The study is paneled in dark wood and lined with books that smell of age and money. Two leather chairs face each other across a low table. Akyl doesn't sit. He stands by the desk, his hands in his pockets, and looks at me with an expression that’s completely unreadable.
I sit, because standing has become an act of endurance and my body is screaming.
"I've reviewed your file," he says.
I nod.
"Your medical records are extensive. Your financial situation is critical. You have no family support and no realistic prospect of affording the treatment you need through conventional means."
"That's an accurate summary." I’d laugh at how ridiculously dire my situation is if it weren’t for how he is looking at me. His dark eyes aren’t assessing anymore… they’re penetrating.
"I'm going to offer you terms," he says. "Not the standard arrangement. Different terms."
My chest tightens, and I'm not sure whether it's fear or anticipation or simply the cramp that has been building for the last hour and is now radiating into my ribs.
"I'm listening."
"Treatment first. Before anything else. I have a physician who will arrange a consultation with the best excision surgeon in the country within the week. Surgery will be scheduled as soon as medically appropriate. All costs covered. Ongoing care, medication, rehabilitation, everything."
I stare at him.
"In exchange," he continues, with the same flat, precise delivery, "marriage. You will carry my name. You will be publicly presented as my wife. You will be expected to support the family's social obligations. And eventually, when you are healthy enough, children."
The word "eventually" catches my attention. Eventually. When I am healthy enough.
"Those are generous terms," I say, my voice steady even though my hands have begun to shake in my lap. The air around us thickens to a state where I can feel it pressing against my skin.
"They're practical terms. You need medical care. I need a wife. The arrangement is mutually beneficial."
Wife.The thing I knew I would have to become, and yet I don’t dread it when he says it.
"Why me? You've read my file. I have no connections. No wealth. No political value. I'm a temp with a chronic condition and four hundred dollars to my name. By every metric this dinner uses to evaluate candidates, I'm the worst option in the room."
"You're the only option in the room for me."
I search his face for the catch, the trick, the clause that’ll show up later and swallow me whole. I’ve spent my whole adult life dealing with people who promise help and hand you conditions instead, and I’ve learned to look for the teeth behind every smile.
But Akyl Mostovoi isn’t smiling. His face is shut and controlled, and behind it there’s something I don’t place at first because it’s the last thing I expect to find here.
Fury. Controlled, contained, and directed at something beyond this room. And desire, if the way he keeps looking at my mouth is anything to go by.
"I have three conditions," I say.
"You mentioned them downstairs. Medical autonomy. No concealment. Wife, not property."
My eyes go wide. "You remembered?"
"I remember everything."
I hold his gaze. "Then do you agree?"
"I agree to all three." He says it immediately. Like my conditions were obvious. Like refusing them would have been irrational.
"Why aren't you negotiating?" I ask.
"Because your conditions are reasonable and I respect the intelligence it took to articulate them in a room where most women are too frightened to ask for anything at all."
I swallow. The pain pulses. I breathe through it and keep my eyes on his face, trying to work out what’s happening to me, because something is. The ground feels like it’s moving under me, and I can’t tell yet whether it’s about to swallow me or hold me up.
