Enemy Dearest

by Winter Renshaw

  “No.” I exhale. Perhaps I’m being petulant in this moment, but I don’t fucking care. There’s a way to make this happen, I’m certain.

  “Then we need to find someone,” he says, “someone who’s compatible with you, someone you find attractive, someone who would be an ideal mother, and like I said, someone you can trust. We could have them vetted by a psychologist if you want, a doctor as well to make sure she’s capable of bearing—”

  I lift a palm. He shuts up mid-sentence.

  “—now you’re getting too many people involved.” I wave his words away, gaze focused on that name. Sophie Bristol. The syllables roll soft and sensual in my mind. I can only imagine the way they’d feel on my tongue. “I want you to look into her.”

  I rip the page from the legal pad and slide it toward him.

  “She works here,” I say. “No idea what department. I ran into her earlier. She might be a fit for … this.”

  Broderick scans the name before folding the paper into fourths, and then he tucks it into the interior pocket of his suit jacket. “I’ll see what I can find out.”

  * * *

  Chapter Two

  * * *

  Sophie

  * * *

  I’m in the middle of running a Tuesday report for Miranda in Accounts Receivable when my office phone flashes with an unfamiliar extension.

  It takes me three rings to process the name on the Caller ID.

  It takes me an additional stomach-dropping ring to answer. “Sophie Bristol speaking.”

  In the three years I’ve worked at Westcott Corporation, Trey Westcott has never called me.

  “Ms. Bristol, I need you to report to my office.” The commanding tenor in my boss’ voice sends actual chills down my spine—not an easy feat. “Immediately.”

  The number of times I’ve physically seen the unknowable powerhouse of a man, I could count on one hand, and all of those times have been in passing—with today being an exception.

  From what I’ve heard, a person only gets called into his office when they’re about to be fired. The man likes to dole out pink slips in person. He claims it’s a respect thing, though I can’t help but wonder if he simply gets off on it. Power changes people.

  Then again, Westcott’s been powerful his entire life. Born to one of the wealthiest families in the world and orphaned as a teenager, he’s spent the past twenty years turning his $500 billion inheritance into a net worth that tops a trillion dollars.

  A hundred times, I’ve tried to wrap my head around that kind of money, but I can’t come close to fathoming it. They say if you were to count to a trillion, it would take two-hundred-thousand years. I don’t think an ordinary person could stay sane with that kind of influence and authority.

  Some of the most prominent people in existence are terrified of him—of his capabilities. And the shroud of mystery (and rumors) that surround him only add to his intimidating allure.

  I log out of my computer and quickly calculate the odds of it being the last time I do so. He’s got no reason to let me go, that I can think of, but I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve watched some poor, thankless company minion packing their belongings into a cardboard box while they attempt not to break down in tears in front of their staring colleagues. Once they load the elevator, they’re never seen or heard from again.

  I don’t tend to fear anyone.

  Trey Westcott is an exception.

  For the past hour, I’ve replayed the break room incident in my mind on a loop, wondering what he heard and how much, if any, he attributed to me.

  He stopped me in the hallway and said, “Thanks for … that.”

  Was there sarcasm in his tone?

  What if he thought I was the one spreading those ridiculous rumors?

  Also, why is he calling me personally? He has half a dozen assistants to do this sort of thing …

  “Ms. Bristol?” His brusque voice in my ear tells me I don’t have time to wonder.

  “Yes.” I keep my composure and swallow my concerns for now. “I’ll be right there.”

  Westcott is my boss’ boss’ boss’ boss’ boss on a zig-zagged chart that makes me dizzy if I stare at it for too long. I didn’t think the man knew I existed.

  I’ve sat in on some meetings, amongst a hundred others, and we’ve passed in the hallway a time or two, never making eye contact. Other than that, nothing about our dealings have been remarkable or memorable, at least not for him.

  I slip my work badge around my neck and lock up my office, mentally calculating how long it’ll take to get from the eighth floor of the southwest corner of our extensive corporate campus to the northeast section where I’ll hitch a ride on a private elevator to a penthouse office suite where Mr. Westcott spends no less than seventy hours a week.

  Five minutes later, I check in at the desk outside his office where his number one assistant works behind a shiny black desk so gargantuan it nearly swallows her whole.

  “Mr. Westcott wanted to see me,” I say. “Sophie Bristol, from Payroll.”

  Spa-like music plays from hidden speakers but the air is particularly icy. I heard this is how he works. The hospital-grade air purifier combined with the frigid sixty-six degree thermostat keeps Westcott clear-headed and helps him do his best thinking.

  The nameplate on the assistant’s desk identifies her as Mona, and while I’ve seen hundreds of emails go out on his behalf—all with her name on them—I’d yet to put a face with it. She’s stunning. Wide set hazel eyes. Inky dark hair that shines like lacquered glass. Pouty, matte-red lips. Lingerie model body. Baby face. Barely twenty-three if I had to guess.

  She taps a button on her phone, lifts her fingers to the microphone of her headset, and mutters something low before pointing to the double doors behind her with the hand-carved Westcott monogram: a giant W flanked with a P on the left and an A on the right.

  Pierce Ainsworth Westcott III.

  The third in a line of successful, old-moneyed men, the world has only ever known him as Trey.

  “You can head in,” she says, gaze careful yet curious. “Mr. Westcott is ready for you.”

  I press my fingertips against the gold-plated door handle and give it a push.

  It swings open and in a flash of a second, I know how Alice felt when she went down the rabbit hole.

  * * *

  Chapter Three

  * * *

  Trey

  * * *

  The doors glide open, presenting a beautiful bombshell of a woman backlit by the soft lighting of the reception area.

  “Ms. Bristol.” I check my watch. She isn’t late. Quite the contrary. She came as soon as I called. But it’s crucial she learns I don’t like to be kept waiting. This will benefit her going forward.

  She clasps her hands softly in front of her hips, drawing my eye toward her delicious hourglass frame, and pulls her shoulders back.

  Clearing her throat, she accepts my gaze head on.

  I like her already.

  “What can I help you with, Mr. Westcott?” Her voice is smooth and unshaken. If I make her nervous, she’s doing a superb job of hiding it.

  “I’m told you work in Payroll.” I come around the front of my desk, taking a seat on the edge and folding my arms across my chest.

  She hasn’t taken a single step closer, keeping a careful distance of ten, maybe twelve feet between us. Either she’s quietly intimidated by me or she’s got a thing for personal space. If it’s the latter, we already share something in common.

  “I do,” she says. “Going on three years next month.”

  “And you love your job?” I ask.

  Without pause, Sophie answers, “Of course.”

  I don’t buy it.

  Her brows meet. She’s confused. Understandably so.

  “Tell me, Ms. Bristol, what are your long-term goals here at Westcott Corporation? Where do you see yourself in five years? Ten?” My attention shifts to her glossy pale waves and the glistening lips that delive
r her words on a breathy velvet cloud.

  She’s a walking, talking juxtaposition of vulnerability and confidence.

  An enigma.

  I’m too distracted by the way she carries herself to listen to the words coming out of her mouth. Besides, her answers don’t matter. I’ve already chosen her. Once my mind is set, there’s no changing it.

  Sophie is in the middle of waxing on how long it took her just to get an interview here when I lift a palm to silence her.

  “Thank you for that information, Ms. Bristol,” I say. “I’ve heard enough.”

  She half-squints before righting her posture.

  “I’m going to cut to the chase,” I say, drinking in her Coke-bottle figure. The subtle nip at her waist, the elegant way her heels lift her calf muscles, the shiny, flawless set of teeth I’ve yet to see overtaken with a full smile, the regal posture—either she’s pedigreed and hailing from a respectable family or incredibly self-assured and disciplined.

  Either way, I’ll take her—she’s perfect for what I need.

  “I’m relieving you from your current position,” I say, the way I’ve said to countless souls who’ve stood in her very position. I never apologize. I never break eye contact. I never sugarcoat.

  The only difference now is I’m about to dump the opportunity of a lifetime into her lap, and she hasn’t the slightest.

  I resist a smirk.

  A sharp intake of breath passes between her open lips, but her expression is impossible to read. Her eyes—a steely Atlantic blue—don’t show a hint of emotion. Still as a statue, she lingers. Or maybe she’s hardening herself. This is a girl in complete control of her emotions. So much more than a pretty face and a marathon-sex worthy body.

  “May I ask why?” she finally speaks, voice unbroken.

  “Because I have another job for you. One I believe will suit you better,” I say. “Not to mention the pay and benefits will beat anything you could ever make on your current track.”

  She winces. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand. Are you firing me or promoting me?”

  “Both.”

  I reach for the stack of papers on Westcott Legal Department letterhead and slide them toward her, along with a pen. “Before I get into the details of this new position, I’m going to need you to sign this NDA. It’s a standard, boilerplate contract. I just need to know that the offer I’m about to make you won’t be shared outside this room, beyond the two of us.”

  Her inquiring gaze dances over the fine print, and a moment later, she reaches for the pen —albeit reluctantly, makes a few elegant loops, and signs on the line.

  “This would be a personal position,” I say. “You’d work for me. With me. And only me.”

  “Like a personal assistant?”

  “No. I have five of those already.” I roll my eyes, realizing how fucking ridiculous this proposition is going to sound. The words haven’t so much as left my mouth and already I’m cringing on the inside. “Before I elaborate, I’d like you to know that I’ve had my personal attorney dig up your file, and I have to say I’m impressed with your background. Four years at Princeton. Dual degrees in international business and accounting. President of three collegiate clubs. Founder of two charities. Fluent in multiple languages. A laundry list of remarkable references … All of this by the age of twenty-seven? I have to ask: why are you wasting your time working in payroll here?”

  “As I said earlier, Mr. Westcott, it was quite difficult to get an interview at your company and, when I finally did—I took what I could get. I’ve actually received two promotions since I’ve been here. From what I understand, the opportunity to move up is worth the wait.”

  It’s true. It’s a steep climb but the view is incredible. Many will try. Few will reach the pinnacle of Westcott success. That’s the secret to maintaining a ball-busting team that comprises the core of my company.

  “There are a few blanks I need to fill in—mostly concerning your familial history—but given your extraordinary background, your work ethic and loyalty, I’m confident I’ve made the right decision, and I believe you’ll be much happier in this new position.”

  “Which is …?”

  “I’m in need of a,” my mouth curls, as if I can’t help but laugh at what I’m about to say, “personal partner. Or to put it in black and white … a wife.”

  “Wait—what?” She tilts her head and a hand lifts to her angled hip. A moment ago she was stoic and composed, but something tells me I’m about to see a different side of her—and I hope I do. I need to know everything about her, familiarize myself with the facets of her personality. “Did you just say you need a wife? Is this a joke?”

  She peers from left to right, as if inspecting her surroundings for a hidden camera or two.

  “I wish it were. Believe me. I fully understand the outlandishness of my request.”

  “Why me?” she asks after an endless pause.

  I drag a hard, cold breath into my lungs. “I believe I already explained that to you.”

  She folds her delicate hands in front of her again, this time her fingers twisting into a gridlock.

  “Respectfully, I have to pass.”

  I almost choke on my spit, but I contain my reaction. “My attorney will send you the offer, in writing, as soon as we’re finished. I behoove you to take it home, read it over, and reconsider.”

  Her full lips press together. “I’m sorry, but my answer is still no.”

  “I was under the impression you were single. Am I wrong?” There was no husband or common law spouse listed on her medical insurance paperwork. From what Broderick could find, she lived alone in a fifth-floor, one-bedroom apartment approximately four blocks from here.

  “I am,” she says.

  “Allow me to paint a picture for you. We could start with six months together,” I say. “And a tastefully publicized whirlwind engagement. At the end of those six months, you would receive a sum of two million dollars. Another six months after that, we would make everything official—a wedding. Could be a grand affair if you’d like, or we could hold a private ceremony anywhere you’d like. After the wedding, you would receive a payment of five million dollars. If, within the year that follows, our marriage produces a child, you would receive an additional ten million.”

  It’s a drop of water in the vast ocean that is my wealth, but to someone making Sophie’s humble salary, it’s a Powerball jackpot.

  Her iridescent irises flash.

  But she says nothing.

  “You and my child would forever be financially cared for. You’d want for nothing. And if you’d like to legally go our own ways, I would grant you a divorce as well as primary custody, and we would come to a fair co-parenting agreement. I would never expect you to stay in a loveless marriage or sacrifice your long-term happiness.”

  It’s imperative that I be upfront about this.

  I can promise her all the money in the world, but I could never promise her my heart.

  “I’m not a pawn, Mr. Westcott,” she says, spoken like a woman who knows her worth. “And I’m not for sale.”

  “Of course you aren’t,” I say with the careful negotiating tone I use with anyone sitting on the other end of a business deal. “I’m not buying you, Ms. Bristol. I’m buying into a partnership with you.”

  “You’re a good salesman, Mr. Westcott,” she says. “You paint a lovely picture. But things like that—they can never be that simple. Contract or not.”

  I chuff. “It’s not like there’s a precedent for this sort of thing. I assure you, anything you want from me will be put in writing. It’ll be a fair agreement. And I’m nothing if not a man of my word.”

  She begins to speak but stops.

  “I’m in a situation, and I need your help. No, I want your help. And I would help you in return. It’s as simple as that.” And then I add, “I think we can both agree it’s the opportunity of a lifetime.”

  “I’m sorry, but no, thank you.” Short and sweet, as if she’s
slipping back into her graceful, poised demeanor like a satin jacket.

  She doesn’t stick around to even consider the generous offer I’ve made, the easy money, the lifetime of financial freedom with a side of luxury. While the contract would guarantee her seventeen million dollars over the course of two years, the mother of my child would live a life afforded to royalty. I could add a house. Ongoing child support. Every resource she could possibly need or want to maintain a high standard of living.

  She’d be set until her dying day.

  “Again, Broderick will send you the contract,” I say. “As you read it over, please bear in mind that everything is negotiable.”

  Chin tipped forward and gaze locked on me, she asks, “Do I still have a job here or am I fired?”

  She doesn’t so much as hint at considering it.

  I contemplate the legal ramifications of threatening someone’s job in exchange for a relationship, and I think better of it.

  “Of course not,” I say.

  Besides, it’ll give us more opportunities to see one another. From here forward, I’ll be making extra trips to her section of the Westcott campus.

  My future wife shows herself out without any fanfare, her heels padding silent on the lush carpeting.

  I’m sure, once she peruses the paperwork later over a glass of twist-cap five-dollar wine in her humble apartment, she’ll reconsider.

  And tonight as she lies in bed, she’ll imagine a life with me. The gravity of my offer will hit her like a wall of regret. Come morning, my phone will ring. And if it doesn’t? I’ll find a way to change her mind.

  I always get what I want.

  And I want Sophie Bristol.

  * * *

  Available Now! mybook.to/trillion

  About the Author

  Wall Street Journal and #1 Amazon bestselling author Winter Renshaw is a bona fide daydream believer. She lives somewhere in the middle of the USA and can rarely be seen without her trusty Mead notebook and laptop. When she’s not writing, she’s living the American Dream with her husband, three kids, the laziest puggle this side of the Mississippi, and a busy pug pup that officially owes her three pairs of shoes, one lamp cord, and an office chair.