Malachai's arm is a steady bar under my hand, guiding me through the museum's clean halls. We move like a ship and its shadow through a sea of glittering gowns and black tuxedos. The air smells of upper class American money, expensive perfume, and thick cologne.
This, at least, is familiar.
A man with a too-hearty laugh claps Malachai on the shoulder. "Shaw! I thought that was you. Hiding from your investors?"
Malachai's smile is a cold, perfect thing. "Just admiring the art, Charles. You remember my secretary, Miss Monroe."
"Of course, of course." Charles's gaze slides over me like I'm a piece of furniture. A very useful, well-dressed piece of furniture that takes excellent notes and never spills coffee on the contracts. "We met during Senator Bushwick's campaign party, didn't we?"
I give him my best mindless smile. "Lovely to see you again, Mr Cosgrove."
We drift from conversation to conversation like this. Petty small talk for people who only spare me a glance before they focus on Malachai; "The Van Gogh exhibit is heart wrenching." "No, I haven't run into Mrs. Pallas yet." "Oh, the pleasure is all mine."
Malachai introduces me the same way: "This is my secretary."
The tightness in my chest I didn't realize was there loosens a fraction. I was panicking for no reason. This is just work. Strictly, mundanely, blessedly work. He introduces me as his secretary because that's what I am. The woman who shadows him, remembers the names of his business associates' children, and subtly signals when it's time to exit a conversation. It's so normal, it's almost disappointing.
"Did you enjoy your week off?"
Malachai's voice, low and close to my ear, breaks through my thoughts. I blink, refocusing on the man beside me once again. "Sorry, what was that?"
The corner of his mouth twitches. "Your mandated leave. Did you enjoy it?"
"Not really. No."
"And why was that?"
I almost laugh. Is he serious? It's hard to do any resting when, every time I pick up my phone, I'm tortured by its contents. A family group chat blooming with pictures of Chloe and Liam being nauseatingly lovey-dovey, my mother's missed calls piling up, Chloe's detailed plans for 'sister time' constantly pinging my screen— it's a miracle I haven't tossed the stupid device in the gutter.
Work is my armor. My escape. Free time just means I get the chance to think about how everything sucks right now.
For a second, Chloe's face crosses my mind. That shocked, jaw-on-the-floor look she had on when Malachai's delivery guy dumped all those bags in my hallway. A tiny, feral smile threatens my lips.
That might just be the highlight of my week.
I shrug. "I had a lot on my mind."
He hums, a non-committal sound. "I suppose we both had a lot to think about since our… meeting."
This time, I let out a soft, breathy laugh. "Oh. Not that. There's nothing more to think about there. I blackmailed you, and now I don't have to go to that godforsaken engagement party alone."
He doesn't even stop walking. The crowd flows around us like water around a rock. His voice is quiet but firm. "You didn't blackmail me, Ms. Monroe. You stated your terms, and I agreed to them."
"Whatever helps you sleep at night, hotshot," I retort.
He leans in, just a fraction. "If I'd known your tongue was this sharp," he murmurs, "I'd have put it to good use a long time ago."
A jolt, white-hot and entirely unwelcome, shoots straight down my spine, pooling low in my belly. My breath hitches. I am utterly speechless.
Suavely, as if he didn't just short-circuit my brain, he adjusts his bow tie. "Tell me, Ms. Monroe, why do you have to do this?"
I clear my throat, desperate to reclaim some semblance of control. "I already told you."
"You told me why you chose me and I know why you want to do this. Your heart and your pride were tossed in the mud—"
"Hey!"
"—and you want to get back at the people who stomped all over them," he continues without missing a beat. "Fair. But need I remind you, it's the 21st century. Surely, you don't need to sell your soul to me to get back at your family."
"Sell my soul? That's a little dramatic, isn't it?" I snap.
He just looks at me, waiting. The silence is more demanding than any words.
I sigh, the fight seeping out of me, replaced by a weary honesty. "You don't get it. My parents are very traditional and super judgemental. If I'm not doing the whole husband, kids, white picket fence thing, then to them, I've failed."
They're firmly hung up over it and I'm… their child. As much as I tell myself I've grown, as much as I tell myself their approval doesn't matter, their disapproval still stings.
"And for a long time, I didn't even care. I wanted it… a family. But it was a passive want, you know? Like, if it happens, it happens. But then I actually fell in love. And then I really wanted it. So bad it hurt. I wanted that life with Liam. And he… he took that away from me. Embarrassed me in front of everyone. Chloe knew how I felt about him, and she betrayed me. They aren't sorry. No one cares. And it just reminded me that my parents will only ever see me as a bad copy of my sister unless I change the narrative."
"And your solution to that," Malachai says, his tone dry, "was a flash marriage with me."
I scoff. "My solution was that I bring you to the engagement party as a plus-one then cook up some story about how we broke up amicably. The marriage part is more for your benefit than mine."
I think of the document on his desk, the archaic clause. It feels like something from a movie, not real life. "What's that about, anyway?"
He steers me off the main thoroughfare; I tell myself I'm letting him. "My family, too, is very traditional."
I wait for him to elaborate. He doesn't. We turn a corner into a quieter, empty wing of the museum.
"That's it?" I press. "No further explanation?"
"Does there need to be?"
After giving him my tragic backstory, it's only fair I get something in return. Apparently, he doesn't think so.
I huff. "No. I suppose not."
The silence returns, thicker this time. It's only now I realize how alone we are. The distant murmur of the gala is a ghost of a sound. He pushes open a heavy door, and cool, fresh night air washes over us. We're in a secluded courtyard garden, lit by soft, ambient lighting that makes the manicured hedges and night-blooming jasmine look like one of the impressionist paintings in the museum. A genuine Monet.
"The way I see it," Malachai says, his voice cutting through the quiet, "you're in over your head. You're heartbroken and hurt, and you have no idea what you're getting yourself into."
I roll my eyes. He says it like he's the devil himself. But he's just a criminal. And what's another criminal CEO? Fork found in the kitchen. Bread available at the bakery. Water is wet. It's hardly a revelation.
"If you're trying to talk me out of this, you can't," I say, stopping to glare up at him, letting him see the steel in my eyes. "I'm not backing down, and I advise that you don't either. Need I remind you, I have very incriminating evidence against you."
He takes his hand from my arm. I feel the sudden loss. A chill replaces the warmth of his touch.
"I haven't forgotten, Ms. Monroe," he says crisply.
I have to look away from his unnervingly dark gaze. It feels like staring into a void.
"Good," the word comes out as a sigh. "Look. You need a wife. I need an asshole who can out-asshole Liam. We both get what we want. It's not a bad deal."
In one fluid motion, he steps into my space, suddenly crowding me against the trunk of a large, ancient-looking tree. My back meets rough bark. "An appearance at an engagement party," he murmurs, his face inches from mine, "for a year of marriage to me. That's a good deal to you?"
My brain whites out for a second. "A year?"
He chuckles, a dark, humorless sound. "Surely you don't think the executors of my grandfather's estate are stupid? Any idiot can get married if it makes them richer, so we need to be in it long enough for them to think we at least tried." He raises a brow, "Or was your grand plan 'blackmail my boss, introduce him to the parents, and then they'll be sorry'?"
Well. When he puts it like that, it sounds… pathetic. Juvenile. But there is no way in hell I'm admitting that. I force a smirk. "My plan includes an invitation to the wedding if you're good."
He lets out an incredulous breath of a laugh. "You didn't really think this through, did you?"
No, I did not think this through. Yes, my plan was 'blackmail my boss, introduce him to my parents, and then they'll be sorry.' So far, it's worked out well enough; now that Chloe knows I'm getting gifts from a 'Mr. S', she's going to tell everyone. Heck, I could fool my parents with just that if I play my cards right.
If Malachai wants to make a wife out of me, then that's his responsibility.
I grind my teeth, my saccharine smile plastered firmly in place. "I figured my fiancé would know what to do."
He's so close now I can smell the bergamot and smoke of his cologne. My heart is a wild thing drumming against my ribs. I am hyper-aware of the shape of his lips, the slight curve of his smile.
"Ms. Monroe," He breathes out a more genuine laugh, and I feel the warmth of it on my skin. "You really are something."
My eyes drop to his mouth, then flick back up to his. Just a few more inches and I'll know what they feel like.
The thought fills me with both panic and a strange, thrilling desperation.
"Well… any more questions, Mr. Shaw?"
"None at all," he says, his voice a low caress. "Do you have any questions?"
I lick my suddenly dry lips, my gaze dropping to his lips again. The air crackles between us. "Are you about to kiss me?"
A sliver of beautiful, white teeth peeks through his smile. "My my, aren't you observant?" His thumb finds my bottom lip, tracing the curve with a shocking gentleness. I suck in a sharp, confused breath. This… this wasn't on the agenda. This wasn't in the fine print!
"I am about to kiss you," His eyes hold mine, a silent storm. "Is that okay?"
Say no, girl.
Say no, girl!
"Yes," I whisper. "But why?"
"Oh! I almost forgot to warn you," he whispers, his thumb still stroking my lip, "the cameras are watching."
Before my brain can form the question— what cameras? where?— his mouth is on mine.