The Email

Chapter 

The subject line read: _Confidential Contract Offer – Loriss Corporation_. 

Jennifer almost deleted it. Spam usually didn’t come with her name spelled right.

She was elbow-deep in dog shampoo at 11 PM, scrubbing Mr. Whiskers for the third time this week because Mrs. Henshaw swore he “rolled in something suspicious” again. Her phone was propped on the edge of the bathtub, screen cracked, battery at 4%. 

She dried her hands on her jeans and tapped it open.

_Ms. Benz,  

We are offering you a 2-year employment contract. Position: Public Spouse. Compensation: £500,000. Terms attached. Reply within 24 hours if interested.  

— D. Loriss, CEO, Loriss Corp_

Jennifer stared at it until the words blurred.  

£500,000. 

That was more than she’d made in 4 years of tutoring, dog walking, grocery runs, and swallowing insults from people who tipped her £2 and called her “dear.” 

That was enough to hire a lawyer. Enough to fight Ravenna in court for her parents’ company. Enough to stop living in the attic above the garage where Carmilla liked to “accidentally” leave the heating off in winter.

Her fingers hovered over the attachment.  

“Scam,” she muttered. But her heart was beating too fast for it to be a scam. 

She opened the P*F.

Clause 1: The Employee agrees to act as the Legal Spouse of David Loriss for a period of 24 months.  

Clause 2: No public disclosure of the arrangement.  

Clause 3: The Employee will attend all required social and business functions.  

Clause 7: In the event the Employee develops romantic feelings for the Employer, the contract is void and all payment is forfeited.  

Jennifer read Clause 7 twice. 

Romantic feelings? Please. She hadn’t had time for feelings since she was 20 and her parents died. 

She typed back: _I accept._

Her thumb hesitated over “send.” If this was real, it was her way out. If it was fake, she was no worse off than she was now, sleeping on a mattress with a broken spring while Carmilla hosted wine nights downstairs.

She hit send. 

The reply came 2 minutes later:  

_Be at 17 Grosvenor Square, 9 AM tomorrow. Dress appropriately. Do not be late.  

— D. Loriss_

Jennifer set the phone down, her hands shaking.  

For the first time in 4 years, someone wanted her for something other than free labor.

She didn’t notice the second email that came in 30 seconds later.  

Subject: _Addendum to Contract – Clause 7 Explanation_  

Attachment: 1 file. Unopened.

---

The next morning, Jennifer stood outside 17 Grosvenor Square in the only dress she owned that didn’t have dog hair on it. The building was glass and steel, the kind of place that made you feel poor just by looking at it.

The receptionist barely glanced up. “Name?”

“Jennifer Benz. I have a 9 AM meeting with Mr. Loriss.”

The receptionist’s eyes flicked to her dress, then to her worn boots. “Mr. Loriss doesn’t see people like you.”

Before Jennifer could reply, the elevator doors opened.

A man stepped out. Tall. Black suit. Gray eyes that looked like they hadn’t slept in weeks. He didn’t look at her. He looked through her, like she was an invoice he’d already signed.

“Ms. Benz,” he said. His voice was flat, used to giving orders. “I’m David Loriss. You’re late.”

“It’s 8:59,” she said.

He checked his watch anyway. “Follow me.”

He walked. She followed, heels clicking on marble that probably cost more than her aunt’s car. 

His office was on the 42nd floor. Floor to ceiling windows. A desk the size of her bedroom. No photos. No plants. Nothing personal.

David sat down, steepled his fingers, and slid a pen across the desk. 

“Sign. We announce the engagement next week. You play the part. I pay you. After 2 years, we divorce. No contact after.”

Jennifer picked up the pen. Her hand stopped over the signature line.

On the edge of his desk, half-hidden under a stack of contracts, was a framed photo. 

Her parents. Laughing. At her 10th birthday party. 

The same photo that was stolen from her house the night they died.

“Mr. Loriss,” she said slowly, “why do you have a picture of my dead parents?”

David’s expression didn’t change. 

But his hand moved, just slightly, to cover the photo.