The subject line reads:Saelinger Foundation Legal Services Agreement - DRAFT
All right.
Here we go.
I open my laptop and pull up the document.
It’s twelve pages long. Single spaced. Every clause meticulously detailed with the kind of defensive precision that screams “drafted by someone who’s been sued before and learned their lesson.”
Classic Corin legal team.
I read through it once quickly, then again slower, making mental notes. The scope of work is clear. Timeline reasonable. Compensation structure exactly what he promised. Confidentiality clauses are standard but thorough.
Everything is buttoned up tighter than a pre trial brief.
Except.
There’s nothing about our personal relationship. No acknowledgment that we have history. No clause addressing what happens if things get complicated.
Which means he’s either assuming we’re both professionals who can handle this, or he’s deliberately leaving that landmine unaddressed because putting it in writing makes it real.
Or, you know, he’s protecting himself from the tabloids.
Because that’s the thing about working for a billionaire. Everything becomes potential ammunition. One leaked contract with language about “prior personal relationships” or “romantic history” and we’d be front page news on every gossip site from here to Manhattan.
I can see the headlines now.
“Billionaire’s Mystery Lover Returns: What’s Really in the Contract?”
Wouldn’t be pretty.
With a sigh I print the contract. Grab a black gel pen from my bag. Sign it.
Then I photograph it with my phone and email the image back with a one line message:Reviewed and accepted. See you tomorrow.
His reply comes in under two minutes.See you tomorrow.
I stare at those three words.
We’re talking like we’re colleagues who’ve worked together before and are simply resuming a professional relationship.
Which, technically, we are.
Except for the part where I can still feel his hands on my hips and taste the salt on his skin and hear the way he said my name when he came.
Stop it.
I close the laptop and try to think about anything other than tomorrow morning.
Doesn’t really work.
The next dayarrives with the kind of aggressive cheerfulness only a tropical island can muster. The sun is shining. The breeze is warm and salty. The birds are doing their whole chirping thing.
I rent a small sedan from the resort. The drive to the clinic takes twenty minutes along Queen’s Highway, past pastel houses and roadside fruit stands and views of water so blue it looks Photoshopped.
Under different circumstances I’d find it charming.
Right now I’m too busy rehearsing professional small talk in my head to appreciate any of it.
