Magnus

by Tina Martin

“For what purpose?”

  My goodness, he’s nosy. “I’m taking care of some business for my papa.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “Are you asking me exactly what I’m doing?”

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t think that was part of your rules.”

  “It’s not a rule. It’s me asking you a question.”

  “Well, if you must know, I’m paying off my father’s mortgage.”

  “How much is it?”

  “I don’t know yet. I haven’t been inside. I literally just pulled up in the parking lot and texted you.”

  “Okay. What are your plans after you leave there?”

  “Plans? I don’t have any plans. I—”

  “Good. Come see me when you’re done.”

  “Hunh?”

  He sighs. “Why do you make me repeat myself?”

  “I didn’t make you do anything. I just—I—I—” I release a sigh. This man has me exhausted and stuttering. “I find it real strange that you’re asking me to come see you at your kingdom.”

  “My kingdom?” He laughs.

  “Yes. The place where you make your billions. Why do you want me to come there?”

  “You’ll find out when you get here. I’ll text you the address.” And then he hangs up.

  As I’m entering the mortgage office, I get a series of text messages from him:

  Magnus: MJS Communications

  Magnus: 205 North Tryon Street

  Magnus: 22nd Floor. My secretary (Hilda) will see you to my office.

  Magnus: Confirm you’ve received this.

  I roll my eyes. Confirm you’ve received this. Even the way he communicates via text has to be perfect. No shorthand. And how do I confirm this communication properly by Magnus St. Claire’s standards? Do I confirm with a capital ‘C’ or a lowercase one? Do I type the word ‘confirmed’ in all caps or lowercase? I decide to go with something simple:

  Shiloh: Got it.

  I check in with the receptionist at Sunrise Financial, eager to get the ball rolling on paying off the house. With this mortgage out of the way, papa will be free of a lot of anxiety and I would’ve done something beneficial with my newfound wealth.

  “Mrs. St. Claire,” one of the representatives comes out and greets me – a polished white guy with blonde hair cut short and spikey. He’s tall. Skinny. Has on one of those fitted, navy-blue Brooks Brothers suits. Skin pasty like he might’ve put on some foundation. When he shakes my hand, he’s looking down at me. He’s that tall.

  “Hi,” I say. I want to ask him if he played basketball in college but I’m sure he gets that a lot.

  “Step on back and we’ll chat,” he says. His voice sounds like he’s auditioning for an infomercial.

  I follow him to his office which ends up being the second door on the right. It’s a small office. Has blue carpet with black, standard office chairs. The front wall of his office is glass. For privacy, he has the option of closing white, aluminum blinds. They stay open for now.

  He gestures to a chair in front of his desk. I take a seat. I’m nervous but at the same time, I feel excited. I’ve never paid anything off before.

  “What brings you in today?” he asks, interlocking his fingers while holding a pen.

  “I want to pay off my father’s mortgage. His name is Albert Winston.”

  “I can definitely assist you with that. Let me pull up his account.”

  He types. Frowns. Does more typing. Chews on his lip. He looks up at me and says, “Albert Winston, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  He reads off the address to confirm he has the correct Albert Winston and when I confirm he does, he says, “Hmm…that’s strange.”

  “Is there a problem?” I ask.

  “Uh…hold on, let me check one more thing.” He does even more typing, then says, “Okay, it appears the remaining balance of $42,450 has already been paid.”

  “It has?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?” I ask. I know papa doesn’t have that kind of money.

  “Let’s see here…” He squints his eyes as he moves closer to the computer screen. “Looks like it was paid off via a wire transfer about ten minutes ago.”

  “Ten minutes ago? I just—” Then it hit me. Magnus. He paid off my father’s mortgage before I was able to do it. I thank skinny man for his time, leave Sunrise Financial and roll up to Magnus’ building on Tryon. I take the elevator up to the twenty-second floor. I’m livid.

  His secretary greets me, tells me her name is Hilda but I don’t say a word to the lady. She escorts me to Magnus’ office. I step into the room with a chip on my shoulder. It angers me even more to see him standing by the windows with his hands in his pockets like he doesn’t have a care in the world. He doesn’t have a care in the world. Money is his savior. His comfort.

  He turns to look at me. His eyes are green like money. His cologne permeates the office. Intoxicates me and gives me a contact high. His tailored suit probably cost at least ten thousand. Shoes about the same. Even his office screams his wealth. The high-end furniture. His polished, wooden desk. Top of the line computers. Fancy rugs.

  On the wall hangs his professionally-framed degrees. There are awards his company has received. News articles written about him. There’s a whole section dedicated to accolades.

  “Why’d you do that?”

  “Why’d I do what?” he asks in a way which tells me he knows exactly what I mean.

  “The mortgage—why’d you pay it off?”

  “Because I didn’t give you that money to pay off your father’s mortgage.”

  “It’s a million freakin’ dollars! What else am I supposed to do with it?”

  He removes his hands from his pockets and crosses his arms. “Why are you angry?” he asks as calmly as Jesus hushed the wind.

  “Because you’re doing too much. You say we can’t be friends but you’re doing friendly stuff. It’s confusing. If you don’t want us to be friends, don’t treat me like a friend. Treat me like a subordinate. Like someone you can’t stand but gotta work with, anyway. Don’t give me cars and pay my father’s mortgage, especially after you’ve given me so much money.”

  “Sit down, Shiloh.”

  “No. I don’t want to sit down. I’m too mad to sit down!”

  He bites his lip and walks over to me. There’s a smirk on his face – one that grows into an alluring smile. A smile that flutters my heart.

  He says, “I’ll do whatever I want with my money. Do you know how many women wish they were you?”

  “I can only imagine,” I tell him, trying to place the smell on his breath. I think it’s Twizzlers. Does he eat Twizzlers?

  “Then stop complaining and take advantage.”

  “I don’t want to take advantage of you. I don’t take advantage of people.”

  “I know. You’re too good for that,” he says.

  “How can you make that assessment of me and you don’t know me?”

  “I know enough. Why don’t you have a seat, Shiloh? Make yourself comfortable. I have lunch coming for us.”

  “Lunch? You invited me to your private office for lunch?”

  “I did.” He walks away from me and sits in a chair at a two-person table – one that looks like it’s the designated eating location in his massive office.

  I follow his lead, sit opposite of him and cross my legs. He looks at them, almost as if he can see right through the dark stonewash jeans I’m wearing.

  “You want to know what you can do with your money? You should take yourself shopping,” he tells me. “Buy some clothes.” I guess he doesn’t like my pants.

  “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

  “Your jeans are ripped.”

  “And? That’s how people wear jeans now.”

  “It’s not something the mother of my child would wear. And you need to get a manicure. A pedicure. You should get them on a regular basis. Every two weeks or so. Get your hair done.
You don’t have to do those things yourself anymore. Use your money to pay for those services.”

  Basically, he told me I was unkempt without actually saying it. Feeling insulted, I ask, “Is that why you invited me here? To talk down to me—”

  “How am I talking down to you, Shiloh? I’m merely making suggestions—”

  “On things I can do to make myself good enough for you,” I interrupt him to say. “Yeah, I get it.”

  “That’s not what I’m—”

  “It is.”

  “Stop interrupting me,” he orders.

  “I may not have a bachelor’s and a master’s but I ain’t stupid.”

  He glares at me, then just as easily straightens up his face. He leans back in the chair, takes a red Twizzler rope from his pocket. He takes a bite. Chews it like it’s some kind of calming technique he uses. Don’t know if that’s its purpose, but it works.

  “I wanted you to come here so we could talk,” he says.

  “Then talk normal.”

  He frowns a little. “This is normal for me.”

  “Alright. Let me reset the tone because you’ve done managed to piss me off already today. Twice.”

  “How did I do that?”

  “By insulting my clothes and paying off my father’s mortgage? You’re overstepping your boundaries.”

  He bites another piece of Twizzler. “You’re my wife. How’s that overstepping?”

  I feel the frown tighten my face. “I’m not your wife.”

  “You are my wife. It was you who insisted we get married, remember? That was your choice. Again, how did I overstep?”

  “This is tiring.” I take a breath from the constant back-and-forth with him and make an attempt at a more civilized conversation. One of us has to be the bigger person. I ask, “How has your day been so far?”

  He doesn’t respond right away. He looks at me – stares deep. His eyes bore into my soul – an unsettling feeling since this man has so much control over me. I take my eyes away from the madness. Display a semblance of confidence though I doubt he’s buying any of it.

  “My day has been hectic,” he begins. “All of my days are. Today, I decided to take a break and have lunch with you.”

  “Then let’s not waste it arguing. Agreed?” I ask, reaching out my hand in hopes we can shake on it.

  He just looks. Stares. Nods. He doesn’t shake my hand.

  Shamefaced, I put my hand down and say, “Right. We don’t touch. Got it.”

  He eats the rest of his Twizzler. I wonder how many more he has stashed in his pocket.

  “Thank you for paying off my dad’s house.”

  “You’re welcome, and I’ll pay off anything else you need as long as I know about it.”

  I don’t bother putting up an argument. Who am I to tell the man how to spend his money?

  Hilda comes in with food. It smells like chicken. Fried chicken.

  She removes the containers, place them on the table for us and comes back with water. Then she exits quietly.

  I open the container, to see what I smelled – fried chicken wings. There’s a side of rice with shrimp in it.

  “I hope it’s to your liking.”

  “I’m sure it will be.” I take a bite. And another. And another. I try not to eat too fast but these chicken wings are some of the best I’ve ever had.

  He watches me like he’s never seen a woman eat before. Maybe I should be a bit more graceful.

  “So what do you do here at MJS Communications?” I ask.

  He’s eating. He’s not sloppy like me. He’s careful not to drop anything. He leans over his plate when he eats rice, taking the perfect fork full.

  He washes his palate with water, screws the top back onto the bottle of Voss then says, “I design computer networks and make new technologies to enhance communication.”

  “I won’t pretend I understand what that entails.”

  “It’s very complicated. Then again, everything about me is complicated. I’m sure you’re aware.”

  “Somewhat,” I answer. I take another bite of chicken and glance up to find him staring at me. “Do you like your life complicated?” I ask.

  “I do. It keeps me busy.”

  “Why do you feel the need to stay so busy?”

  “You ask a lot of questions.”

  “That’s usually how you get to know someone.”

  “Right,” he says.

  I can tell this conversation is not his cup of tea. That’s why I’m not sure why he invited me to his office. He said he wanted to talk. Here we are having lunch and he’s growing tight-lipped.

  “I like to stay busy to take my mind off of my problems.”

  My brows raise. “You have problems?”

  “Of course. That shouldn’t surprise you. I run a billion-dollar enterprise.”

  He continues eating. Carefully and neatly. He doesn’t drop a single grain of rice.

  “Who is Magnus St. Claire outside of MJS Communications?”

  “He’s a man who doesn’t like all these questions. Eat.”

  “That’s not fair. You invited me to your office but you don’t want to talk. I want to talk. I’m a talker.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  “Then talk to me, Magnus Jude St. Claire.”

  He wipes his mouth and says, “I don’t do much outside of work. I read a lot. I don’t watch much TV. I run twenty miles on the weekends—ten miles Saturday and ten miles Sunday. I’m pretty boring. Work is where I excel.”

  I take a sip of water. “What kind of books do you read?”

  “Old books. Ones that probably wouldn’t interest you.”

  “Yeah. You’re probably right. I’m just a dumb waitress. I don’t know how to read.”

  “That’s not what I was trying to imply, Shiloh.”

  “I know.” I laugh. “You never know when I’m joking, do you?”

  He leaves my question unanswered. “Hey, are you related to any of the other St. Claire’s in Charlotte?”

  “I doubt it. Why do you ask?”

  “There’s a guy named Ramsey St. Claire. He owns St. Claire Architects. Have you ever heard of him?”

  “I have.”

  “Any relation? I mean, St. Claire is not a popular name ‘round here.”

  “No. No relation.”

  “How do you know that?”

  He lifts his broad shoulders. “I just know. Why are you looking up other St. Claire’s in Charlotte?”

  “You investigated me so I’m doing the same. Looking for somebody who can help me crack the surface of you. Someone who knows anything about you and why you would pay a woman a million dollars to have your baby. Someone who know why you’re the way you are.”

  “What way is that?”

  “Sneaky. Smart. Driven. Willing to do anything to accomplish whatever goals you set out for yourself. I would love to have a chat with your parents or your ex. Brothers and sisters. Anybody. I’m desperate at this point.”

  “If you’re finished with your food, I can show you around.”

  “I—I get a tour?”

  He stands, walks over to the wet bar and pours himself some tequila. He downs a shot like it ain’t nothing then says, “Let’s go.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Magnus

  Walking with her beside me feels good. My employees, the ones who work in this wing of the building are all smiling. I can only imagine what they’re thinking. The only woman I’ve ever brought here was Nicoletta and they know I hate giving tours. To satisfy Shiloh’s craving to get to know me, I’m making yet another concession. I introduce her to Bransen. His eyes nearly bulge out of his head when he sees her, as they should.

  She’s beautiful. Greasy chicken-wing lips and all. I don’t think she realizes how appealing she is and that makes her even more beautiful in an innocent, omissive kind of way. It also makes the temperature of my blood rise to levels it shouldn’t be. If I hadn’t walked away from her earlier to take a shot of Patrón, I would
’ve grabbed her, took those lips and devoured her tongue like a mussel dipped in warm butter.

  “Nice to meet you, Bransen,” she says.

  “You as well,” Bransen responds. He looks at me like he’s secretly communicating some guy-code – giving me his approval. I’m sure I’ll get his thoughts later.

  Bransen clears his throat. “So, Magnus is showing you around, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then count yourself lucky because this guy doesn’t give tours to anyone.”

  “He doesn’t?” she asks, looking at me.

  “No. You must’ve twisted his arm somehow, in which case let me in on your secret.”

  Shiloh smiles, one of the prettiest I’ve seen. I would say her dimple is the highlight of her face, but it’s in direct competition with her full lips, babydoll eyes and pleasant bright smile.

  She looks at me again.

  My face is as stoic as a statue, the way I usually keep it but my heart races for her.

  “See you later, Bransen,” I tell him to keep him from staring at my girl.

  My girl…

  Dang. Why am I referring to her as my girl?

  “Come on, Shiloh. Let’s go.”

  “Where are we going?” she asks.

  Again with the questions…

  “If you would come with me, you’d find out.”

  I take her to the lab not to introduce her to anyone else but to show her the latest technology I’m working on and how it’s made, solely for the purpose of satisfying her curiosity about my job.

  “Wow. Amazing,” she says. “And you came up with these?”

  “Yes, with the prototypes. The engineers take my idea and run with it. Some ideas make it to market, others don’t.”

  “So, you’re like a walking brain?”

  I crack a smile. “If that’s what you see me as. Yes.”

  “Cool. Now I’m starting to understand why you’re the way you are.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Your job. It requires you to be focused all the time. Requires extreme attention to detail and zero room for error. How you are here at work has leaked over into your personal life.”

  “Maybe.”