And then, before I can second-guess myself, I tell her everything.
The contract. The money. The goddamn marriage.
She listens. Lets me unravel.
And then—
“…Bella.”
“I know.”
“You’re actually considering it?”
I exhale, pressing my eyes shut. “I don’t have a choice.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. And then—
“What about Julian and Lila?”
I freeze.
Because that’s the one question I don’t have an answer to.
I flip through the contract again. Scour every single page.
But there’s nothing.
No mention of them. No clause about what happens to my siblings if I take this deal.
A sick feeling coils in my stomach.
“El,” I whisper. “It doesn’t say.”
There’s a pause, and I can practically hear her brain whirring through the phone. “You’re sure? Nothing about family, dependents, custody—”
“Nothing,” I cut in, gripping the pages like I can squeeze an answer out of them. “It’s all financials, business obligations, public appearances, and,” I grimace, flipping to the section I’ve been aggressively avoiding, “marital duties.”
Elena snorts. “You mean sex.”
“I mean appearances.”
“Appearances, my ass.”
I open my mouth to argue, but a muffled voice on her end interrupts—sharp, impatient, and absolutely not me.
“Elena!”
I hear rustling, then a deep sigh before she calls out, “Two seconds, Geoff!”
There’s another exasperated huff. “We’re literally brainstorming a title about the art of faking orgasms. I need you engaged.”
I blink. “The what now?”
Elena groans. “It’s ‘Faking It: A Tactical Guide to the Orgasm Cold War.’”
My brain short-circuits. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish,” she mutters. “Apparently, statistics show that sixty-three percent of women fake orgasms, and Geoff thinks we need to ‘empower them through deception.’”
