I inhale sharply. I hate that she smells good.
Annabelle sets a thick packet of papers on the desk between us.
“These,” she says, “are the owner’s terms.”
“Your dad’s terms,” I correct.
“Executive team's terms,” she repeats. “I’m executing them.”
Dominant. Controlled. Bossy. Trouble.
I cross my arms again. “Let’s hear them.”
“Number one: You will present yourself professionally in public.”
I snort. “Define professionally.”
“Not getting photographed outside a bar at three a.m. holding someone who might be eighteen.”
“She was twenty-three.”
“That’s not the reassuring detail you think it is.”
She continues. “Number two: No more fights with reporters.”
“He started it.”
“You threw his microphone into a trash can.”
“It slipped.”
Her eyes close like she’s praying for strength.
“And the final term,” she says, voice clipped and steady, “is that for the next eight to twelve weeks, you will include me in all public outings.”
I blink. “What?”
“You will not go anywhere public without clearing it through me first. Charity events, sponsor dinners, team functions, anything with cameras, anything with alcohol, anything that resembles a bad idea.”
“That’s my entire life.”
“Exactly.”
“You’re joking.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t joke about work.”
“Why you?”
“I’m the one my father trusts. And the one who has to clean up after you.”
I stare. Silent. Processing.
Annabelle ignores him. “You can complain all you want, but this is happening.”
I rub my jaw. “You seriously expect me to drag you to every event like… like some kind of chaperone?”
“Yes.”
