The Deal Just Got Dangerous

Emilia POV,

"Pack my bags?" I repeated, staring at Brody like he'd just asked me to hand over my spine. "You don't get to ‘order’ me anywhere, Mr. Callahan. I offered to be your fake fiancée, not your prisoner."

Brody didn't even blink, he strolled back around his desk and dropped into his chair like my outrage was mildly entertaining. "Prisoners don't get a twelve-thousand-square-foot penthouse and a private chef, wildcat. Try again."

"I don't care if it's the Ritz with a view of heaven," I snapped, snatching the draft contract off his desk. "I already gave one man control over my life, and look how that turned out. I'm not signing my name onto another leash."

He raised a brow, steepling his fingers. "Then negotiate."

So I did.

"Clause one." I jabbed my finger at the page. "My finances stay mine. No allowance, no monitored accounts, nothing that makes me feel like a kept woman."

"Done," Brody said easily, sliding the clause back toward me already amended. "Keep your money. I don't need it and I don't want the headache of managing it."

I blinked, thrown by how fast that one landed, then recovered. "Clause two, no security escort trailing me everywhere like I'm a parolee. I come and go on my own."

"Absolutely not." His tone didn't change, but something behind it hardened. "Serena's already unstable, and Gerald's proven he'll use your father as leverage. You get a driver and a discreet detail whenever you leave the building. That's not negotiable, Emilia, that's necessary."

"I don't need a babysitter, Brody."

"You need to still be breathing next week." He held my gaze until I looked away first. "Compromise, plainclothes, unmarked car, they stay invisible unless something goes wrong. That's the best offer you're getting."

I hated that it was reasonable. "Fine. Clause three, public appearances. I'm not performing for your board every time Serena sneezes."

"Public appearances aren't optional," he said flatly. "Serena's watching for cracks, and I won't hand her one because you decided to skip a gala. You show up when it matters. That's the job."

"Fine," I bit out. "But I choose my own wardrobe."

"Within reason." A ghost of a smirk crossed his mouth. "I'm not letting my fiancée show up in something that looks like it survived a thrift store fire."

"Excuse me–"

"Relax, wildcat, I'm teasing." He leaned back, the smirk fading as his eyes lingered on me for a beat too long. The corner of his mouth twitched, but his gaze had gone noticeably darker. "Anything else, or are we finally getting to the part where you decide where you sleep?”

"We are," I said, chin lifting. "Separate wing. Separate bed. That's not a discussion."

"Wasn't planning on discussing it." His silver-blue eyes glinted. "I don't share a bed with women I haven't earned my way into, contract or not."

Heat crawled up my neck. I ignored it and dragged his fountain pen across the last clause instead. "Good. Then we understand each other."

"You negotiate like you've done this before," he mused, watching me work.

"I've survived worse men than you," I said flatly, not looking up. "I just never had the leverage to fight back until now."

Something flickered behind his ice-blue eyes at that, gone before I could name it.

By the time we finished, the contract barely resembled the one he'd first slid across the desk. I actually felt something close to control settling back into my chest, an unfamiliar, welcome weight.

I reached for the pen, ready to sign the version I'd rebuilt with my own hands, when my phone buzzed against the marble.

I almost ignored it. I wish to God I had.

Gerald's name flashed across the screen, and my stomach dropped before I even opened the message.

The photo loaded first, my father, pale and hollow-cheeked, tubes running into his arm, his eyes closed in the harsh fluorescent light of St. Jude's ICU. Underneath it, Gerald's words cut deeper than any blade could.

[ Sign the NDA tonight, Emilia, or watch his treatment get pulled by morning. Your choice. ]

The phone shook in my hand. My vision blurred, for one horrifying second I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but stare at my father's face on that screen.

Then I wiped the tears from my eyes and stared at the message again. Fear was still there, but it was no longer the strongest thing I felt. My fingers tightened around the phone until my knuckles ached.

"He wouldn't dare," I whispered, my hands trembling with rage.

"Emilia."

Brody's voice cut through the haze. I hadn't noticed him crossing the room until his hand closed around my wrist, gently prying the phone from my grip. I let him take it, too numb to fight.

I watched his face change as he read it, watched the easy amusement drain out completely, replaced by something far more dangerous. His jaw locked. His eyes went glacial.

"He's threatening a dying man to keep you quiet," Brody said, his voice deadly soft. "Using your father like a bargaining chip."

"He's done it before," I choked out. "He knows exactly where it hurts."

"Not anymore." Brody was already dialing. "Get me the medical response team, now. Full transfer authorization for a patient at St. Jude's ICU, tonight, no delays. If anyone at that hospital breathes wrong in his direction, I want their name within the hour."

I stood frozen, watching him dismantle Gerald's leverage with three sentences and terrifying calm.

He ended the call and turned to face me, his eyes locking onto mine.

"Your father is leaving that hospital tonight." Brody's jaw tightened, his eyes fixed on me. "And Gerald Whitmore just made the very big mistake of making this personal.”