“Enough. Let’s get back to your contractual concern.”
“Fine. I get that you believe and state you’ll never cheat or leave, or get addicted to porn or ... whatever, but I want my protection written in the contract just in case your ethics fail you under some unexpected voodoo spell.” She snorted. “I know what that’s like first-hand vis-à-vis the syphilitic dick. Like your ex, he totally stripped me of my agency, but your third leg and its persuasive power over you makes you vulnerable.”
She was right. He was vulnerable, but preferred not to answer, having wrenched his agency from his ex’s delicate—absolutely lethal—hold on his memory yesterday, and yes, her siren call did things to him because he loved her. Call it cautionary fear, but he was banking on never running into her again lest he fall under her spell. “I’ll have Charlie add a compensation schedule broken down into the various breaches of contract, time married, and the dollar amount assigned should I betray my own ethics and vow to you. For example, on the unlikely chance that I cheat, let’s say three years into our marriage, you’ll receive compensation of thirty thousand. Five years, fifty thousand, etc. And I’ll also work out a flat rate of compensation, in addition to your monthly alimony, if, for whatever reason, I leave you after the wedding, thereby severing the contract.”
Her mouth dropped open. Hopefully, she saw the dollars and how her future could be set forever no matter which way the dice rolled. Even now, he had more money than he knew what to do with, and the future ahead was paved with gold. She’d want for nothing other than love and sex on demand from her husband.
Sliding her copy of the contract across the table, he said, “You should go home and review this. Think hard about it, because it’s a lot to take in and I don’t want you to think you’re being screwed. I wrote my new mobile number on the back, so call or text me if you have any questions or if you’d like something specific included. I’m not that much of a hard ass that I won’t consider your concerns or needs. This marriage pact should be a two-way street.”
THREE
Six years, ten weeks, and three days later?A Tuesday in May
Five-thirty in the morning was the best time of the day to hit the home gym, and, just like Darcy, most of his clients were up and running already. It was the best time to make deals, throw down some gauntlets, and start the day out of the gate after a sleepless night of anticipatory nerves for the biggest real estate closing of his life in four hours with Beanz, aka: the fiancée.
On hold with a potential investment client, he jogged on a treadmill, watching the sun’s slow ascent at the horizon beyond the floor-to-ceiling window. Admiring how the orange glow backdropped the city below, he patiently waited to resume the call. Sweat dripped from his forehead onto his wireless earbud, but he continued swinging his arms and climbing. Lost in his musings, he was in no mood to be jerked around. Since the commencement of The Marriage Pact six weeks ago, niggling doubts surfaced at the most inopportune times. This morning was one of those times when he tried to ignore the seemingly minuscule reservations, Charlie’s long-held position on the matter, and the ghostly needling of his late mother. Furrowing his brow, he picked up the pace, vowing to overcome his doubts with his signature willDarcypower and logic. After years of staunch abstinence from women and booze, he had accomplished exactly what he set out to do much earlier than planned: his combined total assets had reached billionairestatus, and he was to be married in a loveless arrangement constructed by him and negotiated by Beanz.
More shocking than those two things was that his fiancée had matured by steering her life away from loser hangers-on and getting her shit together. He was proud of her and how she had made a name for herself as a mover and shaker in the interior design business after he financed her start-up in Lenox Hill. Second to her love of fashion, she found her niche in telling high society’s super elites how to window dress their oversized, overpriced status symbols, and that included him. Surprisingly, she had a good business and design sense and kept her nose clean, figuratively and literally. He felt confident that she’d make an acceptable partner and would keep to her end of the agreement, especially since she burned through more guys than he could count over the last six years. Still, it won’t be long until saying “I do,” sharing his money and having sex with the, now blonde, girl he’d known since he was twelve, both nerve-rattling and disconcerting prospects, indeed.
The client came back with a counteroffer explaining the expected hesitancy from some of the board members over Pemberley’s terms.
With barely a pant, he stated into the air. “Look, I get it. See it from our perspective. I’m willing to take a chance on you, but you guys have to give me some skin in the game. Pemberley will invest four hundred million for fifty-percent ownership of Sonic Defense, and I’ll also get a board seat and veto rights on any major decisions—a true partnership. If you don’t agree to the terms, I’ll walk away and fund your competitor. I have no doubt that the capital will catapult them into astronomical shareholder gains once it secures the government contracts you covet, then Sonic will begin its descent into the trash bin of failed companies.”
He waited for the client’s reply, slightly amused by the prevarication then the expected umbrage at the slight, and then it came: a laughable second proposition. He raised the incline and speed on the treadmill, unmovable in his negotiation. “That’s a valiant stance, but I’ll give it to you in the simplest language. You want my money and the defense contracts, then you pay my price. We’re firm in our offer. Four megabucks for a fifty percent stake, a board seat, and veto power. Take it or leave it. I have other options for my money.” He waited, puffing in exertion.
“Sure. I’ll give you until Tuesday next week after your board meeting. After that, Pemberley moves on.”
Tapping his earbud, he cut the call, continuing to power the incline for another four minutes before cool down.
Another call came in.
“Good morning, my sweet fiancée,” he teased. “You’re up early.”
“I couldn’t sleep, and what are you doing up at this ungodly hour?”
“I’m always up at five. I had a business call, so I hit the treadmill.”
“You are aware of what today is, right? You didn’t schedule a breakfast meeting, did you?” Beanz asked.
“No. I’ll be there promptly at eight thirty. My assistant reminded me a half-dozen times already. Just make sure the agent has a triple espresso waiting.”
“William, she’s not our personal barista.”
“I don’t give a crap. We’re closing on a twenty-seven-million-dollar townhouse in Metropolitan Hill and she’s making a negotiated two percent buyer fee on it. You do the math.”
“Still, I think it’s totally inappropriate to ask my friend to make you coffee. We should be thanking her and buyinghera coffee. She did, after all, rush the closing,” she said.
“She should be grateful for the Darcy business. The least she could do is make me a damn four-hundred-and-twenty-thousand-dollar cup of coffee in appreciation for a building I sought and negotiated from one of my clients. How is that too much to ask?”
“That may be how the Darcy family does things but not mine. Have one of your goons get you a coffee.”
“That’s not the job of my bodyguards.”
Beanz huffed.
“Fine. I’ll pick up a Starfish,” he finally acquiesced.
“Will you pick me up one, too?”
