Pretend Me Yours

Episode 3:The Terms

Chapter 3: The Terms

Aria had negotiated exactly once in her life.

She'd been sixteen, arguing with a Sunnyside house parent over whether she could take on a part-time job at a grocery store three blocks away. The house parent had said no. Aria had presented a written case hand-typed on the home's shared computer, printed, stapled outlining why the job would benefit her long-term development, her academic schedule, and her transition readiness.

She'd gotten the job.

She thought about that now as she sat across from one of the wealthiest men in the city, her hands flat on the diner counter, her heart beating slightly faster than she would have liked.

She kept her face calm.

Calm was free. Calm cost nothing.

"Talk," Damien said. He'd ordered coffee black, no sugar and wrapped both hands around the mug without drinking it. Like the warmth was the point, not the coffee. Another detail she filed away without meaning to.

"First," Aria said, "I want the terms in writing. A proper contract. Signed by both of us, witnessed, with a copy held by someone I choose."

He nodded. "Standard."

"Second. I have my own life. My job here, my apartment, my routines. I'm not moving anywhere, I'm not quitting anything, and I'm not available twenty-four hours a day. You give me a schedule of required appearances in advance. Minimum seventy-two hours notice unless it's a genuine emergency."

"Define genuine emergency."

"Something that would make the news if you showed up alone."

A pause. "Acceptable."

"Third." She held his gaze. "Whatever this is, it stays professional. No grey areas. No using the arrangement as cover for something it isn't. Clear boundaries, respected by both sides."

Something shifted in his expression at that not offense, more like recognition. Like he'd expected her to say it and was quietly glad she had.

"Agreed," he said.

"Fourth. The money. I want half upfront."

His eyes didn't change. "Half is a hundred thousand dollars."

"I'm aware of how half works, Mr. Cole."

The almost-smile again. Brief, contained. "When would you need it?"

"Within forty-eight hours of signing."

He considered this for approximately three seconds. "Done."

Aria had prepared herself for negotiation on the money. She'd braced for a counteroffer, a reduced percentage, a complicated payment structure. The immediacy of his agreement threw her slightly and she took a breath to recalibrate.

"Fifth," she said. "If at any point I feel unsafe, uncomfortable, or if the situation changes in ways that weren't agreed upon, I can walk. With whatever portion of the money I've earned pro-rated for time served. No legal consequences."

"I'd want the same clause in reverse."

"Fine."

"And a confidentiality agreement. Standard NDA. Nothing about our arrangement becomes public during or after the three months."

"I wasn't planning on telling anyone."

"Legally binding is different from planning."

She nodded. "Fair."

They looked at each other across the counter.

Outside the diner window the city moved in its usual indifferent way cabs and pedestrians and the distant sound of someone leaning on a horn two blocks over. Inside, the afternoon quiet had settled around their corner of the counter like something deliberate.

"Is that everything?" Damien asked.

"One more thing."

He waited.

"I want to know why me," Aria said. "Specifically. You're Damien Cole. You could have approached any number of women from your world women who are used to that life, who know how to dress for galas and talk to CEOs and smile for cameras. Women for whom this would be easy." She kept her voice level. "So why are you sitting in a diner in the unglamorous part of the city offering a dishwasher a hundred thousand dollars upfront?"

The question landed in the space between them.

Damien looked at her for a long moment. Not calculating she was starting to learn the difference between his calculating look and his thinking look. This was the latter.

"Women from my world," he said finally, "want things."

"Everyone wants things."

"They want specific things. Proximity to money. Status. A ring after the contract ends." He set down the mug. "I've made that mistake before. Someone who starts as a convenience and decides three months in that it should be something else. That creates complications I don't have the patience for."

"And you think I won't do that."

"You said no to two hundred thousand dollars," he said simply. "Without hesitating. That's not something someone does if they're trying to get close to me."

Aria looked at him steadily. "I said no because of how it was framed. Not because of the amount."

"I know." He picked up the coffee finally, drank. "That's also why I'm here."

She sat with that for a moment.

It was logical. She could see the logic clearly. He wanted someone without an agenda, someone who pushed back, someone who wouldn't mistake a business arrangement for an emotional one. From a purely strategic standpoint she understood exactly why she fit the criteria.

That understanding didn't make it feel less strange.

"I'll need to tell one person," she said. "Lena. My best friend. She'll notice if my life changes and she'll worry. She won't tell anyone I'd trust her with anything."

"The NDA covers people you tell."

"Then she'll sign it too. She won't mind."

He seemed to consider whether to push back on this. He didn't. "One person."

"One person."

Aria took a slow breath. Looked down at the counter. Looked back up.

"I want something else in the contract," she said. "Not money. Something else."

He waited, patient in the way of someone who had learned that silence was a negotiating tool and was choosing not to use it as one right now. There was a difference. She noticed it.

"If I do this if I hold up my end for the full three months I want a letter of professional recommendation. On Cole Enterprises letterhead, signed by you personally. For any future job application I choose to use it for." She paused. "That kind of thing opens doors that money alone doesn't."

Something crossed his face then. It wasn't the almost-smile. It was something quieter. Something that looked briefly, unexpectedly, like respect.

"That's an unusual request," he said.

"I'm an unusual person."

"Yes." He said it like he was confirming something he'd already decided. "You are."

He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a business card heavy stock, simple design, just his name and a number. He placed it on the counter and pushed it toward her.

"My lawyer will have a draft contract to you within twenty-four hours. Read everything. Make notes. If you want your own lawyer to review it, that's your right I'll cover the cost."

She picked up the card. It was heavier than it looked. Things belonging to wealthy people usually were.

"And if I read it and decide not to sign?"

"Then you decide not to sign," he said. "No consequences. No pressure." He stood, adjusting his jacket with the automatic ease of someone who had been wearing expensive clothes long enough that it required no thought. "I don't need someone who was cornered into this. I need someone who chose it."

He left two fifty dollar bills on the counter far more than a black coffee cost and buttoned his jacket.

"One more question," Aria said before he could move away.

He paused.

"Your mother. The one who wants you married off." She tilted her head slightly. "What's she like?"

Something moved across his features. Not quite a wince. Not quite fondness. Something that lived uncomfortably between the two.

"Formidable," he said. "Intelligent. She reads people very quickly and she doesn't forgive being underestimated."

Aria nodded slowly. "Good."

He looked at her.

"I grew up in a group home, Mr. Cole," she said simply. "I have been read, assessed, evaluated, and underestimated by experts. I can handle formidable."

This time the almost-smile made it a little further than before.

"I'll have the contract sent by tomorrow morning," he said.

He walked out.

Aria sat at the counter for another moment, the business card between her fingers, the city carrying on outside the window as if nothing had shifted. As if the entire shape of the next three months hadn't just been quietly rearranged over bad coffee and a diner counter.

She turned the card over once.

Then she tucked it carefully into her pocket right next to the thin envelope that had started all of this and went back to work.