He pinched the bridge of his nose. "One year. You play the perfect wife, and I play the perfect husband." He paused, letting the words settle between us, his gaze locking with mine. "At the end of it, we part ways—amicably. No fuss, no fallout. By then, I'm already chairman of the board, and your family should be doing well. No strings, no drama."
I stared at him, my jaw hanging. He looked dead serious—no trace of a smirk, no playful glint in his eyes, not even the twitch of amusement I expected. His gaze was steady, hard as granite. "Define perfect wife," I finally managed.
"You make me look good to the world, that's all. When we are home by ourselves, we can live our separate lives."
Separate lives. The very thought of sharing a home with him—of sitting across from him at the breakfast table, pretending to be Mrs. Perfect while secretly fantasizing about stabbing my fork into his smug smile—was enough to make me break out in hives. And yet, he said it with such calm assurance, as though it were the most natural thing in the world, that I almost laughed.
He took my silence as a sign of victory. The arrogance radiating off him was so thick I could practically choke on it. "See? It's not so bad," he said. "Strictly professional. Besides, I think we'll get along just fine." His eyes flicked over me, that assessing gaze he always had in school. Then, with the same arrogance that made me want to throttle him, he added, "You just have to stay out of my way."
I nearly choked on my own breath. Stay out of his way? Oh, he had no idea. I was already drafting a list of ways to make his life a nightmare. He got up and walked toward me. Extending his hand, he said, "So, do we have a deal?"
I stared at his outstretched hand, my mind racing faster than a horse at the derby. Every fiber of my being screamed at me to walk away, to tell him where he could shove his ridiculous offer. My pride wanted me to laugh in his face. But then my father's face flashed in my mind holding together a crumbling business with nothing but sheer willpower. If I didn't do this, Dad could lose everything.
The thought anchored me in place. And then another thought slithered in, more dangerous, more delicious. I could make his life a living hell, the same way he made mine in school. He might think I'd play the "perfect wife," but behind closed doors? I could be his worst nightmare.
"Fine," I said, getting to his feet. I took his hand, my grip firm, meeting his eyes. His skin was warm, his palm calloused in a way that surprised me. I half-expected his touch to burn, but instead it sent an unexpected jolt through me.
His smirk deepened. Poor fool. He had no idea what kind of storm he'd just signed up for.
"Shall we seal it with a kiss, then, Princess?" he said. His eyes glinted with wicked amusement.
My jaw nearly hit the floor. Was he insane? Heat flared in my cheeks, not from attraction—definitely not from attraction—but from sheer rage. "Fuck you!" I snapped. He chuckled, clearly enjoying himself, as if my fury was part of the entertainment.
When we returned to the living room, I braced myself. Sure enough, Mrs. Numero practically catapulted out of her chair the second she spotted us. Her scarf fluttered dramatically, her pearl necklace bouncing against her chest as she clapped her hands. "Well? How did it go? Are we picking out wedding venues yet?" Her eyes sparkled. Why did this woman have to be so hyper all the time? Was caffeine her blood type?
Junior, devil incarnate, bane of my existence—grinned broadly, as if he'd just won the lottery. "It went great," he announced. "We're thinking a small, intimate ceremony."
I whipped my head toward him, glaring daggers from the corner of my eyes. Was he seriously going to play this game? "We haven't decided anything," I clarified quickly.
"Oh, don't worry, dear," Mrs. Numero said. She reached over and clasped my mother's hand. "I have a wedding planner on speed dial. We'll take care of everything." Her eyes gleamed mischievously. I half-expected her to pull out color swatches and a three-ring binder right then and there.
My mother chimed in. "See? I told you they'd hit it off! Isn't this wonderful, John?" Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright with hope.
Across the room, my father nodded, though the gesture was stiff, more mechanical than joyful. "Wonderful, indeed," he said, though his tone was more relieved than celebratory. My chest tightened, because I knew he'd been watching me since the moment we re-entered the room, silently gauging my every twitch, my every flicker of expression. He wasn't fooled by fake smiles or casual shrugs. He knew me too well. He saw that my lack of enthusiasm was a mask, and that behind it lay a storm I didn't dare let loose in front of the room.
And still, even under the weight of everyone's expectations, my traitorous gaze slid back to Junior. His smirk hadn't budged, his dark eyes watching me with infuriating amusement.
Oh, how I hated him. And oh, how much I hated the fact that a tiny, uninvited spark of excitement curled in my belly every time he looked at me like that.
As our parents continued to congratulate each other, Junior leaned toward me, his shoulder brushing mine. "Rule number one of surviving this," he whispered, "always let them think they're in charge." His breath tickled the shell of my ear, and I had to fight the urge to recoil.
Why do these people have so many number one rules! I tilted my head just enough to glare at him without drawing too much attention from our hovering mothers. "Rule number two," I whispered back, enunciating every word, "stay out of my fucking way." Even if I had agreed to marry him, it didn't mean I wanted him in my personal space. Not now, not ever.