Chapter 10- The Contract

MIA

It's almost 9 PM.

My shift is finally over. Charlotte's too. We're both exhausted, our feet aching, our clothes smelling like whiskey and sweat. We grab our bags from the back and head for the door.

He and his friend left about five minutes ago. I watched them go. I hate that I watched them go.

Charlotte is still talking. Something about the other guy. The brown-haired one. The one who winked at her.

"I just wish I'd had a chance to talk to him," she says. "Just five minutes. That's all I need. I could have gotten his name, his number, his life story—"

"I just want to get home, shower, and go to bed."

"You're no fun." She nudges me. "I'm still going to think about him, though. Even if you don't want to hear it. And honestly? I have a new image for when I use my vibrator tonight."

I laugh. It comes out tired but real. "Charlotte. Please."

"What? I'm just being honest."

We turn the corner onto St. Marks Place. The street is quiet. The usual sounds of the city are muffled, distant. We're almost at our building.

I stop.

There's an unfamiliar car parked in front of our building. It's a black Mercedes-Maybach. Sleek. Expensive. Parked right in the middle of the entrance like it owns the street.

I try to ignore it. Maybe one of the neighbors has a visitor.

Charlotte doesn't ignore it. She scoffs. "Who the fuck parks in the middle of an entrance at this hour? Did their mother not teach them basic parking etiquette? Are they—"

The window lowers.

Dean's face appears. He's grinning. That easy, charming grin.

"Good evening to you too, gorgeous," he says. "And for the record, I know how to park. I just chose not to."

Charlotte's hand flies to her mouth. Her eyes go wide. She just called him out. Loudly. Directly. He definitely heard every word.

I look at the driver's seat.

He's there. Alexander. His hands are resting on the steering wheel. His ice blue eyes are fixed on me.

"You really enjoy taking your sweet time," he says.

I frown. "Were you following me? Why—" I stop. He was here before we got here. Which means he knows where I live. Before tonight. Before this moment.

Wait.

"How do you know my address?"

Dean steps out of the car. He walks around to Charlotte. His smile is still in place. He leans against the car like he owns it.

"Hello again," he says to her. His voice is warm. Flirty. "I didn't catch your name earlier."

Charlotte's face is red. She's still holding her mouth. She mutters something unintelligible through her fingers.

"I'm Dean," he says. "And you are...?"

Charlotte lowers her hand. "Charlotte. I'm Charlotte. And I'm so sorry about what I said earlier. I didn't—"

"Don't apologize. It was hilarious."

He's still talking to her. I'm still staring at Alexander.

He meets my gaze. "I have means," he says. "Now get in the car. I have something to discuss with you."

I don't move. If anything, I feel more rooted to the spot. He just shows up. Orders me around. After he acted like I was a total stranger in class. Like I meant nothing.

"No," I say. "You can't just appear out of nowhere and order me around. I'm not your—"

"It's important." His voice is flat. Controlled. "Just listen."

I cross my arms. "If this is about the one-night stand, I'm not going to say anything. So you can rest easy. Your precious reputation is safe."

"It's not about that." He looks at me. His eyes are unreadable. "Just get in the car. Hear me out. Then you can decide."

I look at Charlotte. She's still talking to Dean. They're laughing at something. She's not paying attention to me.

I realize this is something serious. Something he wouldn't be here for if it wasn't.

I roll my eyes. Hard.

"Fine."

I walk around to the passenger side. Dean steps aside, opening the door for me. I climb in. The leather seat is warm. The interior smells like expensive cologne and leather.

I cross my arms. Stare straight ahead.

"Well?”

— — —

ALEXANDER

I sigh.

"This is strange. Even to me. But it's also logical."

She stares at me. Genuinely confused. Her brow furrows behind those glasses.

"What are you talking about?"

I run a hand through my hair. The gesture is rare. It shows I'm uncomfortable. I hate showing discomfort.

"I'm in a sticky situation. And I need your help."

She scoffs. "You don't even know me. And you want my help?"

"I know enough." I hold her gaze. "Like I said, I have means. And I'm not the only one who would benefit from this agreement. You would benefit greatly."

"All I can hear is ego talking." She crosses her arms tighter. "You think you can just—"

"Just listen."

She shakes her head. "We're practically strangers. In a confined space. Alone."

I feel a smirk tug at my lips. "Now you care about us being strangers? You didn't seem to care a month ago when you asked me to fuck you."

Her mouth opens. Closes. Nothing comes out. Her cheeks flush.

"That's... that's different."

"Is it?" I lean back. "It's just another Tuesday. And a lot of crazy things happen on Tuesdays."

She frowns. I can see her processing my words. Recognizing them. I used her own line against her.

"Okay," she says finally. "What do you want?"

"Good. I'm glad you're on board."

"I'm not on board. I'm listening."

I lean forward. My elbows rest on my knees. My hands clasp together.

"I want to make you an offer."

She looks at me. Confused. "What kind of offer?"

"I understand your financial situation. You're barely scraping by. Tuition. Rent. Your grandmother's medical bills. It's a lot for one person."

Her eyes narrow. "How do you know—" She stops herself. Shakes her head. "Right. You have means."

"I do." I hold her gaze. "And I want to offer you a contract. A business arrangement. You help me with my problem. I help you with yours."

"What do you want from me?"

I take a breath. This is the part I've been dreading.

"I need you to be my fiancée. For a year."

She blinks. "What?"

"Just a year. Until I get what I need from my family. After that, you walk away. With enough money to pay your bills, finish your education, and start a new life if you want."

She stares at me. Her mouth is slightly open. She's processing. Thinking.

"How much?" she asks.

I meet her eyes. "Ten million. Aside from your tuition and your grandmother's medical bills. Those will be covered separately."

Her eyes go wide. She doesn't speak for a long moment. Then, quietly, "What would I have to do?"

"You would be my fiancée in public. That means events. Dinners. Appearances. We have to convince my family that this is real. And that means we have to put on a show."

"A show?"

I hold her gaze. "Don't play ignorant. You know what couples do. They touch. They kiss. They look at each other like they mean something. We'll have to sell it."

She swallows. "And living arrangements?"

"Separate rooms. You'll have your own space. Your own bathroom. Your own everything." I pause. "But you'll be living with me. At my penthouse. As soon as possible."

"Separate rooms," she repeats.

"Yes."

She's quiet. I can see the wheels turning in her head. The information is overwhelming her. I know it is. My world is demanding. Exhausting. And she's about to be thrown into it with no warning.

"Events," she says slowly. "What kind of events?"

"Dinners. Galas. Charity functions. Board meetings. Family gatherings. You'll be my plus-one. You'll smile. You'll make conversation. You'll convince everyone that we're in love."

She's quiet for a long moment. Then she nods.

"Okay."

I blink. "Okay?"

"Okay." She uncrosses her arms. "I'll do it."

I'm surprised. I thought she'd need more convincing. I thought she'd push back harder.

"Good," I say. "I'll send a driver to pick you up tomorrow. You'll come to my house. Sign the contract."

She nods. Reaches for the door handle.

I add one more thing. "And you'll move into the penthouse tomorrow. After you sign."

She stops. Looks back at me. Her eyes are unreadable.

"Tomorrow," she repeats.

"Yes."

She nods once. Opens the door. Steps out into the cold night air.

I watch her walk away. Her silhouette disappears into the building. Dean is still talking to Charlotte. I hear her laugh at something he said.

I lean back in my seat. Stare at the ceiling of the car.

What the fuck have I just done?