"Marrying me would get you out of this office."
"Yes, but not away from you."
St. Clair blinks once and then his usual scowl breaks, lips curving. Something glitters in his eyes and damned if it doesn't make me more afraid. "I always knew you wouldn't last a year."
My hands curl into fists, nails digging into the meat of my palm. "Six days from now," I say, "I will have worked for you for an entire year."
"Well, then you have nothing to lose."
The man is serious. There are a billion reasons why this is a bad idea, but as I grope for them, I say the first one I can think of. "But you're not the marrying type."
The same half curl to his lips. "This would be a marriage in name only, Miss Myers. We would not actually be in a relationship."
"No. Right. I would never... of course not."
"You'd be compensated handsomely for your time," he says. "You're in quite the bargaining position here, Miss Myers. How much do you want for agreeing?"
"I'm not going to marry you for money."
"You worked for me for money," he says, voice dropping. "You already trade your time for money. I'm asking for very little of your time for this contract. Only your name, signature, and one year of not being able to marry anyone else. It's a far better bargain than the job you're currently at."
Victor St. Clair is infamous for driving a hard bargain, and he doesn't relent until the other party accepts. I know. I've listened in on more than one of his negotiations, when he pesters and coaxes and intimidates until the person across from him folds. And then he walks away, victory glittering in his eyes, having doubled his fortune.
I just never expected to be the one on the other side.
"But… it's marriage," I say, in a brilliant stroke of verbal genius. "It's not the same as a job."
"We can decide it is. Come on, Miss Myers. What do you want?" He leans back in his chair, eyes narrowing as he studies me. "An entirely new wardrobe? A year of traveling around the globe? There must be something you want, more than simply out of your current job."
"You're really doing this. You're buying a wife."
He snorts. "If I was trying to buy a wife, I'd go online. Plenty of people in the market for a green card. No, I want a contract. I want someone I know, someone I can trust to follow orders, who is organized and reliable. Someone who understands exactly what this is."
"So you thought of me."
"Well, you submitted your resume."
"Not intentionally."
"Does it matter?" he says. "You said you wanted away from me. Well, you won't have to work for me anymore."
I stare at him. "But I'd be married to you."
"You'd have your own bedroom, bathroom and space in my apartment. Your own set of keys. We'd barely see one another."
"I'd have to live with you?"
St. Clair's jaw ticks. "One of my grandfather's rules. I'm aware of how… unorthodox this is."
"Who on earth was your grandfather?" I shake my head, his desk turning blurry. "No, sir. I'm not going to marry you. I can't. I won't."
"You can," he says, "and you will."
"That's not for you to decide."
"No, it's up to you," he says, and I know not to trust him, but I look up anyway. He's braced his hands on the desk and ice-blue eyes lock with mine. "This is the chance for a new life, Miss Myers. Leave Exciteur. Make enough money from this deal to do whatever you've ever dreamed of. If you want no contact with me, I'll make sure it's minimal. You'll be married to me for a year and not a day longer. After all, you've lasted one year with me already. What's one more?"
I stand on hollow legs. His words make no sense, and yet they do, and that's why I have to leave. Because I know Victor St. Clair gets what he wants.
And he's not getting me.
"I'm sorry, sir. But I'm not interested."
"Take the weekend to think on it. We'll discuss it further on Monday."
I force the next words out. "No, we won't. I'm not interested."
"Of course, Miss Myers. We'll see where we stand next week."
I shake my head, more to myself than for him, and head for the door. The bleak, impersonal atrium that is my office has never seemed so welcoming before.
"One more thing."
I pause, fingers on the door handle. "If you're asking me to be the mother of your children too, then the answer is no to that as well."
Silence stretches out between us, and I want to apologize for the words, but I don't. Because they're true. Because who is he to demand this of me?
St. Clair's gaze feels heavy. "Not quite. I need you to sit in on the seven p. m. with Tokyo. I need notes taken on the suppliers."
"Oh," I say. "Well… okay."
The next day is slow, as Saturdays in October can be, but in all the best ways. My best friend comes over to my tiny studio apartment and I've arranged an obscene amount of nail polish for us on the coffee table.
I keep them in a lazy Susan made out of clear plastic and arranged by color. The bottles form a perfect rainbow from pink to beige to red and then to black. Just looking at it makes my heart happy.
"He did not say that," Nadine says.
"He did. I can't believe he did, but I swear to God, it happened."
"His wife ?"
"You know I wouldn't lie."
"Only if it's about eating chocolates I buy for myself."
"I've only done that twice. I was on my period."
"And I'm still salty." Nadine throws a pillow my way and I catch it, clutching it to my chest. "His wife? He really wants you to marry him?"