I leaned back in my chair, studying her. Couldn't help myself.
"You look terrible."
Harper looked up, confused. Those eyes caked with too much mascara blinked, showingobvious hurt.
"Oh... sorry."
I didn't know what she was apologizing for, but I'd clearly screwed up this first meeting with my future wife.
How many years had it been since I'd interacted normally with a woman outside of bed? I couldn't remember. My world consisted of negotiations, threats, orders, and executions.
For me, pointing out problems directly was the most efficient approach. If Boris dared show up in hot pink pants, I wouldn't hesitate to plant my shoe in his ass.
Comparatively speaking, I thought I'd been gentle enough.
But Harper clearly disagreed. She bit her lip, looking wounded, and tugged at her hem self-consciously, nearly burying her head in the table.
Was that reaction really necessary?
I didn't like her like this. I didn't like how she always cowered with her head down, afraid to meet my eyes, like I was some monster ready to strike.
Though, to be fair, that assessment wasn't entirely wrong.
"Forget it." I didn't want to waste time on fashion critique. I had business here.
I pulled a pre-drafted document from my suit jacket, sliding it across the smooth table toward her.
Harper looked at the document, confused, then back at me.
"What's this?"
"An offer letter. Or rather, a contract." I met her eyes. "I need a wife. Since Olga's decided it's you, then it's you."
Harper froze completely. She probably thought she'd misheard, or that my English had some accent.
"What?"
"Marriage," I repeated, giving her no buffer. "To me."
Harper
I stared blankly at the document on the table, those bolded words at the top burning my eyes.
Prenuptial Agreement.
This was a joke, right?
Had to be one of those prank shows. Maybe the camera was hidden behind that rose bouquet? Maybe any second now, Boris would jump out, yelling "Surprise!" and everyone would laugh at this delusional fool.
After all, just seconds ago, he'd looked at me like garbage. He'd ruthlessly mocked my dress, ridiculed my makeup, making me acutely aware of what I was to him—a tasteless fat girl with delusions.
Under the table, my hand pressed against the letter in my bag. Shame burned through me like fire.
I should rip it out right now and shred it. Tear those pages full of pathetic love into confetti, dump them in that untouched water glass, then pour it over those roses with fake composure. That would be my last dignity as someone who'd harbored a crush. I'd end this before he completely crushed my heart.
But then he pushed this agreement toward me.
He proposed.
