Lorellai
The number punches through me.
One hundred thousand. Dollars. Per month.
I could pay off Mom's bills in two months. Clear my loans in three. Actually breathe.
But.
"What's the catch?"
"There's always a catch."
"No sex. No actual mating bond. Just appearances. You'd have your own space. Your own life. We'd be roommates with benefits."
"What kind of benefits?"
"The kind that come with being associated with me."
No arrogance in how he says it. Just fact.
I study him. Really look.
Expensive clothes under casual disguise. The way he holds himself—used to being in charge. The watch that probably costs more than my car.
"Who are you?"
He extends his hand.
"Aspen Riggins."
The name hits like a train.
Aspen Riggins. CEO of Summit Pharmaceutical. Alpha Prime. Billionaire.
And he's been sitting in my coffee shop for two weeks watching me struggle.
I don't take his hand.
"Why me?"
"Because you're real."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
We stand there, three feet of charged air between us.
"I need time to think."
"You have until Monday."
"That's three days."
"Yes."
He turns to leave. Stops at the door.
"For what it's worth, Lorellai—I think you'll say yes."
"Why?"
He looks back. Something raw in his expression.
"Because you're desperate. And desperate people make dangerous choices."
Then he's gone.
I stand in the empty shop, surrounded by upturned chairs and burnt coffee smell.
And I know he's right.
---
I don't sleep for three days.
Saturday, I visit Mom. She's smiling—or pretending to for my sake. The doctors say surgery might give her five more years.
Might. If we can afford it.
We can't.
Sunday, I make lists. Burn them. Make new ones.
Monday morning I'm at the shop at five AM.
He walks in at 9:07.
I have his coffee ready.
He takes it. Waits.
"I have questions."
"I expected you would."
"Can we talk? Privately?"
He glances at the empty shop. "We're alone."
"I meant somewhere that's not my workplace."
"My car's outside."
Of course it is.
I flip the sign to "Back in 15" and follow him out.
The car is exactly what I expected. Black. Sleek. Expensive enough to make me nervous.
He opens the passenger door. I slide in.
Smells like leather and cedar.
He gets in the driver's side. Doesn't start the engine. Just turns to face me.
"Ask."
I pull out my phone. Read from my notes.
"One: Where would I be living?"
"My penthouse. Summit Tower. Top floor."
"Do I get my own room?"
"Your own wing."
Jesus.
"Two: What exactly are public appearances?"
"Galas. Charity events. Pack meetings. Business dinners. Anywhere I need a partner."
"How often?"
"Two to three times a week."
I nod. "Three: What happens after a year?"
"The contract ends. You leave with your compensation. We go separate ways."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that."
"Four: What if I want out early?"
His jaw tightens.
"There's a penalty clause. You'd forfeit half the compensation."
"So I'd be trapped."
"You'd be committed."
Not the same thing.
"Five: Why a year?"
"The Blood Moon falls on Valentine's Day next year. Thirteen months from now. In werewolf culture, that's significant."
"How significant?"
"Bonds formed under a Blood Moon are considered sacred. Permanent."
My stomach drops. "We're not forming a bond."
"No. But the optics of a year-long contract ending on the Blood Moon are compelling."
Right. Optics.
"Six: What do you get out of this?"
Long silence.
"Political capital. Progressive credibility. My mother off my back."
"Your mother?"
"She's persistent."
I almost smile.
"Seven: What are the rules?"
"No romantic entanglement. No actual mating. You maintain your own life—school, work, whatever you want. I maintain mine. Partners in public, strangers in private."
"Can I see the contract?"
He pulls a folder from the backseat.
It's thick. Professional. My name's already on it.
"You were confident I'd say yes."
"I'm always confident."
I flip through pages of legal language I barely understand.
"I'll need a lawyer to look at this."
"I'd be disappointed if you didn't."
I close the folder. Look at him.
"If I say yes—and I'm not saying I am—when would this start?"
"Immediately."
"I'd have to quit my job."
"You'd be compensated enough that you wouldn't need it."
"I'd have to tell my mom something."
"Tell her you got a job. Medical liaison for Summit Pharmaceutical. Not entirely a lie."
"And you? What will you tell people about me?"
His eyes glint.
"That I met a remarkable woman who challenged me. And I couldn't let her go."
The way he says it—low, deliberate—makes my skin prickle.
"That's a lie."
"Is it?"
We stare at each other.
"I need twenty-four hours."
"You have twelve."
"That's not—"
"Twelve hours, Lorellai. I need an answer by nine PM tonight."
"Why the rush?"
"Because I have a gala tomorrow and I need to know if you'll be there."
The audacity.
But also the certainty. Like he already knows my answer.
Maybe he does.
"Fine. Twelve hours."
I reach for the door handle. He catches my wrist.
Gently. But firm.
"One more thing."
I freeze. His hand is warm against my skin.
"What?"
"If you say yes, you're mine for a year. In every public sense of the word."
"I'm not anyone's—"
"I know. But everyone else will think you are. Can you handle that?"
I meet his eyes. See the challenge.
"Can you handle me saying no?"
His thumb brushes the inside of my wrist. Once.
"No."
He releases me.
I get out on shaking legs.
He rolls down the window. "Nine PM, Lorellai."
I don't answer. Just walk back into the shop.
When I glance back, he's still there. Watching.
I flip the sign back to "Open."
And start counting down the hours.
At 8:45 PM, I'm sitting in my apartment, staring at the contract.
I've read it three times. Called a lawyer friend who confirmed it's legitimate. Talked myself into it. Talked myself out of it.
Made another pro/con list.
Burned the list.
My phone rings at 8:58 PM.
It's him.
I answer.
"Two minutes early," I say.
"I'm impatient."
"I noticed."
Silence.
"Well?" he asks.
I close my eyes. Think of Mom's hospital room. My overdue bills. The vet school applications I can't afford to send.
Think of his hand on my wrist. The way he says my name.
"I have one more condition."
"Name it."
"You don't lie to me. Ever. I don't care how bad the truth is. You tell me."
"Done."
"I mean it, Aspen. The second you lie to me, I walk. Penalty clause or not."
"Understood."
I take a breath.
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"I'll do it."
The silence on the other end is deafening.
Then: "Be ready tomorrow at six PM. I'll send a car."
"For what?"
"The gala. You're my date."
"I don't have anything to wear to a—"
"Taken care of. The dress will arrive at noon."
"You bought me a dress?"
"I bought you twelve. You'll choose."
Of course he did.
"Anything else?"
"Yes."
"What?"
"Welcome to the next year of your life, Lorellai Kismet."
He hangs up.
I sit there in the dark, phone in hand, wondering what the hell I just agreed to.
My phone buzzes.
A text from an unknown number.
*Wear the green one. —A*
I laugh.
It sounds a little hysterical.
But I'm smiling when I fall asleep.