by Alam, Donna
‘If you’re disinclined to come over to the office this afternoon, we could do dinner this evening.’
After last time? Ah, hell no. ‘Can’t. I’m busy tonight.’
‘Tomorrow is no good for me, and I’m flying to New York,’ he answers crisply. ‘In short, I won’t be around for a week. Is that going to complicate things for you? Your cash flow, I mean.’
I sigh. This is . . . embarrassing. The last time I was beholden to anyone was when I was at college. And having family pay my bills isn’t the same.
‘Olivia,’ he says sharply. ‘If you find it difficult to be in the same room as me already, I’m not sure this arrangement will work.’
‘Fine,’ I answer quietly, blowing out another breath. I strain to keep my eyes wide open and glued to a spot on the ceiling. If I can do this, I won’t cry.
I. Won’t. Cry.
‘Then you’d better give me your address.’
I consider not getting changed and turning up in his sleek and shiny office in a pair of boyfriend jeans and an old T-shirt. But in a fit of panic, I begin to wonder if he’ll change his mind at the sight of “Sunday Olivia”.
‘Ridiculous,’ I mutter as coat hangers screech against the rail of my tiny closet. ‘I’m not going to become a Stepford wife. Just a pretend one for a while.’
I eventually settle for a pair of fitted black pants that end a little above the ankle with a matching top. A sleeveless shirt, this too is slightly cropped and sitting just at the waist. Sure, it’s black, but it’s the kind of outfit that would be fine for a stylish brunch. Or the day I sign my life away. I forego heels in favour of a pair of jewelled sandals and leave down my hair. Then tie it up again. Then settle on tying the front up while leaving the back loose. So stressful.
At the appointed time, the buzzer sounds. With my face pressed against the glass of my third story window, I can just make out the shape of a somewhat familiar black Mercedes. With a feeling that’s part trepidation, part disbelief, I grab my purse and sunglasses before heading downstairs when what I really want to do is climb into my wardrobe and stay there.
The journey into the city is quick. Quicker than I’d like, for sure, and I try not to think about the last time I was in the back of this car. Because, awkward. Thankfully, it isn’t long before I’m deposited outside the towering building.
A security guard sits behind the reception desk, though he lumbers his way to the front door to open it.
‘Mr Beckett is waiting for you,’ he informs me in monotone.
Is that his usual tone, or is he deliberately trying to keep his voice from betraying any inflection? Judgment? What does it matter? I’ve made my decision, so I suppose I’d just better get used to it and try not to feel like someone has whipped out a red Sharpie and painted the letter on my forehead.
I sign in and am escorted to the elevator, the uniformed guard using his key card to select a floor. My eyes are on my shoes as the doors close, my stomach staying on ground level as the rest of me hurtles toward the devil I don’t really know. The devil who has promised to save me.
Kind of.
I must be mad.
‘Olivia.’
As the doors slide open, Beckett is there to greet me. For a moment, I’m taken aback. What do you know? Weekend Beckett wears jeans and a fine knit sweater that clings to all the good parts of him.
‘You look beautiful,’ he adds as though this is our usual exchange, his hand sliding to the curve of my waist as he pulls me in for a perfunctory kiss on the cheek.
What isn’t so casual is my reaction as my shirt parts slightly from my pants and his thumb lightly skims my skin. Under the sensation and the pressure of his hand, my nipples immediately harden, and a deep pulse beats between my legs. Just once, but so hard. I claim no responsibility for the things running through my head.
Skin to skin.
What kind of experience would that be with him?
Hard and unforgiving?
Torturously slow as it builds to a peak?
All of those things.
As he pulls away, I get the sense he knows he’s taken a liberty, albeit accidentally, but the reaction is the same. And it’s a reaction he seems to be entirely aware of.
Remember why you’re here, I caution myself. He’s not the only one who can be a snake.
‘Shall we?’ He indicates that I should walk ahead before he falls in step with me. ‘You’re not usually so quiet.’
‘It’s Sunday. You can’t annoy me today.’
‘Is that a dare?’
My hair whips around as I turn to face him. ‘Can we just get this over without any word play?’ He doesn’t reply, but with an almost imperceptible nod of his head, he agrees.
Once in his office, he offers me a drink—an actual drink. I refuse, though watch as he bends to a concealed fridge before pulling out a beer for himself and a water for me. Jeans so suit him.
‘In case you change your mind,’ he says, depositing a glass along with an imported bottle of still water. ‘You’re sure I can’t get you something stronger?’
‘Positive, thanks,’ I reply, while reminding myself of the half bottle of cheap Chardonnay cooling in my fridge. A reward to myself after this.
He takes the seat opposite this time, dropping a manila folder to the low table between us and taking a deep pull on his beer. Knees bent, his feet are planted wide, and I notice the designer tennis shoes he’s wearing.
‘Olivia.’ At the sound of his voice, my head pops up. The warmth in his gaze seems to have lifted by degrees.
‘I’m fine,’ I answer, nervously reaching out to twist the cap off the bottle, then pouring a little of the liquid into my glass. ‘Turns out, I am thirsty after all.’ Bringing the glass to my knee, I cup it in both hands, my fingers dancing nervously against it.
‘Shall we?’ He reaches for the folder, flipping the cover open with the pad of his thumb. ‘I’ve had my lawyer draft a prenuptial agreement, as discussed.’
‘Wait a minute.’ Water sloshes over the side of the glass as I put it down. ‘You had this pulled together already?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you didn’t know . . .? You couldn’t have known I was going to say yes. I only just decided an hour ago!’
‘Olivia. I earn a lot of money. More money than most people will spend in a lifetime. And I earn that money by using my instincts.’
‘But still—’
‘You’re an intelligent woman. You aren’t one of those people who life happens to. You make life happen for you.’
‘Didn’t we talk about flattery already?’ My words hit the air sharper than I’d intended.
‘Fine. Yes, I had it drawn up without knowing what you’d decide. Given your choices, I made an educated guess, and here you are. Is that okay for you? Does it make you feel a little happier? A little more content?’
‘Not really.’ I shrug. I should’ve left it at the compliment.
We go through the agreement point by point as Beckett explains the legal jargon in layman’s terms. It turns out, he has a law degree, though he suggests I take it to my own counsel for confirmation. I nod rapidly at his suggestion and wonder if I have a couple of hundred free on my credit card. But unless the credit card balance fairies have visited, I’ll be spending a night with my cheap half bottle of wine, a pad and a pen, and Professor Google.
But the bottom line? I walk away from this marriage exactly as he promised; I’ll own E-Volve free and clear, and I’ll have a very healthy bank balance and some investments made on my behalf for the future.
‘So, that concludes the legalities for the minute.’ Cuffing his wrist, Beckett pushes the sleeves of his sweater up his forearm once, then again, highlighting the play of tendons and muscles there. It shouldn’t feel like I’m watching porn, yet it does. As an encore, he pushes back his elbows, stretching the muscles in his shoulders as his sweater moulds to his flat stomach and his pecs. He stands, and suddenly, his crotch is at eye level. Yes, okay,
so there’s a coffee table between us, but it doesn’t stop my mind from going back to that night in the car. The smell of leather and cologne. Taut sighs in the tight space. The feel of his hands on my thighs, and the rock-hard bulge between his legs as I’d worked myself over him.
You were wet. I bet you’re wet now.
‘You’re sure I can’t get you anything stronger?’ I’m about to say yes—a bottle of wine and a straw—when he adds, ‘You look like you need a little fortification.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ I say, springing to my feet. ‘How dare you! I’m not desperate! Just because you might have copped a feel or two doesn’t mean you can make these assumptions about me.’
By the end of my angry little speech, I’ve watched his expression change and morph through a range of things. So much so I find myself playing the exchange back in my head.
‘Freud.’
‘What about him?’ I answer with far less vinegar than moments before.
‘I think we’ll just blame this one on him,’ he says, turning back to the concealed fridge. ‘I expect you’re ready for a wine now. Pinot Grigio?’ he asks, already walking away. Walking away with his shoulders shaking.
‘Ohhh Lord.’ I drop to my butt on the sofa once again, my face in my hands, my hands on my knees. ‘Fortification, not fornication.’
‘I’m afraid so.’ I hear him place the glass down in front of me. ‘If fornication is to take place, we’d best sync our diaries quickly.’
My head comes up so quick, my hair knots around my face. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Fornication is out of wedlock, and we’ll be married this week.’
I snort. Actually snort. ‘This is my first time, but I’m pretty sure it takes more than a few days to arrange a wedding, no matter how secretive.’
‘We’re not getting married in secret. We might elope, but I need people to know.’
‘That’s what I meant. Sheesh. But aren’t there legalities we have to abide by? When Miranda’s older sister got married in Sussex, there was bands or something to post.’
‘Banns,’ he corrects. ‘Yes, these have to be read out in church three weeks in a row. In advance of objections.’
I wonder if a bride objects if she still keeps her company. Maybe just in a daydream world.
‘But we’re not going to be married in the UK.’
‘We’re not?’ I grab my wine and take a sip or six.
‘We have to go to New York because a prenup in the UK isn’t worth the paper it’s written on. We’ll go to the courthouse.’
‘Okay, so I’ll need to have a look at my diary.’
‘I’m going tomorrow, and you’ll come with me.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Don’t fight me on this. It’s hardly like you’re run off your feet with things to do.’
‘Hey, you’re the one with the easy job,’ I protest immediately. Well, he was the one who said he gets paid for what he knows, not what he does. Well, that’s not the case for me. I get paid for none of that stuff!
‘Your business is a hair’s breadth from going under, so the quicker we marry, the quicker you’ll have the money to fix things.’
‘I still have shit to do!’
‘And don’t swear. It’s beneath you.’
‘Ohhhh.’ The noise is a hundred syllables long. ‘Do you think this is the nineteen fifties? That you get some dominion over me?’
‘I’m well aware of the year. I’m also aware that you are the junior partner in this venture. So yes, to a certain extent, you are mine to direct.’
‘It’s not too late for me to change my mind.’
‘True,’ he agrees. ‘But you’re not an idiot. And if you think you were busy before, well, you weren’t. You’ll need to recognise that for the next six months your time isn’t as important as mine. Sacrifices will have to be made.’
‘I am not about the sacrifice my life.’ My answer is delivered on an unpleasant chuckle, but it’s true. ‘I don’t kill spiders, and I’m a strict vegetarian,’ I add with a good measure of teenage style provocation as I stretch my legs out under the coffee table, Beckett’s eyes following the motion out of the corner of his eye.
‘Tomorrow, you’ll come to New York with me, then be back on Friday when we’ll spread the good tidings to all concerned.’
Nope. ‘Will you tell your family?’
‘My parents are dead, and I’m an only child. The remaining members of my family aren’t a part of my life. What about you? Will you tell your grandmother?’
‘God, no, she’s ninety-two. I don’t want to kill her.’
‘Good. Less complications.’
‘Although,’ I add as a thought occurs to me, ‘she’ll be flying to the UK at the end of the summer.’ This is her annual pilgrimage, and every summer, she says she won’t be around to make the trip the following year. This has been going on so long, I think my family has stopped listening to her. ‘No,’ I decide, ‘I won’t tell her.’ She’ll want to meet him, and then she’ll want to know why I married a man I can’t stand.
‘I suppose now is as good a time as any to go through the contract.’
‘Didn’t we just do that?’
‘That was the prenuptial agreement; what you’ll take from the marriage once it’s dissolved.’
‘And what I won’t.’
‘Exactly. The contract is a little more complex than that. As I’ve said, you should seek legal counsel,’ he says, passing over a single sheet of paper.
‘What’s this?’ I look but don’t touch.
‘A non-disclosure agreement. I’m presuming you haven’t spoken with anyone about what we discussed.’
‘Like I’d tell anyone about this shit.’ Beckett’s brows pinch. ‘Look, I swear on occasion, so get used to it. And no, I haven’t told anyone because I don’t want anyone to know.’ I snatch the paper from between his fingertips and the pen he holds out next before scribbling my signature on the applicable line.
‘There. Happy now?’
Without answering, he slides two more pieces of paper out of the folder.
‘I’ll give you a few moments to look it over.’
‘No one does business on Sunday,’ I grumble without heat. But as he stands again, I don’t look up from the table as I separate the pages, one has CONTRACT across the top, and the second one PRENUPTIAL AGREEMENT.
I pick up the first and begin scanning the terms.
A six-month term dissolved by mutual agreement.
No-fault divorce to be processed in the state of New York
‘Why New York? I haven’t even agreed to go there yet.’
‘The UK has the unfortunate requirement of divorce proceedings not beginning until twelve months after the date of marriage. And there’s currently no such thing as a no-fault divorce.’
‘Pretty sure whatever goes wrong will be your fault anyway,’ I mutter, returning to the paperwork.
Half a million deposited into my personal bank account and the same amount into the company account within forty-eight hours of a legal marriage . . . further to point something or other.
Wow. He really wasn’t kidding.
Further monies deposited into the business account at monthly increments for the period of six months, totalling the amount of the amount of . . . Wow! That’s a lot of zeros, and it will more than keep my baby afloat.
Beckett to be appointed to the company board. A board we currently don’t have, by the way.
A number of new hires listed, candidates to be vetted by him or his representative. Sure, these I need to take the business to the next level, apparently.
I flip the first page over, picking up my wine glass, when the last three points almost make me drop it.
Monogamy for the length of the term.
Cohabitation a prerequisite of the agreement for the full term.
The marriage is to be consummated with forty-eight hours of a legal marriage or all terms to become null and void.
I find myself blinking rapidly, my mind empty of all other thoughts.
Live with him.
Have sex with him?
Once? Twice? Every night? Once or twice every night?
‘Well, you’re not storming out of the place, so that’s promising.’ He’s suddenly sitting across from me again. ‘The final two points, or three?’
I nod, mumbling something about marriage being created for monogamy. But isn’t it also meant to be for love?
‘I’m sure marriage means many different things to many different people. For some, it’s for financial gain, insurance coverage, and tax breaks. For others, it’s cultural requirement, a tenant of a religion even. Some marry for stability or prestige. But not all marriages work on the basis of fidelity. Ours will.’
His gaze is fiery, his language one of absolutes. I will be his and his alone. Something dark and exquisite breaks open inside me—a sudden ache, a need, a requirement for him to fill—but I can’t admit to any of that.
‘You want me to whore myself to you?’ My question is reasonable. Well, maybe my tone is.
‘That’s not what this is,’ Beckett answers carefully.
‘No? I guess I must’ve misunderstood.’ Picking up the papers, I lick my finger and begin flicking the edges angrily as though I can’t remember where the words lurk. Words tantamount to money for sex. Sex with him, more specifically. My heart is beating so fast I feel like I’ve run a marathon, my body and my head at war with the words I just read. ‘Ah, here,’ I bite out. ‘The marriage is to be consummated—’
‘I’m aware of what it says,’ he replies in a similar tone. ‘But if you’d let me explain.’
‘There is nothing to explain here. You want me to have sex with you.’
‘Forgive me if I’m wrong, but you’re here in part because you feel the same.’
‘You know shit!’
‘I know your understanding is tragically parochial.’
‘My understanding is just fine.’ Context is everything. Fancy ass words just need googling.
‘I thought you would’ve been a little more adult about this.’ He spreads his hands out across his thighs, sliding them towards his knees. It’s not a sexual thing, but my insides clench anyway. Why is that?