“Which is …?”
“I’m in need of a,” my mouth curls, as if I can’t help but laugh at what I’m about to say, “personal partner. Or to put it in black and white … a wife.”
“Wait—what?” She tilts her head and a hand lifts to her angled hip. A moment ago she was stoic and composed, but something tells me I’m about to see a different side of her—and I hope I do. I need to know everything about her, familiarize myself with the facets of her personality. “Did you just say you need a wife? Is this a joke?”
She peers from left to right, as if inspecting her surroundings for a hidden camera or two.
“I wish it were. Believe me. I fully understand the outlandishness of my request.”
“Why me?” she asks after an endless pause.
I drag a hard, cold breath into my lungs. “I believe I already explained that to you.”
She folds her delicate hands in front of her again, this time her fingers twisting into a gridlock.
“Respectfully, I have to pass.”
I almost choke on my spit, but I contain my reaction. “My attorney will send you the offer, in writing, as soon as we’re finished. I behoove you to take it home, read it over, and reconsider.”
Her full lips press together. “I’m sorry, but my answer is still no.”
“I was under the impression you were single. Am I wrong?” There was no husband or common law spouse listed on her medical insurance paperwork. From what Broderick could find, she lived alone in a fifth-floor, one-bedroom apartment approximately four blocks from here.
“I am,” she says.
“Allow me to paint a picture for you. We could start with six months together,” I say. “And a tastefully publicized whirlwind engagement. At the end of those six months, you would receive a sum of two million dollars. Another six months after that, we would make everything official—a wedding. Could be a grand affair if you’d like, or we could hold a private ceremony anywhere you’d like. After the wedding, you would receive a payment of five million dollars. If, within the year that follows, our marriage produces a child, you would receive an additional ten million.”
It’s a drop of water in the vast ocean that is my wealth, but to someone making Sophie’s humble salary, it’s a Powerball jackpot.
Her iridescent irises flash.
But she says nothing.
“You and my child would forever be financially cared for. You’d want for nothing. And if you’d like to legally go our own ways, I would grant you a divorce as well as primary custody, and we would come to a fair co-parenting agreement. I would never expect you to stay in a loveless marriage or sacrifice your long-term happiness.”
It’s imperative that I be upfront about this.
I can promise her all the money in the world, but I could never promise her my heart.
“I’m not a pawn, Mr. Westcott,” she says, spoken like a woman who knows her worth. “And I’m not for sale.”
“Of course you aren’t,” I say with the careful negotiating tone I use with anyone sitting on the other end of a business deal. “I’m not buying you, Ms. Bristol. I’m buying into a partnership with you.”
“You’re a good salesman, Mr. Westcott,” she says. “You paint a lovely picture. But things like that—they can never be that simple. Contract or not.”
I chuff. “It’s not like there’s a precedent for this sort of thing. I assure you, anything you want from me will be put in writing. It’ll be a fair agreement. And I’m nothing if not a man of my word.”
She begins to speak but stops.
“I’m in a situation, and I need your help. No, I want your help. And I would help you in return. It’s as simple as that.” And then I add, “I think we can both agree it’s the opportunity of a lifetime.”
“I’m sorry, but no, thank you.” Short and sweet, as if she’s slipping back into her graceful, poised demeanor like a satin jacket.
She doesn’t stick around to even consider the generous offer I’ve made, the easy money, the lifetime of financial freedom with a side of luxury. While the contract would guarantee her seventeen million dollars over the course of two years, the mother of my child would live a life afforded to royalty. I could add a house. Ongoing child support. Every resource she could possibly need or want to maintain a high standard of living.
She’d be set until her dying day.
“Again, Broderick will send you the contract,” I say. “As you read it over, please bear in mind that everything is negotiable.”
Chin tipped forward and gaze locked on me, she asks, “Do I still have a job here or am I fired?”
She doesn’t so much as hint at considering it.
I contemplate the legal ramifications of threatening someone’s job in exchange for a relationship, and I think better of it.