Usually,theestateisin my rearview mirror before the sun clears the horizon. The silence of the house is something I leave behind, not something I linger in.
But today, I’m still here.
I stand at the granite island, the steam from my black coffee curling into the morning light. The house is quiet, but not empty. I hear the soft pad of footsteps on the hardwood before I see her.
I shouldn't be here. I should be halfway to the city, buried in logistics and enforcement, ignoring the girl who sleeps down the hall. That’s what I’ve done for the last six months. I’ve ignored the way her laugh echoes in the foyer, ignored the way her scrubs fit her curves, ignored the way she smells like vanilla and innocence.
She’s twenty-three. She’s my employee. She’s forbidden in every sense of the word that matters to a man with a moral code.
But I don't have many morals left. And now, I have an excuse.
When she rounds the corner into the kitchen, she stops dead in the archway. She looks soft, unguarded in a way she never is during the day. Her hair is a chaotic halo of curls around her face, and she’s pulling her robe tighter around herself, blinking against the brightness of the room.
Her eyes land on me, and she stiffens, the sleep vanishing instantly. She glances at the clock on the oven, then back to me, confusion knitting her brow.
"You're... still here," she says, her voice thick with sleep. "You're usually gone by six."
I take a slow sip of my coffee, watching her over the rim of the mug.I know.I make a point of being gone. Because if I’m here when she wakes up, looking likethat, I start thinking about things I have no business thinking. Like how warm she’d be under those sheets. Or how she’d sound if I was the one waking her up.
I set the mug down, the ceramic clicking against the stone.
"I thought you might have questions."
She stares at me, her eyes tracing the lines of my face as if she’s trying to reconcile the man standing in her kitchen with the one who proposed to her yesterday like it was a hostile takeover. I can practically see the wheels turning, analyzing the cold, transactional nature of my offer.
Then, something shifts. A glint of recklessness flares in her hazel eyes, replacing the confusion.
"Just one," she says, her voice surprisingly steady. "If I say yes—what exactly am I agreeing to?"
It’s the right question. A smart question. I hold her gaze, refusing to let her look away, refusing to sugarcoat the reality of what belonging to me means.
"Everything."
The word drops like a stone in a pond.
Everything.
I watch her process it—the slight widening of her hazel eyes, the way her throat works on a swallow. She's standing on the other side of the breakfast bar, hair coming loose from whatever she twisted it into during the night.
I catalog every micro-expression like I'm reading an opponent across a negotiation table. Because that's what this is. A negotiation. But it’s also a seduction, even if she doesn't realize it yet.
"Define everything," she says finally, and there's steel under the softness of her voice. Good. She'll need that.
I step closer to the counter between us. The room shrinks immediately—too small for what I am, what I carry. Her scent wraps around me, something clean and warm with an edge of the lavender soap the house stocks. It’s a scent that has haunted my study, my car, my mind for months.
"A legal marriage," I say, keeping my voice level. "My name. My protection. Access to my resources—financial, social, otherwise."
"And in exchange?"
"You stay. You care for my grandmother until—" The words catch. I force them out. "Until the end. You play the role of my wife in public. You don't embarrass me or the family name."
Her jaw tightens. "I'm not interested in being someone's accessory."
"I'm not asking you to be." I move closer, drawn by the magnetic pull I’ve been fighting since the day I interviewed her. "I'm asking you to be my partner. There's a difference."
"Is there?" She stands straighter, and even though she barely reaches my shoulder, she doesn't back down. "Because from where I'm standing, this sounds like you're buying a wife."
The accusation stings more than it should. "I'm offering you a choice. That's more than most people in your position get."
