"Mentor me," I repeat, hands tightening around the back of the chair. "When you're not at Exciteur, you run a successful venture capitalist firm. Well, I'd like to start my own company, and I want your advice."
His lips turn down. "You want me to be a silent partner?"
"No. I don't want you to invest." Not when I know just how ruthless he can be. There's no way St. Clair is coming close to owning a piece of my new business.
"You want my time," he says.
This is going to be a hard sell. "Yes. I want you available once every week for the year we're married, to ask you any questions I have about my business. I want your unbiased, professional assessments."
"You want to start a business."
His eyes narrow. "Do you know anything about running a business? Anything at all?"
"I have a BA in business administration," I say. "I worked at several firms before Exciteur, and I've seen how both you and Mr. Conway work up close. I'm ready for my own start-up."
I have no idea if I'm ready.
But business is all about faking it till you make it.
St. Clair reaches up to adjust his tie and the tone of his voice is arctic. "You made it clear you wanted away from me, Miss Myers. Not to negotiate for more time with me. No. I'll double the amount instead. Two hundred thousand and patronage of an art gallery."
"No," I say. Tasting blood and feeling ready to bolt.
He raises an eyebrow. "No?"
"No. We can make our question-and-answer sessions once every two weeks. But they're happening, or you can find yourself another bride-for-hire."
Our eyes lock, the ice-cold blue of his freezing. I want to run to the safety of the corridor outside his office, to my desk and my half-eaten breakfast sandwich and Mason's kind eyes.
But I stay and I watch him the way he's watching me. The way he's taught me. "One two-hour session a month," he says, jaw tense. "And two fifteen-minute shorts. You're to schedule them with my new assistant."
"All right."
"Is that it, then? Or do you want me to sponsor another one of your friend's businesses too?"
There's a dryness in his tone I haven't heard before. But then, this might be the first conversation we've ever had where he isn't speaking in monosyllables. "No, that's all."
"Then that's it. Congratulations, Miss Myers. You're about to get married. I'll have my lawyers send you documents to read. Pre-nup and standard clauses." He opens the dossier on his lap again, dismissing me. "Make the arrangements. You know my schedule."
I let go of the chair. "I do. Should I coordinate with your lawyers for the marriage license as well?"
"Irving or Hardmann?"
"Irving." He closes the dossier with a smack and reaches for his coffee. "Send my eight a. m. in directly when he arrives."
"Yes, sir. Will do." Just like that, I've agreed to marry my boss. "Courthouse?"
He's returned to his work, eyes on his screen. "Yes. Book a time midday, if you can. I want to avoid traffic."
My cheeks are still flushed when Mason arrives. He stops in front of my desk, and his smile fades as he sees my pinched expression. "Hey, Cecilia. Everything okay? You didn't get fired, did you?"
I give a half-laugh. "No. Not exactly."
No, I have a wedding to plan.
My own.
My hand tightens around the phone. "Yes. I'm sure."
Irving takes a deep breath on the other line. "Mr. St. Clair, large portions of this contract are unenforceable in court."
"I realize that."
"The deal you're making here is… well, beyond the scope of the law."
That's a fine way to put it. Paying someone to marry you isn't illegal, but it's not covered by standard clauses.
"I'm aware," I say. "But I want it written up. Make it look legal."
"Sir, I-"
"I'm not deceiving Miss Myers. She is well aware of what she's agreed to. The point of the contract is to ensure we both uphold our ends."
"Right. Yes."
"It's between two individuals," I say. "Phrase it like I'm giving her a gift of one hundred thousand dollars. Half at one date, the other half at the end of the year. Don't mention the marriage."
"I'll do as you say," Irving says. Another pause on the phone, and I look up at the ceiling. He'll say something now, like he always does, that I'll have to dismiss.
He's a good family lawyer. One of the best in the city. He'd been my father's once, as well as my grandfather's. No doubt he was one of the lawyers consulted on the ironclad marriage requirement in the will.
But he couldn't help sharing his opinions on things that had nothing to do with the law.
"I spoke to the lady in question," he says, and there it is. The censure in his tone. "She's a responsible, motivated young woman. I think you've chosen well, St. Clair."
"But?"
"But it's clear she doesn't understand why you're doing this. I think sharing the reason behind it would help her come to terms with the decision."
"She's already agreed."
"She's agreed verbally," he says. "But she hasn't said yes to you in front of an officiant yet."
I run a hand along the stubble on my jaw. He has a point. Until I have the deed to my grandfather's house in hand, I can't look away from this.
From her.
"Noted," I say.