Do we, though?The longer we stay in this dim office, with Chicago settling to sleep far below us, the more it feels like everything I thought I was getting myself into is taking a different shape. I find myself asking questions I never would’ve considered in the light of day.Does Bastian Hale have a heart? Is he doing this for the reasons he says he is? Am I?
“Fine.” I sign the last page with a flourish. “Your very expensive hostage is ready for duty.”
“You’re not a hostage.” He takes the contract and adds his signature below mine. “Hostages don’t negotiate their terms.”
“What am I then?”
He looks at me for a long moment, and I could swear he’s about to say something real, something honest, something that finally acknowledges whatever this strange tension is between us.
It doesn’t happen. Instead, he slides the signed contract into a folder. “You’re my project manager. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“For ninety days.”
“For ninety days,” he agrees.
We stand there in his too-perfect office, the contract between us like a wall and a bridge all at once. The moon is coming up outside, brining Chicago in shades of silver. Soon, I won’t be able to see that moonglow anymore.
But right now, I can see everything. Things I want to see. Things I don’t.
And as we stand there, me and him, him and I, there’s a moment where anything could happen. With a word or a gesture, either one of us could acknowledge what’s really happening here, this strange, chemical pull that has nothing to do with all the things we just wrote in red pen.
But the moment passes, like they always do, and I gather my things to leave.
“Ms. Hunter?”
I pause at the door. “Yes?”
“I’m glad you’re staying with us.”
There’s something in the way he says it, some weight to the words. Like he’s acknowledging that we’ve crossed some invisible line, entered into something neither of us quite understands.
“Thank you, Mr. Hale.”
I leave him there in his sterile office with his signed contract and the grease burns on his knuckles. But as I wait for the elevator, I can’t shake the feeling that something fundamental has shifted. We’re still playing our assigned roles, but the script has changed.
For ninety days, I belong to Bastian Hale and Project Olympus.
The question is: What exactly did I just sign up for?
11
ELIANA
sear·ing: /'si(?)riNG/: verb
1: applying high heat to lock in juices and create a flavorful crust.
2: when feisty heat meets stubborn metal and, unfortunately for both parties, something delicious emerges.
Day one of my million-dollar servitude begins with a bang. The test kitchen is already humming with activity when I arrive. Through the portholes in the stainless steel double doors, I can see Bastian. He’s showing Samuel how to mix a sauce.
I stand there and watch.
There’s this thing about watching someone who’s genuinely, transcendently good at something. All the normal human awkwardness just falls away and what’s left is pure function, undiluted purpose. His hands—those same hands from last night’s stupid dreams: tattooed and grease-scarred, capable and tan, beautiful, delicate, dangerous—don’t hesitate or fumble. They know exactly where everything is without looking. Musclememory so ingrained it’s like watching someone breathe or blink.
The weird thing is howyoungBastian looks when he’s not being a spoiled, stubborn tyrant. Without the three-piece Tom Ford armor, there’s something frighteningly close tovulnerableabout the way he tastes a sauce. His eyes close for just a second and all the jagged lines of his face smooth away. He adjusts something. A dash of seasoning. He stirs. Lifts the spoon to his lips and tastes again.
For as long as that lasts, he is not LeBastard Hale, ruiner of days, causer of tears, manipulator of health insurance.
