Chapter 3 – Terms and Conditions
1318 Words
She hadn’t wanted to text him. But she did.
One line. One address. No greeting. No explanation.
He didn’t reply. Of course he didn’t.
But she knew he’d come.
He was that kind of man.
The kind who took silence as confirmation.
It wasn’t the money that kept her up all night. Not exactly.
It was the silence. The weight of possibility.
The way his voice had echoed in her skull like it belonged there.
The card sat on her nightstand like a live wire.
Black. Sleek. Silent.
His name embossed on it like a brand.
She turned it over in her hand more times than she could count.
Like it held an answer. Or a warning.
By morning, she gave up pretending.
Coffee. Cold shower. Half an hour of pacing in circles.
Then she got dressed.
Tight jeans. A white tee. No makeup.
No armor. Just skin.
Hair in a messy knot she didn’t bother fixing.
The knock came at 12:03.
Too loud. Too certain.
She opened the door.
Nathan Hale stood there.
Dark grey slacks. Shirt sleeves rolled. No tie.
Hair slightly damp. Calm. Collected. Still.
And unlike the night before, he said nothing.
Didn’t scan her body. Didn’t smile.
But his eyes... they paused just a second too long at her mouth.
And then pretended they hadn’t.
That was worse.
He looked at her like they hadn’t almost devoured each other with looks the night before.
Like she was just another checkbox in his calendar.
“You’re late,” she said.
“I said noon.”
“It’s three past.”
Still no reaction. Like she hadn’t left him at that bar. Like she hadn’t mattered.
That burned more than it should.
She stepped aside.
He walked in, slow and clinical, scanning the apartment once.
No hello. No small talk. No mention of what they’d nearly done.
He made silence feel like punishment.
And she hated how much it worked.
She closed the door behind them.
“Nice place,” he said.
“Temporary. Like most things.”
He turned. His face unreadable.
“Sit.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Do you rehearse that tone or were you born with it?”
He didn’t answer.
She crossed the room and perched on the edge of the couch.
He stayed standing.
Like yesterday never happened.
Like the way he’d looked at her then wasn’t real.
It shouldn’t bother her. But it did.
“This isn’t a romance,” he said. “It’s a transaction.”
“Romance is for fools.”
“One year. You live with me. You attend events. You play the part. Publicly, you’re mine.”
Her legs crossed tightly. “And privately?”
“Privately, we keep boundaries. You do what you want. I do what I need.”
She tilted her head, something sharp flashing behind her eyes.
“Where’s the man from last night?”
He didn’t flinch.
“That was last night. Today is another day.”
Her mouth curled. Just a little.
“After all, tomorrow is another day.”
He blinked. Once.
Didn’t respond. Didn’t recognize it.
She shook her head, amused and bitter at the same time.
“Gone with the Wind,” she said. “It was my abuela’s favorite. We watched it every summer.”
He didn’t comment. Just stared. Still cold. Still unreadable.
That was worse. Because last night… last night had felt like heat.
She stepped back from him, arms crossing.
“And what exactly are the terms?”
“Half a million,” he said. “Paid in full at the end. Early exit means nothing.”
Ava blinked.
Half a million. That was more than her father made in fifteen years.
And he still thought he could buy her for it.
“And if I break the rules?”
“No scandal. No cheating. No outside relationships. Keep your name clean. I’ll handle the rest.”
“So I can sleep with someone. Just don’t get caught?”
“You won’t.”
Her mouth twitched.
His eyes flicked to her lips.
Barely. But enough.
It was the only tell he allowed himself.
And she saw it.
She swallowed it whole.
“You’re confident.”
“I’m right.”
She stood, walked past him to the kitchen counter, needing space. Needing distance he wouldn’t give.
“You always treat women like legal documents?”
“No. Only the ones who know how to hold a pen.”
She gave a tight laugh.
“And what am I signing?”
“No PR manipulation. No edits. You stay sharp. Unfiltered.”
She didn’t answer.
Just turned to face him fully.
He stepped closer.
Again.
Like gravity obeyed him more than her.
“Carter,” he said. “Still a problem?”
She stiffened.
“He was. Until I realized I was the only one bleeding.”
“And now?”
“He’s a scar. I stopped tracing it.”
“You still feel it.”
“You’re really not charming when you’re like this.”
“I’m not trying to be charming.”
He didn’t blink. Didn’t soften.
But something passed behind his eyes —
not pity. Not interest. Just knowledge.
Like he’d been there too.
Once.
And still — she felt watched. Undressed. Named.
She turned her back to him.
Not because she was afraid.
Because he wasn’t reacting the way she expected.
And that scared her more than any touch.
“Let’s talk rules,” she muttered.
“Go ahead.”
She turned again.
“No kissing in public unless necessary.
No telling me how to speak, act or breathe.”
“Fair.”
“You don’t tell me how to feel.”
“I won’t.”
“You don’t act like last night didn’t happen.”
That one she didn’t mean to say.
But it slipped.
Soft. Sharp.
His face didn’t change.
“I don’t act,” he said.
“Bullshit.”
He stepped even closer.
This time she didn’t move.
She wouldn’t give him the win.
But her body betrayed her — again.
Breath shallow. Neck warm.
Knees just a little too locked.
He caged her without touching.
One arm on the wall beside her head.
The other at her waist.
Not pressing. Just waiting.
And that was worse.
Because he knew she’d break herself before he moved an inch.
“You think this is still a game?” she whispered.
He didn’t blink.
“I think it never stopped.”
His breath brushed her cheek.
She swallowed.
Her chest ached.
And for a second, she almost leaned in.
Almost.
She slipped out from under him.
Her thigh hit the counter as she stepped back too fast.
Her hand went to her ribs, steadying a breath that wasn’t steady at all.
Her fingers curled and uncurled at her sides, restless and raw.
“I want everything in writing.”
Her voice was cool. Measured.
But her hands were shaking.
And her thighs still pulsed like he’d actually touched her.
“I’ll send the contract tonight,” he said. Calm. Like this was just business.
He glanced at his watch. “I have to go.”
She didn’t move. Neither did he.
Then — that look.
He lifted his eyes from the floor to hers.
Slow. Controlled. Calculated.
Their gazes locked. A silent pull.
She didn’t look away. Neither did he.
And in that second, it wasn’t a deal.
It was a dare.
Then he turned.
And left.
She exhaled once, hard.
Her palms opened and closed at her sides.
Her spine still pressed against the echo of his body.
He didn’t touch her.
But her skin still hummed where he hadn’t.
He wanted performance. She’d give him a show.
But she refused to let the audience see her bleed.
And she wasn’t afraid of him.
She was afraid of how much she wanted to be touched again.
- Writer
