I drag my eyes back to his. He’s watching me with that same intensity that makes me feel like I’m the only person in his universe.
“You’re buying me,” I whisper, but there’s no real accusation in it. Just the stark, simple truth.
His jaw tightens slightly. “I’m offering you a solution. One that benefits us both.”
“And after the year? What then?”
Something flickers across his face. Something I can’t quite read.
“After the year,” he says softly, “you’ll be free. With enough money to never worry about your parents’ house again.”
I don’t know why I’m still here. I should walk out right now and never look back.
Instead, I’m calculating exactly how many of my problems this would solve.
Julian’s college tuition, due next month. Lila’s art therapy sessions that she pretends to hate but secretly needs, plus the stack of expensive sketchbooks and professional-grade acrylicsshe thinks I don’t know she’s been eyeing online. The roof that’s been leaking into the upstairs bathroom for so long we’ve just normalized keeping a bucket there.
I swallow hard, hating how tempting he’s making this sound. Hating even more how my body’s already decided for me.
“So, how many times are we supposed to have this physical relationship?” The question bursts out of me like a sneeze—sudden, unstoppable, and completely mortifying.
His eyebrows lift slightly, and for the first time, I’ve caught him off guard.
Great job, Bella. Now you sound like you’re negotiating sex terms. Like you’re drawing up a fuck schedule.
“I mean—” I backpedal so fast I nearly trip over my own words. “I’m just asking for clarification. On the terms. You know, for legal purposes.”
Legal purposes? What are you, a horny lawyer?
He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t smirk. Just watches me with those storm-cloud eyes, his expression unreadable.
Then he says, “As often as we both want.”
My body flushes hot, then cold, then hot again. The way he says “want”—like it’s something dark and dangerous we both know is already there.
Because he knows. He’s seen the evidence of exactly what effect he has on me, spread across his sheets with battery-operated assistance.
“Right.” I’m aiming for casual, but it comes out strangled. “So like, what? Twice a week? Three times?”
Stop talking about sex schedules. STOP.
“Are you looking for a minimum guarantee, Ms. Marquez?” Now there’s definitely amusement in his voice, though his face remains impassive. “Should I add a clause stipulating frequency?”
I want to die. Right here. Just have the earth open up and swallow me whole.
“No! God, no. I just—” I take a deep breath. “You’re asking me to marry you. To sleep with you. To pretend to be your wife. For an entire year. That’s… a lot.”
Something in his expression softens—just barely, just around the edges. It’s like watching ice crack, revealing depths underneath.
“It is,” he agrees, and there’s something in his voice I haven’t heard before. Something almost gentle. “Which is why I’m not forcing you.”
He leans forward slightly, and the air between us shifts.
“You have two days to think about this.”
I blink at him, waiting for the punchline. For the “just kidding, sign it now or else” that should be coming.
It doesn’t.
