Of course he had. Mr. Numero probably had the contract memorized word for word and filed away in some titanium safe under his penthouse. I pressed my lips together and drew the papers toward me.
As my eyes scanned the lines of legal jargon, my pulse slowed. I found myself zoning out, tracing the neat black ink while I stole glances at him. He sat there perfectly composed, his posture regal, his eyes fixed on me in that unnerving way of his—as though the contract wasn't on the table at all, as though I was the contract, and he was trying to read every clause written into my soul.
I finished, setting the pages down carefully, my fingertips lingering on the crisp edge. My brain told me to keep quiet, but my pride didn't listen. I cleared my throat. "I'd like to make a few adjustments."
"Adjustments?" The lawyer asked.
"I want a clause added that says I have the right to a job."
"Fine," Junior said. "Add it." He gestured lazily to the lawyer as though granting me employment was the equivalent of tossing me a stick of gum. This seemed… too easy. Suspicion crawled up my spine.
I narrowed my eyes at him, feeling my accountant brain whirring. If he was going to fold this easily, then maybe it was time to push my luck a little bit more. "And," I added, "I get a couple of days a month to myself. Anywhere I want to. No questions asked."
"Done," Junior said instantly. "Anything else, Princess? A private island, perhaps? A crown? Should I summon a unicorn while we're at it?"
I ignored him, tilting my chin in mock superiority. "Also," I said, turning pointedly to the lawyer as if Junior's commentary wasn't worth acknowledging, "if this arrangement ends, I want the option to disappear with zero strings attached. No bodyguards trailing me. No legal leashes. No shadowy Numeros showing up at my office desk on a Monday morning like today."
The lawyer scribbled furiously on his notepad, his glasses slipping lower on his nose. His face was carefully neutral.
Junior raised an eyebrow at me, the motion slow, dangerously controlled. "You're planning your escape already?"
"Just being thorough," I said sweetly. "You know, like a good accountant." I let the words hang, knowing full well how much he hated being reminded that my world wasn't built around him.
Two full hours dragged by in a tug-of-war of ink and words. We edited, re-edited, crossed out. At one point, Junior leaned back and stretched, his shirt pulling just enough to distract me before I angrily shoved the thought aside. I would not ogle the man trying to bulldoze my life. Absolutely not.
Finally, the lawyer slid the freshly polished contract back across the table. Junior signed his name, the pen gliding over the page. Then he held it out to me, his gaze steady. "Your turn."
I snatched the pen, refusing to let him see the tremor in my fingers. With a firm stroke, I signed my name across the paper and slapped it shut. "Done. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have reports to finish. You know, my job."
Junior walked me to the car, his stride clipped. His hand hovered near my back but never touched—some silent power move. His face was a mask of aristocratic irritation, but the storm in his eyes betrayed him. "You think you won, don't you?"
I tilted my chin up, savoring the rare taste of victory. "I don't think. I know."
As I slid into the car, the leather hugging me, he leaned down, one hand braced against the door frame. Then his mouth tilted dangerously close to my ear. "I'll see you tomorrow," he whispered, his breath warm against my skin. "Wear something acceptable, accountant."
There was a wicked glint in his eye. That's when it hit me: I might have won the battle, but I'd probably lost the war.
Still, I wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of seeing me flustered. So I did the only thing a mature, well-adjusted adult woman would do—I gave him the finger. Then I shut the door. Childish? Absolutely. But the petty satisfaction that surged through me was worth it. Ohhh, so worth it.
*****
The next morning, I strutted into the office. I was still riding the high of my little victory over Junior.
"Morning," I greeted the receptionist.
I swung by the coffee machine, grabbed my black-as-sin fuel, and headed straight to my desk. My chair welcomed me, creaking in protest but holding steady as always. I dropped my bag, rolled my shoulders back, and mentally declared myself ready to be badass. Bring on the spreadsheets.
Then I saw it. Sitting right in the middle of my desk was an envelope. My name written on the front in crisp, impersonal letters. My boss's seal glared up at me.
I frowned, plucked it up, and tore it open. A letter. A literal, hand-delivered letter. In the year of our lord, when emails existed, my boss had decided to go full Jane Austen on me. My accountant brain immediately catalogued the inefficiency. Wouldn't an email have been easier? More cost-effective?
But as my eyes skimmed the words on the page, all rational thought fled. My breath caught, my coffee nearly slipped from my fingers, and a chill crawled down my spine.
"What the actual hell is happening?!" I muttered, staring at the letter.
I shot up from my desk. My pulse thumped in my ears. The office around me blurred—rows of cubicles, the faint hum of the copy machine, the receptionist gossiping in hushed tones on the phone—all of it became background noise to the singular goal of storming into Mr. Hargrove's office and demanding answers.
I pushed open the door without knocking—politeness had officially left the building—and found Mr. Hargrove seated at his desk, drowning in papers that were neatly stacked but still gave the impression of a man one tax season away from collapse. I didn't wait for him to acknowledge me. I marched straight up, slapped the letter down on his desk, and folded my arms across my chest.