“Call it that if you like, but I think you know what it means.”
I blink. “Why?”
“Why what?” Ransome asks, tossing the rind aside and taking a sip of his old fashioned.
“Why would you include something like that if the relationship isn’t real?”
“Like it states: incentives.”
“Incentives for what?”
For the first time in minutes, Ransome makes eye contact with me. “We can start with the incentive not to kill you. You know a lot for a personal assistant. You’ve seen a lot. Even if it was through the slats on my office closet door…”
I let out an involuntary gasp and my cheeks run hot.
Ransome doesn’t seem fazed as he goes on. “As you are well aware, Amara, my life is very busy. A lot of moving parts. It can be stressful at times. And relieving that stress is something I have neglected to prioritize.”
“And let me guess.” I narrow my eyes at him with a coy smile. “Relieving that stress is going to be part of my job?”
Ransome looks at me again and pops the cherry from his drink into his mouth as an answer.
I lean back, shaking my head. I need another drink. Or ten, even if they’re gin and tonics.
For a moment, I say nothing at all. But Ransome doesn’t seem to mind. He also doesn’t look worried, bothered, interested, or otherwise. It’s as if he knows how this is going to go and he already considers it to be in the bag.
Normally, that kind of confidence would be kind of a turn-on. But right now, it feels more like manipulation. Arrogance. Which is why I respond the way I do.
“And if I don’t want to?”
Ransome’s lips tick in the smallest hint of a smirk. “I think we both know that’s a lie.”
I study him for a moment and come to the realization that I’m not going to win this battle. Any of it.
With that, I hold out my hand. Wordlessly, Ransome provides me with the pen. I take one more glance at the contract. I can’t even imagine what Electra would say. What my siblings would think.
Then my eyes lock on the number again.
I could help them get out of that nasty house, away from our father who, thanks to an ungodly amount of alcohol and scapegoat depression, has become more of a fixture in the living room than an actual human.
I could also spend a little more money on myself. Fewer frozen dinners and knock-off heels and more department store blouses and takeout from places like, well, this.
So I sign it.
I whip the pen across the line and sign it all away. My dignity, my pride, my time, and my free will. All of it handed over to Ransome Rozanov because, in the end, I can’t let my siblings down.
“You are a wise girl, Miss Parker,” Ransome says, using a black Visa between his pointer and middle finger to wordlessly hail thewaitress. She runs the check right there on a keypad and he puts the card back in his wallet, which he tucks into his jacket pocket along with the contract.
It strikes me, again, how different his world is from mine. Both of his worlds. The one made of money and status, and the one made of… actually, I don't think I want to know.
But you will,a tiny voice whispers at the back of my mind.You signed.
God help me, I did.
Afterwards, Ransome holds out his hand to help me off the stool. I take it, ignoring the heat of the contact. If what he said is to be believed, we're going to have much more contact than this in the next six months.
I don't entertain that thought. I'm not sure I can without my legs turning to jelly.
As we make our way out the door, me in front of him, him behind with his hand on my lower back again, I ignore the stares. The bar has gotten a lot busier since we arrived, and it feels like everyone is staring at us. Like they’re here to watch us.
