The Eight Commandments

Montserrat had asked her assistant for the time for the last forty-five minutes. Her patience wasn't growing thin as it should, but her irritation definitely was. She squeezed her clutch purse, staring coldly at the entrance.

She hated to be kept waiting by anyone, and worse if that anyone happened to be Aaron Martinez. Her family's rivals and sworn enemies.

"His reputation truly precedes his presence," Montserrat said to her assistant, who was sitting in a chair a little away from her.

"Let's give him grace, he might be here—" Carson didn't get to complete his sentence as both their attention shifted to the door.

Aaron had walked in with a lady with a model-like figure strapped to his right arm.

Montserrat had done her research. If she was to meet her future husband today, she needed to know everything about his previous exes. Fifteen exes. One failed engagement. A trail of scandals and a rumored child he never claimed. And she was supposed to marry this walking PR crisis.

It didn't feel good knowing she was marrying him regardless. Aaron was a womanizer, the worst kind if she could admit it.

"We should go straight down to business," Aaron said as he pulled out a chair and sat down without sparing Montserrat a glance or offering an apology for keeping her waiting. "I still have a couple of other things to attend to."

"We should place an order—"

"I don't think that's necessary. The food here is terrible, and like I said, I'm in a hurry."

Montserrat closed the menu and kept it face down. First impression and he was already insulting her family's restaurant.

"My father said he has spoken to your father on the terms of our agreement," Montserrat started calmly.

"Actually, your father spoke to my father's attorney. The message was only relayed. Whatever was discussed, I want you to know that my father does not stand for it," he said bluntly.

"But he agreed to the demands, which state that we are to remain legally married for three years before either of us can seek a divorce. There is no backing out," Montserrat replied, keeping her calm.

"I hate the idea of marrying you." Aaron breathed out as he relaxed into his chair. "This... this is a waste of both of our time, but if we are going through with this, I've got rules you must abide by."

Montserrat's face tightened with irritation. She leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other as she fixed him with a hard glare.

"Don't you dare speak to me about rules." Montserrat's voice, though soft, held a warning in her tone, one that took Aaron aback.

"So you want to carry on into this loveless marriage, because I can say for a fact how this will be time-wasting and miserable for you, especially knowing I have a girlfriend. I should expect you have someone in your life too," he remarked with complete indifference.

Montserrat tilted her head to the side. "I see... The one in a red dress, who you were too chicken to bring to my face?"

A faint smirk tugged at Aaron's lips.

"Good thing you did your research, because she will be living with us," he said without an ounce of remorse. "And like I said, I would hope you have someone you are interested in. I would hate to be the only one getting some."

A soft laugh escaped Montserrat's lips. She lowered her gaze for a brief second before looking back at him, amusement dancing in her eyes.

"What's funny?"

"I don't think I said anything funny that would make you laugh," Aaron said, a hint of doubt lingering in his expression.

"Of course you didn't, but I do think a clown costume would fit you perfectly, since you are very much one in person," Montserrat replied dryly.

Aaron let out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head as though she had merely proven his point.

"Anyways, I will be giving the rules, and to make things clear, I don't care that you have a girlfriend, but what I do care about is you coming in here late when we had a specific time we both were to meet, and also speaking badly of my family's business," Montserrat said firmly.

"Ah... I do see where that attitude came from," he said with a smug smirk.

"You did that on purpose then. Must be in your nature," she shot back without missing a beat.

"I do wish, but no. The food here does taste horrible, and so does the service." He stared down at her. "But I guess the attitude comes with the owners."

"I suppose bad manners run in the Martinez family as well," Montserrat said smoothly. "That would certainly explain a lot."

The contract was already on the table between them. Two pages. Cream-colored cardstock with crisp black lettering and neatly embossed family seals in each corner.

She was reading it out loud, like he couldn't read.

"Rule one: This marriage is for appearance only. No one outside this room needs to know otherwise."

"Rule two: We do not interfere in each other's personal lives. Who you see, what you do — not my business, as long as it doesn't embarrass my family."

"Rule three: We will attend all family functions together, and we will act like—"

"Okay, enough."

He cut her off. Finally.

He leaned back in his chair, that lazy, rich-boy smirk on his face, and she instantly hated how good he looked in that suit.

"Let me remind you of something, princess," he said. "In case that contract made you forget. My family is carrying this entire deal. My name is what's saving your family's company from going under. My money is what's keeping your father's house. So let's drop the whole bossy act. You're not really in a position to be giving me rules."

Silence settled between them.

She didn't blink. She didn't flinch. She just slowly closed the folder, folded her hands, and smiled. It wasn't a nice smile.

"Are you done?" she asked, her voice soft. Way too soft.

He frowned slightly. "What?"

"Rule four: You will never, ever cut me off when I am speaking again."

The air shifted. Aaron felt the confidence in his expression falter for the first time since he'd sat down.

"Rule five: Don't you ever throw what your family is doing in my face. Yes, your family is bringing the money. My family is bringing the legacy, the connections, and the clean reputation your family desperately needs to be taken seriously. So we are equal here. Act like it."

He sat up straighter now. The smirk was gone.

"Rule six: You will not touch me without permission. You will not kiss me for the cameras unless we have agreed on it beforehand."

"Rule seven: You will not tell me what to wear, who to talk to, or where to go. I am your wife on paper, not your property."

"That I have no problem—"

She raised a brow, her eyes fixed sharply on him. "I'm sure I didn't stutter on Rule Four, Mr. Martinez."

The corner of Aaron's mouth lifted despite himself. Instead of feeling offended, he found himself strangely amused by her audacity.

"And Rule eight." She leaned forward across the table, so close he could smell her perfume. Expensive, elegant, and irritatingly memorable. "You will never mistake my politeness for weakness again. Is that clear?"

They stared dead into each other's eyes.

His were dark, angry, challenged. Hers burned with cold fire.

The tension between them was so thick it was hard to breathe. It wasn't just hate. It was something much more dangerous than hate.

Then she broke it first — but only because she chose to.

"I call these the Eight Commandments. Sounds much better than rules, don't you think?"

She slid the contract across the polished table toward him. It stopped right in front of his chest.

"Sign it," she said, standing up and smoothing her dress as though he hadn't just gotten under her skin at all. "When you're done, mail it to my family's house. Not my apartment. My family's house. My father will want to see your signature."

She picked up her bag, her assistant immediately following her, then paused without turning back.

"Oh, and welcome to the family, husband."