message I’d just typed to my best friend Sophia. My thumb hovered over the send button. “I’d let that grumpy CEO bend me over his desk any day.” I snorted wine through my nose. Sophia was going to die. She’d been begging me for weeks to admit I found Julian Blackwood attractive. And fine. Fine. I admitted it. The man looked like a broody magazine cover had come to life and decided to haunt the 47th floor of Blackwood Group. The sharp jaw. The grey-blue eyes that never quite looked at you—they assessed you. The way he rolled his sleeves up every day at 3:47 PM on the dot, revealing those forearms. Those forearms. I was only human. But I was also employed. So I kept my thirst firmly in the group chat. I took another sip of wine, smiled at my own reckless courage, and pressed send. Except. Except. My phone buzzed instantly. But the notification wasn't from Sophia. It was from Julian Blackwood. I frowned. Why would Julian—? Then I looked up. At the top of the message thread. Where it clearly said, in bold letters: Julian Blackwood – CEO. Not Sophia Chen – Bestie. Julian. Blackwood. CEO. The wine glass slipped from my fingers. Red wine exploded across my white rug like a crime scene. I didn't care. I couldn't care. Because Julian Blackwood had just read—was currently reading—a message where I explicitly described my fantasy of him bending me over his desk. His. Desk. The desk I sat across from every Tuesday at 10 AM during the marketing briefing. The desk where he signed my performance reviews. The desk where he fired people. I grabbed my phone with shaking hands. Maybe if I deleted it fast enough— Read. 9:48 PM. No. No, no, no, no. Three dots appeared. He was typing. I genuinely considered throwing my phone out the window. Then myself. Julian Blackwood: Ms. Chen. That was it. Just my name. With a period. Like a death sentence. Maya: Mr. Blackwood. I am so sorry. That was meant for my friend. I would never—I mean, I don't actually—not that you're not— Julian Blackwood: Stop. I stopped. Julian Blackwood: My office. Tomorrow. 8 AM. Maya: Please, I'll do anything. I'll resign. I'll transfer to Antarctica. Do we have an office in Antarctica? Julian Blackwood: 8 AM. Don't be late. He went offline. I sat in the spreading pool of red wine, staring at my ruined rug and my ruined life, and considered my options. Option one: Fake my death. Option two: Actually die. Option three: Show up tomorrow and let him eviscerate me in person. I chose option three, but only because my lease required 60 days' notice and I couldn't afford the fee. --- 8:00 AM the next morning. The 47th floor. I had worn my most conservative blazer. A buttoned-up, beige, boring, please-don't-fire-me blazer. No dimples. No colorful scarves. No evidence that I was the kind of person who sent thirsty texts about her CEO. The elevator ride felt like ascending to my own execution. Ding. The doors opened to the executive floor. Glass walls. Cold light. The faint smell of expensive cologne and fear—mostly mine. Valerie, Julian's ice-queen executive assistant, didn't even look up from her screen. "He's waiting." "He's going to fire me, isn't he?" Valerie's lips twitched. It was the most emotion I'd ever seen from her. "Just go in." The door to his office was already open. Julian Blackwood stood by the window, back to me, hands in his pockets. The Seattle skyline sprawled behind him like he owned it. Which, to be fair, he partially did. His office was exactly what you'd expect: minimalist, expensive, and aggressively impersonal. A glass desk (of course). A single black orchid on the corner. No family photos. No clutter. No warmth. He turned. And for the first time, I noticed he wasn't wearing his usual three-piece armor. Just a white button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows (3:47 PM be damned), top two buttons undone. Those forearms. I looked at the floor. "Ms. Chen." His voice was low. Calm. The kind of calm that precedes natural disasters. "Mr. Blackwood." I kept my eyes on his shoes. Italian leather. Naturally. "Look at me." I looked. He was smiling. Julian Blackwood, the man who had never once smiled in my presence, was currently standing in front of his glass desk with his arms crossed and his lips curved like he'd just won a very long game. "Would you like to explain," he said slowly, "why you believe my desk is an appropriate venue for… what was the phrase? Bending you over?" I made a sound that was not human. "I can't. I mean, I won't. I mean—there's no explanation except that I'm an i***t and I drink wine alone on weeknights and my best friend is a terrible influence." "Sophia Chen? Marketing associate, third floor?" "You know her?" "I know everyone." He uncrossed his arms and walked toward me. Not fast. Just… deliberately. "Sit down, Ms. Chen." I sat in the chair across from his desk. The desk. I couldn't look at it. He didn't sit behind it. Instead, he leaned against the front edge, directly in front of me, so I had to tilt my head up to see his face. Close. He was very close. "So," he said. "You're attracted to me." My throat closed. "I—" "Don't lie. The text was explicit." "I was joking. Exaggerating. Girl talk." "Girl talk includes graphic descriptions of your CEO's hypothetical s****l performance?" He raised one eyebrow. "Interesting workplace culture." "I'm going to resign." "You're not." "I'll pack my desk right now." "Sit down, Maya." He used my first name. Maya. Not Ms. Chen. Not Chen. Maya. I stopped breathing. Julian reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He held it up so I could see the screen. My text. Blown up. Bright and humiliating. "I'd let that grumpy CEO bend me over his desk any day." "I could send this to HR," he said. "s****l harassment policy is quite clear. You'd be terminated. Possibly sued. Definitely unemployable in this city." My stomach dropped. "You wouldn't." "No," he agreed. "I wouldn't." He put the phone away. "But I could." "Then what do you want? An apology? I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'll write a 10-page essay on appropriate workplace communication. I'll scrub the office bathrooms with a toothbrush." "I don't want an apology." "Then what?" He was quiet for a moment. Then he said something I did not expect. "The board wants me married." I blinked. "What?" "Married. Settled down. A wife on my arm to prove I'm stable." He said the words like they were poison. "Every month, they send a new woman to my office. Socialites. Actresses. A former princess once. They smile, they flirt, they want my money and my name. I'm tired of it." "That sounds… exhausting." "It's worse than exhausting. It's a distraction." He leaned forward, bracing his hands on the arms of my chair, caging me in. "So here's my offer, Maya." Maya. Again. "You're going to pretend to be my girlfriend for three months." The words didn't process. "I'm going to what?" "Dates. Events. A few carefully staged photos. Convincing enough to make the board back off." He tilted his head. "In exchange, you keep your job. No HR. No termination. And when it's over, you get a promotion and a glowing reference." "This is insane." "This is business." "You're blackmailing me into fake dating you." "I'm offering you a solution to a problem you created." His jaw tightened. "You sent that text. You objectified me. Now you'll help me, and I'll help you. Equal exchange." "Equal? You're my boss." "Exactly." His voice dropped. "Which means you know the alternative." I did. HR. Termination. Unemployable. "You have until tomorrow to decide," he said, pushing off the chair and walking back to his desk. "But Maya?" He sat down, finally putting the glass between us. "If you say no, don't bother coming back to this floor. Or any floor." I stood up on shaking legs. "I hate you," I whispered. "No," he said softly. "You don't. That's the problem." I walked out without another word. The elevator doors closed, and I finally let out the breath I'd been holding since 9:47 last night. Three months. Pretending to date Julian Blackwood. I was going to kill Sophia. But first, I was going to say yes.