“Victor wouldn’t hear of me getting my own job,” she continues. “Whenever I got an interview somewhere, they’d conveniently decide to go in another direction. A directionhepointed them in. He needed me to give him a male heir for his company, so he kept me where he could watch my every move. He made sure I only socialized with people he approved of, and only made plans that he agreed with. I’ve been living in his building, under his supervision, for far too long. I won’t be free of him until I don’t need his money anymore. You’re my escape route.”
“If you want to work, you’re welcome to,” I assure her. “I don’t expect to control or change your schedule in any way.”
“And if I don’t want to work?” she throws back.
“Then my money is your money.”
“Good.” She gives me a small smile. “I promise not to be an expensive wife, but I don’t need you going over my credit card statements with a fine-tooth comb, either.”
“I don’t care if you’re expensive. If we do this, all your needs will be met.”
She nods.
“And the matter of the child? You are aware this contract contains a clause that requires me to?—”
“Yes, I know,” she interrupts, shifting in her seat. “I also agreed to that of my own volition. Iwanta baby. I always have. I’ve dreamed of being a mother sinceIwas still a child. This arrangement gives me everything I need without forcing me to give something I don’t want to share.”
I frown. Does she mean her heart?
At least she won’t fault me for not having one to give her in return.
It’s…kind of perfect.
And I appreciate her candor—I’ve never had a conversation this frank about money with a woman before. That’s exactly why a contract marriage is the only kind that makes sense for me. Emotions are what make it difficult to control yourself. If our relationship is built on agreed rules and mutual respect, there’s no reason I can’t be a decent partner in our shared household.
“Oh my god, that’s crazy!” a high-pitched voice squeals.
I look over my shoulder, expecting to see a reporter or some influencer with a phone. Instead, all I see are the two girls huddling together over a phone as they walk through the cafe toward the restroom, laughing at some video. My shoulders lower slightly.
When I look back at Maura, her eyes are on the girls, too. “They’re not watching us,” she affirms. “But they could have been. There’s going to be public interest in our relationship, with you being who you are and all. Billionaire bachelor, et cetera.”
I grunt, nodding.
“I assume you don’t want to announce to the world that this is a contract marriage,” she goes on. “Neither do I, but there’s going to be a certain amount of PDA if we expect people to believe this is real. I don’t want to pressure you, but are you okay with that?”
“Within reason.”
Her eyes glint with mischief. “What’s ‘within reason’ to you?”
“We could hold hands.” It feels absurd to say it out loud, like we’re two children talking about how to play pretend.
“Sure. Maybe we could even hug sometimes.”
“When the situation calls for it.”
“Of course,” she says with faux seriousness. “Only under the most appropriate conditions.”
She’s mocking me. I don’t mind—she could hardly say worse to me than my “miscreant asshole” friends.
I narrow my gaze, swirling the remnants of the coffee in my mug. “We might kiss, occasionally.”
As she picks up her coffee, I add, “And if the paparazzi noticed you having trouble walking the morning after the wedding, they could assume certain acts took place.”
Maura coughs on her drink. “Those ‘acts’ will only happen during the right week of my fertility schedule. And I’d like to keep the use of my legs, thanks.”
Truthfully, I’d never allow the press to speculate about what I do with my wife, but it’s gratifying to see the way her cheeks turn pink at the thought.
Just because we’ll be having sex purely for procreation doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy it.
