One year after I started working for Victor St. Clair, I hand in my official letter of resignation. I also marry him.
So it doesn't feel quite like a victory when I reset the timer on my computer desktop to zero, starting the count for another year with him.
"You can still back out," Nadine murmurs by my side. She's been a rock over the past week, steady with advice and jokes and zaniness.
She thinks I've lost my mind.
She's also promised to be there with me every step of the way.
"I'm not planning to," I say. I'm wearing a dove-gray dress. White had felt wrong. Jeans had felt wronger still. So I'm in my gray office dress and my black work pumps at City Hall.
I'd always wanted to get married outdoors. Close to where I grew up, in the park. Next to the lake. When I was a child my mother and I often sat there and watched the swans, me reading and her meditating.
Somehow the contrast to today steadies me.
This isn't a wedding. It's a contract signing and a way to get what I need.
Nadine will put on her art show. I'll start my own company.
"If it's what you want, then you can do this. I know you can." Nadine stands on her tiptoes and rearranges my headband. "He's just a man, and he can't fire you anymore. Remember, he's the one who needs you."
"For a house," I say, and we both smile. The idea of Victor St. Clair subjecting himself to marriage to inherit a house feels ludicrous.
And steadying. It means that beneath his sharp words, he's human. Surely a true sociopath wouldn't care about a house, right?
Then again, I haven't seen it. Maybe it's the actual house F. Scott Fitzgerald lived in and he wants to convert it into a multi-million-dollar museum.
I shake my head. "Let's get out there. He's waiting."
My hands are sweating as Nadine and I leave the ladies' room. We walk down the empty and impersonal hallway to the room where they're waiting.
St. Clair turns at the sound of the door. He's in the same suit as always, and thick, dark-blond hair rises over his forehead.
He frowns when he sees me.
Had he been expecting white? Or that I'd magically transformed into one of the models he regularly dated?
Well, screw him. He needs something. I need something. This is a business deal, just like the ruthless ones he spent his entire life making. After two years doing the dirty work for Tristan Conway and Victor St. Clair, I've finally learned something.
It doesn't matter if it's ugly. What matters is that it gets done.
"This is my friend and witness, Nadine Willows."
St. Clair nods to Nadine and buttons his suit jacket. "This is Steven. He'll be our second witness."
The man to his right gives me a curt wave before putting both of his hands behind his back again. They're standing over five feet apart.
So, not a friend, then.
A smiling, middle-aged man walks in, glasses perched on his nose. "The happy couple!" he says. "I'm honored to be here today."
I look from him to St. Clair's stoic face and laughter bubbles up in my throat. It's nervous and panicked and probably more than a little hysterical.
"You must officiate a lot of these?" Nadine asks. "Several a day?"
Our officiant laughs. "Yes. But I'm always honored. Ready to get started?"
I turn to St. Clair. His name is Victor, though I've never called him that. The man I've hated and cursed mentally for the past year. He's dictated my weeks and my weekends, my holidays and my vacation. Or lack thereof.
He gazes back at me, blue eyes reflecting the lighting overhead. Beautiful features on an otherwise relentlessly masculine face. Sharp jaw and straight nose.
There's steadiness in his eyes.
Not encouragement. Not kindness.
But steadiness, the kind I've learned to read over the past year. The one that means he's reliable in all of his self-serving, business-oriented glory. Once given, he doesn't break his word. I've seen him follow his agreements to the letter.
"Cecilia?" he asks.
The sound of my first name rings out between us, stretching taut in the silence of the dusty City Hall room.
I take a step forward. "Yes," I say. "We're ready."
There are some moments you'll remember forever. Signing my name next to Victor St. Clair's on the marriage license is one of them.
It might not be a traditional wedding. There are no speeches or supportive parents, no ushers, no flower girls, no wedding party. But there is the same one sentence I've heard over and over again.
And it falls over us like a scythe.
"I now pronounce you husband and wife."
The words ring in my head in the awkward silence that follows. Spin on repeat as St. Clair thanks the officiant, as Nadine makes small-talk with Steven.
Victor gives me a professional nod and reaches up to readjust the collar of his fitted shirt. "Well done."
"Um, thanks. You too."
He motions for the door and I follow him, walking out of the room where my fate has just been sealed. My head feels dizzy. Topsy-turvy. The deep-green carpet beneath my feet has probably been walked by thousands of couples before us. Had the brides been happy? Laughing and crying?
I wonder if any of the couples had known one another as little as Victor and I do.
If any of them had liked each other less.
"How are you feeling?" Nadine whispers.
I give her a smile. It feels wobbly.
Victor strides down the steps from City Hall with Steven beside him and I hurry to follow. Drizzle hangs in the air and New York is gray, the heavy clouds above multiplying in the glass panels of brutal skyscrapers.