"Oh, don't worry about that," he said breezily, waving one hand as if multimillion-dollar audits could just disappear with a snap. "Go ahead, take the day."
It didn't take Sherlock Holmes to piece this one together. The Numero name was written all over this little act of generosity. I narrowed my eyes. "You didn't… happen to get a call, did you?"
Mr. Hargrove coughed and suddenly became very interested in the stack of files on my desk. "Well, you know how important it is to maintain client relations. Consider it… a long-term investment."
In other words: the Numeros owned him. Probably owned the whole damn building too. He shoved my purse into my hands with the kind of urgency that screamed please don't get me fired, and before I could so much as grab my pen, he 'helpfully' assisted me in closing my laptop.
"Off you go," he chirped, already guiding me toward the exit.
I stormed out of the office, my fury hot enough to burn holes through the door. My mind was a drumbeat of irritation: Junior thought he could pull strings and manipulate me into playing nice? Ha. The moment I laid eyes on him, I was going to give him an earful so loud the ancestors of the Numero family would roll in their graves.
Twenty minutes later, I found myself in a place so absurdly posh I wondered if I'd stumbled into a movie set. A luxurious law office, dripping with old money from every surface. The floor-to-ceiling windows framed a skyline view that looked like it belonged on a billionaire's screensaver. Shelves of law books stretched across the walls—though I doubted anyone had ever cracked one open since the Reagan administration.
The receptionist wore pearls the size of grapes and a smile so tight it could snap. I half expected her to curtsy when she gestured toward the seating area. And there he was.
Junior Numero.
Sitting like a king on an oversized chair, legs crossed, one arm draped lazily on the armrest as though the entire office were his personal living room. Honestly, from what I'd gathered about the Numeros in just three days, it probably was. He had that air of arrogant ease. His suit was sharp enough to slice through my irritation, his dark tie perfectly knotted.
He looked up at me, a smug smile tugging at his lips, as if he'd been expecting me to arrive furious and fuming. And damn it, he was right.
"You're late," he said.
"I was working," I shot back, dropping my purse onto the table.
"A Numero wife doesn't work at some—what was it again?—accounting firm?"
I narrowed my eyes at him, my blood simmering. "I am not a Numero wife… yet," I said, enunciating every syllable. "Besides, what exactly am I supposed to do while you're off being the boss of the world? Sit at home in a ball gown, fanning myself dramatically, waiting for my lord and master to return?"
"You are my fiancée. And your job will be to host galas, attend charity events, and smile at cameras. You're welcome."
"Great. A glorified mannequin. You think that's all I want out of life—for my life? You think I didn't have a plan, a dream, a career before you oh-so-graciously strolled into my world?" I rolled my eyes, the motion dramatic enough to make him shift his jaw in irritation. "Let me tell you something, Junior. I worked my butt off to get that job. Long nights, caffeine overdoses, bosses breathing down my neck. I didn't claw my way up for you to waltz in and strip me of my dignity like I'm just some… accessory."
He rose from the chair slowly. His shoulders rolled back, muscles flexing beneath the suit. Even the fabric seemed afraid to wrinkle on him. My stomach tightened, but I refused to let it show.
I reminded myself—I wasn't a girl anymore. No, I was a grown woman with bills, ambition, and a spine. So I stood my ground, head lifted, lips pressed together so he couldn't see them tremble. My pulse betrayed me though—it thudded wildly in my neck, and I could tell by the flicker of satisfaction in his eyes that he'd noticed.
"Don't you ever… call me Junior?" Out of everything I had just said—my job, my dignity, my entire speech about not being a glorified mannequin—that's the one thing that registered? For a man who pretended not to care, he sure cared about the tiniest things.
"What the hell am I supposed to call you then?" I demanded, throwing my hands up. "I have always known you as Junior. Since we were kids. You can't just erase that. What do you want me to do—start calling you Your Numero-ness? Or maybe His Royal Arrogance?"
"Who—" he started but whatever earth-shattering declaration he was about to make was cut off.
The lawyer cleared his throat so loudly it sounded like a foghorn. "Perhaps," the middle-aged man said dryly, "we should discuss the contract?"
I turned to look at him, grateful and annoyed in equal measure. Grateful because I wasn't sure I wanted to hear where Junior was going with that sentence. Annoyed because—well, the timing was too perfect. His gaze flicked between us like he was watching a tennis match.
I sighed inwardly. We probably were the most interesting—and the most infuriating—pair he'd had walk into his office in a long time.
Junior—or Mr. Numero, as the entire city would reverently call him—gestured toward the lawyer. "Go ahead," he commanded. I followed obediently as we were led down the hallway and into a quieter office.
The space was neat and sterile, filled with rows of leather-bound law journals and one lonely plant. We sat down across from the lawyer, who wasted no time in sliding a file across the gleaming table toward me. "Miss," he said politely, "you'll want to go through this carefully. Mr. Numero has already done so."