I jerk upright, my heart trying to hammer its way out of my ribs. The room is dark, the ghost sensation of rough bark against my back still tingling on my skin.
A warm, solid presence shifts beside me. "Is something wrong, babe?"
Liam.
The sound of his voice, thick with sleep, instantly calms me. The dream—whatever it was—fades away, leaving only the safe, familiar reality of his body next to mine. His blonde hair is a mess, sticking up in adorable tufts, and he smells like sleep and warmth and home. I want to sink into him, to let his solidness anchor me.
So I do. I rest my head on his shoulder, breathing him in. I exhale, the last of the panic seeping away. "Just had a weird dream, that's all." The details are already fading, leaving behind only a vague unease in their place. It was something about work, maybe? Whatever. I don't care anymore.
I close my eyes. "I'm fine now."
Liam's hand strokes my arm. "What? What the fuck? I'm not talking to you!"
My eyes snap open.
The bedsheet stirs on his other side. A head of perfectly sleek, shiny, strawberry blonde hair, utterly untouched by sleep, rises. Chloe blinks her bleary eyes. They are the same ocean-water green as mine.
Shock freezes me where I lie.
Chloe nuzzles into Liam's arm, her voice a syrupy murmur. "Come back to sleep, babe." Then one of those eyes opens again, landing on me. Her voice pitches up into surprise. "Juni? What are you doing here?"
My throat closes. "This isn't happening," I whisper, my voice cracking. "This isn't happening. This isn't—"
My alarm screams into the silence.
I jolt out of the dream-for-real-this-time, scrambling for my phone on the nightstand. My clumsy fingers knock it to the floor. I curse, lurching for it so quickly that my legs tangle in the sheets, and I promptly tumble out of bed with a thud that rattles my teeth.
A great start to my day.
I groan, ignoring the sharp protest in my ankle, and swipe frantically at the screen until the blaring stops. My vision swims before it finally focuses on the time.
7:45 AM.
"Oh, shit!" I scramble up. I'm going to be late for work!
I stumble out of bed and into my closet, yanking on the first blouse and pencil skirt my hands find. I almost face-plant trying to get my stockings on. In the bathroom, I almost end up brushing my hair with my toothbrush before I shove the thing in my mouth with just enough toothpaste to remove the stench of death from it. My reflection looks horrendous, but I don't even have the time to focus on it.
I wash my face and brush out my hair as best as I can before I rush out of my bedroom, still clipping on an earring. There's a blinking red light on my landline. Voicemails. Probably from my dad. He's the only one who still uses that relic, a relic he'd insisted on installing himself. If he's calling the landline, that means—
I check my cell. My screen is a disaster zone of missed calls. My mom. Chloe. Sloane. And six other numbers of 'friends' I haven't spoken to since my disaster wedding. My stomach plummets. What fresh hell is this? I'm sure I don't have any family obligations today.
My eyes flick back to the time on my phone. 7:52.
"Shit, shit, shit."
Whatever they want can wait.
I jam my feet into my most uncomfortable—and therefore, most professional—heels, grab my coat, and rush out the door, almost fumbling my keys into the potted plant as I lock up.
I forgo the Link, my dignity flying out the window as I wave down a taxi like a woman possessed.
"Shaw Holdings HQ, please," I plead as I slide into the backseat.
"Can't remember the last time someone flagged me down like that," the driver says in way of greeting. "It's all apps and bookings now."
I didn't even think of that. Who knew being a panicky mess could reduce you to default settings?
"But… you stopped."
"You looked like you needed it."
How nice.
"Thanks."
He grunts and turns up the radio. It's not like I can speed up his driving but my leg won't stop bouncing. Malachai is going to have my head on a silver platter, garnished with parsley and a side of his signature disdain. But fuck him—this is a stain on my professional reputation. I'm never late. Never.
And now… we're stuck in traffic. A gridlocked car-centipede stretches to the horizon. Can this day get any worse?
I lean forward. "Can't you go around it?"
The driver gives me a deadpan look in the rearview mirror. "Lady. This is Seattle."
Right.
I'm already twenty minutes late. I can picture Malachai, royally pissed, storming through the office without his second coffee. The building is just a few blocks away. If I run in these death-traps, I might make it with a semi-plausible excuse.
I shove a bill into the center console. "Keep the change," I say, flinging the door open and launching myself onto the sidewalk.
I must look awful—hair half-brushed, blouse untucked, running like an angry wraith in four-inch heels. I can feel so many eyes on me. Seattle, please. You've seen weirder things!
The gleaming front steps of Shaw Holdings are in sight. I push myself harder, my feet screaming in protest.
My phone rings. I glance at the screen. Sloane. "Now's not a good time, Slo!" I gasp without breaking stride.
"Screw a good time and screw you too!" her voice shrieks through the speaker. "Why the fuck are you on like every gossip site ever?"
I skid to a halt so fast I nearly pitch forward onto the pavement. "What?!"
"Ms. Monroe?"
I cut the call and whip around so fast I almost crack my own neck.
As if summoned by hell itself, Malachai Shaw stands casually at the bottom of the steps, holding a steaming paper cup of coffee. A stone-faced bodyguard looms behind him. His long, dark coat makes him look more imposing than ever, a king taking up all the space he needs on the sidewalk because no one dares to push past him.
And his eyes… looking into them sends the "dream" rushing back into my head. Specifically the part where it's not a dream and Malachai Shaw actually kissed me and, holy hell, Malachai Shaw kissed me.
He cocks his head, a flicker of amusement in his gaze. "What are you doing here?"
My pulse stutters. The city noise vanishes, just like it did in that garden, and my current, sweat-drenched, frantic predicament collapses over the memory of that kiss.
"Mr. Shaw," I pant, trying to smooth my hair. "Please excuse my tardiness, I can explain—"
He looks genuinely, bafflingly amused. "Ju— Ms. Monroe," he corrects himself, the almost-use of my first name sending another jolt through me. "You're not late for anything. It's Sunday."
I blink. I look over my shoulder, through the glass doors of our building. The lobby is unnaturally, profoundly empty.
I look down at my phone, my eyes finally moving past the time to the date.
Sunday.
"Oh my God," I whisper to the concrete. "I'm such an idiot."
A faint crinkle appears at the corners of his eyes. "Happens to the best of us."
I can't even be mad. The humiliation is too complete.
"If it's Sunday," I ask, desperate for any footing, "why are you here?"
He takes a slow sip of his coffee. "It is my building."
I roll my eyes, defeated. "Fair point." I run my fingers through my disaster of hair. "I can't believe I... you know what? I'll be going home now."
"Or," he says smoothly, "you could come with me. I was going to leave this until tomorrow, but then you stumble onto my doorstep, seemingly eager to see me."
"I wouldn't say 'eager'..."
A security guard opens the door behind me. "Mr. Shaw."
"Walk with me, Ms. Shaw," Malachai holds out his coffee. "You look like you need this more than I do."
I take it in stunned silence. He simply walks past me into the building, his bodyguard a silent shadow. He doesn't look back, knowing with infuriating certainty that I will follow.
His voice floats back to me. "We have much to discuss."
I swallow another groan and follow him into the cavernous, silent lobby.
The elevator ride is tense and quiet. Without its usual hustle and bustle, the building feels more vast than it actually is, eerie in its emptiness, like a liminal space horror game. The only sounds are the hum of the elevator, the click-click-click of my heels, and the echo of his footsteps on the polished floor.
I ignore the fact that his lips have touched the rim and take a tentative sip of the coffee. It's bitter. Just how he likes it.
My phone buzzes and buzzes. A torrent of texts and images from Sloane. My thumb hovers, then I tap the first one.
I choke on the mouthful of bitter coffee.
"Are you alright, Ms. Monroe?" Malachai asks without turning.
"I'm—" I cough, my eyes watering. "I'm fine."
I am not fine.
I'm staring at a photo of us at the gala. It's dark, grainy, half-shrouded in shadow. You can't see our faces, but you can see his broad back, his head dipped toward mine, the intimate, possessive angle of his body. It's suggestive. Seductive. It yanks me right back into that moment, the feel of his thumb on my lip, to the pressure of his lips against mine. To the taste of him, minty and sweet.
Malachai Shaw kissed me and it's all caught on camera.
The next picture is clearer. Us standing together later, him being photographed with the absurdly expensive painting he'd won at the auction. I'm at his shoulder, a silent, smiling accessory. The headline screams: 'BI's Most Elusive Bachelor Off the Market? Meet the Mystery Woman Who Tamed Malachai Shaw!'
I scroll down. 'Seattle's Most Powerful Heartthrob Caught in Steamy Museum Tryst!' 'Who Is She? The Secretary in the Center of a Billion-Dollar Scandal!'
There are so many headlines and all of them are variations of 'Hot rich man caught kissing nameless nobody! Who the fuck is she?'
"My God," I breathe.
Malachai pushes open his office door. "I assume that you've seen the outcome of our little stunt last night."
"Little stunt?" I sputter. "I'm all over the internet!"
"I didn't expect it to get quite so… out of hand," he says, sounding not sorry at all. He shrugs off his coat, hanging it on a stand. "Nevertheless, it was necessary." He holds out his hand for my jacket.
Reluctantly, I pull it off and hand it to him.
"It would interest you to know that I thought about what you said," he continues, moving behind his desk. "That your 'fiancé' should know what to do. And I do have a plan. One that will be effective enough to deceive both our families and guarantee we properly benefit from our… arrangement."
The word 'arrangement' feels colder than 'sham'.
Even though I know the answer, I can't help but ask. "Was phase one of that plan sending gifts to my apartment?"
"It was, actually." He sits on his huge, leather chair. "I figured a few tokens from your secret admirer would lay the groundwork. Plus, it would be more convincing if your sister and friends didn't recognize your attire."
It's smart. Sloane knows my entire wardrobe, and Chloe thinks everything I own is from a thrift store. But that dress… no one could mistake it for anything but a fortune. Anyone that knows me would want to know where I got it.
"Did you plan to have it delivered while my sister was there," I press, "with my best friend on the phone?"
A faint, almost imperceptible smile crosses his lips. "I'm not a wizard, Ms. Monroe. It was simply… convenient timing."
I don't believe him for a second.
I fold my arms over my chest, trying and failing to shield myself from… whatever uncomfortable, confusing feeling is welling up in me. "So… that kiss…"
"Our debut," he says, as if reading from a press release. "Now that gossip of our 'secret office romance' is on every tongue, my family is demanding to know who you are. And I'm assuming yours has questions."
The dozens of missed calls. Of course.
"So we're really doing this," I say, the reality of it finally, truly sinking in.
Malachai looks up from his desk, his gaze sharp and assessing. "Are you having second thoughts, Ms. Monroe?"
"No," I say quickly.
It's all an act. A play. A mutually beneficial business transaction. It's exactly what I wanted. If anything, I did a good job picking him. He's willing to play and he's here to play to win. He's perfect!
So why don't I feel satisfied?
"Good," he says, his voice low and final. "Because we can't move forward if we're not on the same page." He pushes something forward on the polished wood. "Which brings me to this…"
I step closer. Lying stark against the clear glass is a neatly stapled stack of papers. The header on the front page, in bold, uncompromising type, reads: MATRIMONIAL COHABITATION AND NON-DISCLOSURE AGREEMENT.
Malachai leans back in his seat, his eyes holding mine.
"If we're going to be married," he says, his voice dropping to an intimate drawl, "we need rules."