It reads like a contract for an amateur actress, which I suppose it is.
I flip to the second page. An addendum promises an extra twenty-five-thousand-dollar donation from Storm & Silence’s charity arm if the PR rollout completes without incident. My pen thumb goes numb.
“So you’re paying for my cooperation.”
“I’m compensating you for time, exposure, and inconvenience.” She meets my eyes squarely. “Max wants the library to succeed. He asked me to make that clear.”
A brittle laugh escapes. “Max wants a lot of things apparently.”
Vivienne doesn’t flinch. “He wants to fix what he broke, Ms Davidson. This is the most efficient glue.”
“Let’s discuss boundaries,” I say, voice thin but level.
Vivienne nods, respect flashing in her eyes. “By all means.”
“No on-camera kissing,” I begin. “Hand-holding is fine, maybe a cheek peck—nothing suggestive.”
“Agreed.” She types on the tablet.
“Weekly check-ins with me or my legal counsel. If at any point I feel misrepresented, the deal terminates.”
“Done.”
“Any photos used must come through my email inbox first.”
“Of course.”
I swallow. “And I want documentation of the escrow transfer to the library’s bank account within forty-eight hours.”
Vivienne smiles, but it’s professional, not kind. “I have the wire instructions queued. You’ll receive confirmation tonight.”
We sit in silence while the waiter refills my water. I run a finger along condensation, trying to ground myself. Matt—Max—whatever name fits—isn’t here. That’s deliberate, I realize. Vivienne wants me to agree to the framework before emotion complicates negotiations. Smart.
One last boundary forms. “I don’t want him blindsiding me with surprise visits. Every appearance is scheduled, with a two-hour heads-up minimum.”
Vivienne inclines her head. “He’ll respect it.”
“Will he?”
“I’ll make sure he does.”
I exhale. “Then we have a deal.” I sign the bottom line with the pen from my tote; the ink looks too permanent for something so surreal.
Vivienne adds her signature with a swift stroke. “Thank you, Ms. Davidson. You’ve rescued a benefit, a library—and, frankly, kept my client from digging himself into another PR crater.”
She stands, smoothing her blazer. “Max is waiting outside. If you can spare a moment, he’d like to apologize in person.”
My pulse skips. “Two minutes,” I say—mostly to steady myself.
The bell above La Lune’s door gives a reluctant jingle—one bright note that doesn’t fit the low hum in my chest. Max steps inside, coat unbuttoned despite the frost, edged with city grit that shouldn’t look noble but somehow does. For a heartbeat he stands there, just breathing, blue eyes searching the room until they lock on me. Every light reflection, every diner clatter, every passer-by outside the window blurs; it’s just him and the echo of my own pulse.
He approaches slowly, hands out of his pockets as if trying to show he isn’t armed with charm. His voice, when it emerges, is rough silk. “Nora.”
My name slips between us—familiar now, too intimate for strangers, too brittle for friends. I keep my spine straight, arms folded so tightly my fingernails leave crescents in my sleeves. “Two minutes,” I remind him, though my ribs already feel cracked from holding anger and something more fragile underneath.
He nods. A deep breath lifts his shoulders, then drops them in defeat. “I owe you an apology that will probably take more than two minutes, but I’ll try.”
I wait, forcing stillness while my heart ricochets off bone.
