CLAUSE 3: FINANCIAL PROVISIONS & ASSET MANAGEMENT
3.1 Allowance. For the duration of the Term, Party A (Shaw) shall provide Party B (Monroe) with a monthly stipend of twenty-five thousand dollars ($25,000.00), payable on the first business day of each month, for apparel, grooming, and other expenses deemed necessary to maintain the public profile outlined in Clause 1.
3.2 Housing. See Clause 4 (Cohabitation)
3.3 Separate Property. See Clause 4 (Cohabitation)
3.4 Post-Term Settlement. Upon the successful completion of the Term and fulfillment of all contractual obligations by Party B, Party A shall provide a one-time, tax-free settlement of five million dollars ($5,000,000.00) to Party B, to be paid within thirty (30) days of the legal dissolution of the marriage.
— Clause 3, the Matrimonial Cohabitation and Non-Disclosure Agreement.
***
A slice of blueberry pie, six more glasses of wine, and one awkward conversation about the economy later, and the dinner is finally over. My anger at Malachai has dissipated. It's not gone, perse. It's just muted. Weighed down by booze and exhaustion. I'm still going to give him a piece of my mind, but first, I have to survive the goodbye ceremony.
I move in to awkwardly hug my mother. It's short and quick, the hug of two people who never learned how to be soft with each other, all stiff pats on the back and averted eyes.
"You should come over for dinner more often, dear," she says brightly. "And you should bring him along—" She nods discreetly at Malachai, who's waiting at a polite distance.
I wince. "Are you really saying that? After what happened tonight?"
"Oh, I know your father can be a hard-hat sometimes." She waves a dismissive hand, "He'll deal with it. Plus…" Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, and her eyes glint with a familiar, greedy light. "Mr. Shaw… he's rich, isn't he?"
The pie and wine in my stomach curdle into a nauseating sludge. So this is what it's about.
"Some might say that," I mutter stiffly.
My mother laughs. "Oh, don't be so modest! He's from a family of billionaires! Your dad will get over whatever so long as you marry a man like that." She pats my arm. It doesn't feel very affectionate. "You did good, Juniper."
You did good.
This is it. This is what her pride feels like? Hollow and transactional? It doesn't feel like I've won anything. It feels like a special kind of failure.
I just nod numbly. My father is conspicuously absent, and I have zero desire to hunt him down to say my goodbyes.
But my sister, as always, wants to talk to me.
"Juni! Wait!" Chloe's voice chirps from the doorway just as I'm about to make my great escape down the front path.
I stop, my shoulders tensing to my ears. "Yes, Chloe?"
She scurries in front of me, shifting from one foot to another, a nervous quirk she'd never quite scrubbed away from her perfect facade. "Will you be there?"
"Be where?"
"Brunch with the other bridesmaids on Friday. I told you about it, remember?"
My memory, foggy with wine, vaguely conjures a text buried under a mountain of others. "I don't know, Chloe. I might have work."
"You can ask your boyfriend," she says sweetly. "I'm sure he won't mind."
In a split second of drunken confusion, I almost ask, Who? Then I remember once more that I'm 'dating' Malachai, the man I work for.
"You're right. He won't," I say, the words leaving my mouth before my brain can censor them. "I just don't want to come."
The sentence hangs in the cool night air. I watch as Chloe's face collapses, her perfectly composed features crumbling into genuine, wide-eyed hurt. The part of me that's been conditioned to soothe her immediately kicks in.
"Chloe, I'm—"
But it's too late. She turns on her heel and flees into the house. The door slams shut and I hear Butterscotch yip before silence falls with a finality that echoes in the street.
I sigh heavily.
It's the truth, and Chloe is a bitch, but it doesn't make me feel any less horrible for saying it.
I start to turn towards the car, towards my escape, when I hear the door swing open again.
"Wait!"
My entire body bristles. "No, no, no, nope. Not you."
Anyone but him.
But because Liam never listens to anyone, least of all me, he jogs down the steps and grabs my hand. "Juniper! Wait! I need to tell you something."
I snatch my hand back as if his touch burns. "And I don't want to ever talk to you again. I thought I made that clear months ago."
He smirks. "Kinda hard to ignore me when I'm marrying your sister."
My blood boils so quickly the remaining wine buzz evaporates. "Roll over and die, Liam."
His smirk quickly vanishes, replaced by a look of urgency. "I'm not here to fight with you, Juniper. I need to warn you. About that guy." He jerks his head towards Malachai. "He's not who you think he is."
I let out a sharp, incredulous breath. "And how do you know who I think he is?"
He ignores my question, his voice dropping intensely. "You gotta listen to me. He's dangerous."
I almost laugh. Malachai is dangerous? I know! It's the entire point! "The only guy I needed to be warned about was you, Liam."
I start to turn away, done with this circus.
But of course, Liam can't stand rejection.
He grabs my arm again, his grip firm. "Would you just listen—"
A deep voice rumbles from the shadows, so close it makes my heart jolt. "If you know what's good for you, you'll get your filthy hand off her right now."
I didn't even hear Malachai walk down the driveway.
Liam's grip loosens and I pull my arm free. Without wasting a moment, Malachai wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me firmly against his side. My heart stops racing from shock and starts hammering against my ribs for a completely different, terrifying reason.
Liam recovers quickly, his face twisting with impotent anger. "We were just talking. Or are you going to bully me into making an apology?"
Malachai looks him up and down, his expression one of profound boredom. "No. I have somewhere to be, and you're not worth the dog shit at the bottom of a shoe."
Liam's face flushes a deep, embarrassed red. He opens his mouth to say something but no sound comes out. Malachai doesn't give him the time to retort.
"Come on, Juniper," Malachai says, his voice a quiet command as he steers me away. "Let's go home."
Home. By that, he means he's going to drop me off at my apartment before going to God-knows-where, but Liam doesn't need to know that.
He helps me into the passenger seat of the obscenely expensive car, his hand a brief, guiding pressure on my back. The interior smells of leather and him. He gets into the driver's seat, and the door closes with a soft thud, sealing us in a bubble of silence. It's only when he pulls out of my parents' street that I feel like I can breathe again.
The car is quiet, save for the muted, powerful hum of the engine. It feels way too peaceful to ruin. I fiddle with the hem of my coat, the events of the night swirling in my foggy head.
"That's twice now that you've defended me without my asking," I finally say, my voice small.
He doesn't take his eyes off the road. "I don't think you need to ask before I defend you."
The statement is so simple, yet so cruel. It worms its way under my skin.
"Well, I can handle Liam," I counter, the frustration seeping back in. "And with my dad… you should've just kept your mouth shut. He was supposed to like you. Now, he doesn't, and—fuck—" I drag my fingers roughly through my hair— "he hates me more than he already did!"
Malachai's knuckles tighten slightly on the steering wheel. "What would you have had me do, Juniper? Should I have sat back and said nothing?"
"Yes!"
"No," he says, his voice firm. "No one would respect a man who just lets his… girlfriend… be disrespected like that."
"So you did it to fulfill some sort of macho code of honour." The words are bitter on my tongue.
He lets out a short, frustrated groan. "I did it because you deserve better than the bullshit that was coming out of his mouth."
My frustration simmers down once more. Just a bit. I still feel it beneath the surface, confused and tangled with something else. Something warm and unsettling.
My deal with Malachai is a means to an end. I thought it would be easy to handle if I'd just blackmailed my asshole boss into doing what I want. But since this started, I'm finding that Malachai is less a one-dimensional asshole and more…
My mind flashes back to the way his body felt as he pulled me to him, to the feeling of his warm hands as they framed my face. To that kiss in the garden.
A shiver runs down my spine.
He's more.
But that doesn't mean we don't have an agreement.
If he can kiss me for the sake of the paparazzi's cameras, then it's not surprising that he would jump to my defense to prove to my parents that he's a valiant man. He should've just done it… differently, I guess. A classic, 'Hey! Don't talk to her that way!' would've sufficed. The entire speech, forcing an apology thing was overkill.
"I'm used to it, y'know?" I say, the fight draining out of me, leaving only a weary honesty. "The way they talk to and about me."
He's silent for a moment as he navigates the city streets with an easy confidence. "That isn't something you should get used to," his says with neutrality. Then he sighs. "Let's not fight over this, Ms. Monroe. All things considered, dinner was a success."
'Ms. Monroe.' Back to the roles we were familiar with.
I square my shoulders. "You're right."
No one suspects our relationship is a ruse. Liam is clearly intimidated. My mother thinks I'm finally doing the right thing. It's pointless to complain. We ticked all the boxes.
"Of course I'm right." Malachai glances at me, his profile sharp in the dashboard lights. "Are you alright though? It's been a long day, for both of us, and you were a bit more than friendly with the wine."
"I'm fine."
"Either way, it'll be good if you ate something. No offence, but your mother's casserole was atrocious." A beat of silence. "I know this place that serves the best carbonara. We could—"
I cut him off quickly, "That sounds nice but I really need to get to bed." An offer like that feels too real, too much like a date. "I have work tomorrow, and I don't think my boss will appreciate it if I'm late."
The car plunges into silence again. This time, it far from peaceful. It's charged with everything left unsaid.
"No," Malachai says, his voice flat. "I don't suppose he will."
The rest of the drive passes in that thick, uncomfortable silence. For the second time today, Malachai walks me to my door. He doesn't comment on the tackiness of my building, or bring up the part of his contract that states that I have to give up my apartment, or look at me softly like he had the first time, he simply says, "Goodnight, Ms. Monroe," his tone impersonal.
"Goodbye, Mr. Shaw," I reply, matching his formality.
I watch him leave my building through the window until he disappears into the sleek car and drives off, swallowed by the night.
Long after he's gone, I lie in bed in my dark room, the glow of my phone the only light. Instead of returning Sloane's missed calls like I'm supposed to, I find myself swiping through old pictures of me and Liam. But unlike every other time I've done this, seeking out the pain, I'm not looking at him. I'm looking at me—at the wide, unguarded smile on my face, at the light in my eyes, at the pure, radiant joy radiating from my own expression.
And I wonder, with an ache in my chest, if I'll ever be that happy again.