“May I ask why?” she finally speaks, voice unbroken.
“Because I have another job for you. One I believe will suit you better,” I say. “Not to mention the pay and benefits will beat anything you could ever make on your current track.”
She winces. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand. Are you firing me or promoting me?”
“Both.”
I reach for the stack of papers on Westcott Legal Department letterhead and slide them toward her, along with a pen. “Before I get into the details of this new position, I’m going to need you to sign this NDA. It’s a standard, boilerplate contract. I just need to know that the offer I’m about to make you won’t be shared outside this room, beyond the two of us.”
Her inquiring gaze dances over the fine print, and a moment later, she reaches for the pen —albeit reluctantly, makes a few elegant loops, and signs on the line.
“This would be a personal position,” I say. “You’d work for me. With me. And only me.”
“Like a personal assistant?”
“No. I have five of those already.” I roll my eyes, realizing how fucking ridiculous this proposition is going to sound. The words haven’t so much as left my mouth and already I’m cringing on the inside. “Before I elaborate, I’d like you to know that I’ve had my personal attorney dig up your file, and I have to say I’m impressed with your background. Four years at Princeton. Dual degrees in international business and accounting. President of three collegiate clubs. Founder of two charities. Fluent in multiple languages. A laundry list of remarkable references … All of this by the age of twenty-seven? I have to ask: why are you wasting your time working in payroll here?”
“As I said earlier, Mr. Westcott, it was quite difficult to get an interview at your company and, when I finally did—I took what I could get. I’ve actually received two promotions since I’ve been here. From what I understand, the opportunity to move up is worth the wait.”
It’s true. It’s a steep climb but the view is incredible. Many will try. Few will reach the pinnacle of Westcott success. That’s the secret to maintaining a ball-busting team that comprises the core of my company.
“There are a few blanks I need to fill in—mostly concerning your familial history—but given your extraordinary background, your work ethic and loyalty, I’m confident I’ve made the right decision, and I believe you’ll be much happier in this new position.”
“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.