Chapter Six: On My Terms

Layla’s POV

“Sorry,” I said.

I was not sorry.

I was trying very hard to stop laughing at the man sitting across from me — which was proving more difficult than it should have been, given that the situation was objectively not funny and I was objectively supposed to be taking it seriously.

But the expression on Ian Lawson’s face when I laughed was something I had not been prepared for. The complete, unguarded bafflement of a man who had said something he intended to wound and had received laughter in return — it was, in the most inconvenient possible way, extremely funny.

I pressed my fingers to my lips and breathed through it.

He was still staring at me.

I looked back at him across the table and thought, not for the first time since my grandfather had dropped his bomb, about the night in Manhattan. About what Ian Lawson had said. About the specific words he had chosen in the heat of that sidewalk confrontation — the ones about my mother.

I had insulted his mother too, in return. I was aware of that. In the cold light of three months later I was not particularly proud of it — I had been raised better than that, and I knew it, and the knowledge sat somewhere uncomfortable.

But he had started it. And more than that — he had yanked his hand away and let me fall on a Manhattan pavement like I was something he had accidentally touched. Like I was beneath the basic dignity of being steadied.

Maybe I could have forgiven the rest of it eventually. People said things in anger. People were rude at nightclubs. People had bad nights and took them out on strangers and it didn’t necessarily define them.

But he had mentioned my mother.

And I had lost my mother at sixteen. And that was not something Ian Lawson could have known — but that was also not something that made the words hurt any less.

So no. I was not forgiving him. Not today and not anytime soon.

I had also, for the record, arrived late on purpose.

This had been a deliberate decision made approximately this morning when I was standing in front of my mirror in the white suit and talking myself through what was about to happen. I had calculated that if I arrived late enough he would leave — that I would walk into this restaurant and find an empty table and a very clear message that Ian Lawson was not interested in playing along, which would give me something concrete to take back to my grandfather as evidence that this arrangement was unworkable.

Instead he had stayed.

He had stayed for over an hour — which was either stubbornness or family obligation or some combination of the two — and now he was sitting across from me looking like he wanted to overturn the table, and my plan had failed completely, and I was trying not to laugh about it.

“I don’t have time for your nonsense,” he said. His voice had the particular quality of someone making a significant effort to remain civil and not enjoying the effort. “And I certainly didn’t come here to watch you laugh out your soul.”

“I know you lack manners,” I said, the amusement fading now into something cooler and more comfortable — the register I used in boardrooms, the one that didn’t waver, “but I believe you owe me some basic respect if this arrangement is going to work at all.”

He scoffed. The sound of it was so immediate and so genuine that it almost made me laugh again.

“I don’t owe respect,” he said, “to someone who keeps people waiting. And from where I’m sitting, you haven’t done anything to earn it.”

I looked at him.

He looked back at me.

“I am so done with your arrogance,” I said, evenly. “And listen — I hate this as much as you do. Clearly we have nothing productive to say to each other right now, so I am going to take my leave.”

I reached for my bag.

“Listen.” His voice stopped me — not soft, not asking, just direct. “I am trying to be civil here. So sit down and hear what I have to say.”

I sat. Not because he told me to. Because I was curious.

He leaned forward slightly, his forearms on the table, his blue eyes steady on my face.

“First,” he said, with the clipped precision of someone who had prepared this speech and intended to deliver it efficiently, “this marriage is a sham. We both know it. We play the role of a loving couple in public — convincingly, without giving anyone a reason to question it. That is the only thing I am asking of you.” He paused. “Beyond that, this is an open arrangement. We live our own lives. We don’t meddle in each other’s business. The only thing I will not accept is you doing anything that tarnishes my family name.”

I looked at him for a long moment.

“Who,” I said, as calmly as I was capable of in this moment, “do you think you are?”

He blinked.

“You get to lay out terms and I don’t? You get to decide what is and isn’t acceptable and I simply agree?” I kept my voice level. The anger was there — bright and hot and entirely present — but I had learned a long time ago that the most effective version of anger was the quiet one. “And what exactly do you mean by tarnishing your family name? Because I could say the exact same thing to you, Ian. We both know your reputation. We both know what the tabloids say about you.”

“That’s different—”

“It’s not.” I folded my hands on the table. “And secondly — I refuse.”

He stared at me. “What.”

“I refuse what you said. This marriage may be a sham but I will not accept an open arrangement. I value respect. I value my dignity. And I will not sit across a dinner table every Sunday with your family while you are out sleeping with half of New York. That is not something I will agree to.”

He opened his mouth.

I raised my hand.

“I’m not finished.”

His jaw tightened. The anger on his face was vivid — immediate and unfiltered, the anger of a man who was not accustomed to being interrupted and liked it even less than he liked being contradicted.

“We get married,” I said. “We maintain the appearance of a real marriage for the sake of our families and the business arrangement. Three years — at most. Then we divorce. By that point our grandfathers will have had enough time to see that this was a mistake, the companies will have had time to establish whatever collaboration they intended, and we both walk away with our lives intact.” I met his eyes. “That is my counter proposal.”

The silence that followed had a particular quality to it — the silence of someone recalculating.

“You want me to be celibate,” he said, slowly, as though working through the implications, “for three years. Because I am technically married to you.”

“I don’t think you have a choice.”

“I have plenty of—”

“And before you finish that sentence,” I said, “I want to be very clear that I am not suggesting anything physical between us. I have no interest in that. None whatsoever.”

Something flickered across his face. “I would rather be celibate my entire life,” he said, with a conviction that was almost impressive, “than touch you.”

“Good.” I smiled. It was not a warm smile. “The feeling is entirely mutual, Mr. Lawson.”

I stood up.

Picked up my bag.

“Oh.” I paused, as though I had just remembered something. Turned back to look at him one last time — at those cold blue eyes and that tight jaw and the complete, barely contained fury of a man who had just lost a negotiation he hadn’t expected to lose. “One more thing.”

He waited.

“Don’t you dare fall in love with me.”

I turned and walked out of the restaurant.

I did not look back.

*******

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