"We require a separate room for Ivy," Mason says. "With a locking door."
"Fine," I say, waving a hand. "Done. Whatever. Is there anything else, or can we sign this and get on the road? The traffic to the Hamptons is already building."
"One last thing," Mason says. His voice drops, losing its legal polish and becoming something harder. Something protective. "Clause 9. The Exit Strategy."
"I already told her. We break up after Labor Day. I sign the waiver."
"We want the waiver signed now," Mason says. "Held in escrow by a third party. To be released to Ivy automatically on September 5th, provided she has fulfilled the contract terms."
I lean back in my chair. "You don't trust me."
"I don't know you," Mason says. "And the version of you I saw at the wedding was... impulsive. I'm not letting my client work for two months with a sword hanging over her head. Sign the waiver now. Put it in escrow. If she breaches the contract, you get it back and you can sue her. If she does the job, she gets it and she's free."
I look at the three of them.
They are a wall. A united front. They have thought of everything. They have protected her from every angle.
A strange, sour pang hits my chest. Jealousy? No.Annoyance.
I don't have people like this. I have a board of directors who wants to replace me and a mother who treats me like a show pony. If I were in Ivy's position, no one would be sitting in a conference room fighting for my "Scope of Intimacy" clauses.
"You have good friends, Ivy," I say quietly.
She looks at Mason and Savvy, and for a second, her mask slips. A soft, genuine smile touches her lips. It transforms her face. It makes her look... radiant.
"I know," she says.
She turns back to me, the mask sliding back into place. "Do we have a deal, Brooks? Or are you going to call your lawyer?"
I look at the contract. It's bloated with liabilities and emotional riders. In any other deal, I'd redline the hell out of it.
But it secures the asset. It's the most expensive insurance policy I've ever purchased, and I'm about to pay the premium.
I pull a Montblanc pen from my pocket.
"We have a deal."
I sign the bottom of the page with a sharp, aggressive scrawl and slide the document to Ivy.
She picks up the pen. Her hand hovers over the paper. This is it. The moment she sells her summer. The moment she binds herself to me.
She takes a deep breath, signs her name in a looping, artistic script, and sets the pen down.
Ivy Sullivan.
The ink is wet. The trap is sprung.
"Welcome to the firm," I say, standing up.
Savvy stands up too, grabbing her purse. "If you make her cry," she says pleasantly, "I will bribe your housekeeper to put shrimp tails in your curtain rods. You won't find the smell for months."
"Noted," I say.
Mason stands and shakes my hand again. "Take care of her, Brooks. She's the best person we know."
"I'll try not to break her," I promise.
"Try not to let her break you," Mason replies, a cryptic look on his face.
