He hesitates. “It’s like that, yes. Think of it as a fraternity.”
My older cousin was in a fraternity in college. I know how obsessed those guys can get. How they pledge their loyalty, become like brothers, and do anything for each other.
“Members with code names?” I still don’t understand, not fully.
“Yes.” He sweeps a strand of hair from my forehead. “Exactly.”
“Your name isn’t John, is it?” Maybe it’s the champagne, but the question leaves my lips before I consider the fact that I might not want to know the answer.
“No, Sophie.” He sighs with a smile, as if he finds my question endearing. “It’s not.”
The host calls from the next room, asking about the two empty chairs.
“We have to go,” he says. “We can’t keep them waiting.”
“Wait. I want to know your name. Your real name.” I tug on the lapels of his suit coat, bouncing on the balls of my feet, narrowing the space between us—like a silent, unconscious plea for him to kiss me.
To know me.
To be real with me.
He’s been looking at me like he wants to devour me all night, and it’s only a matter of time before it happens. I know it. I sense it in my bones. Whatever’s between us, it’s electric. The truest thing I’ve ever felt.
“You will.” His thumb traces my lower lip, and then he lowers his mouth to mine, stealing a kiss without asking—the way Kai Masterson did at homecoming last fall. Only he tasted like Burger King French fries and smelled like Axe body spray. “John” tastes like sweet bubbles and smells like a dream. His lips are hot on mine and his kiss lingers for three seconds … I count them. “We’ll talk after dinner. I’ll tell you everything.”
Slipping his hand in mine, he leads me to the dining room, and I’m grateful for the low lights that hide the blush of my cheeks as all eyes pivot in our direction, likely wondering where we ran off to and what we were doing. I imagine they think we shared more than an innocent kiss in a quiet hallway.
He slides my chair out. Pushes it in. Takes a seat beside me.
While we’re far from the head of the table, the chairs are massive and throne-like, and in a strange sort of way, I feel like his queen.
Whoever he is.
Six
Trey
Present
It’s been twenty-four hours since I gave Sophie that contract, and the only thing she’s given me in return is deafening silence.
Still not giving up.
She’ll come around.
“Let me ask you this.” I shove the stack of manila folders back to Broderick. Supposedly these are backups. But they might as well be college applications, and I don’t have time to pore over stacks of women who aren’t her. “How many hours did you waste this afternoon doing this?”
“It’s good to have options,” he says from across my desk.
“Where did you even find these people?” I reach for the top folder, flipping it open to reveal a glossy-haired brunette with double Ds protruding off her bony chest. Her smile easily consumes the lower half of her face, teeth too perfect to be real. And her eyes are sad. God, they’re so fucking sad. I shove that one aside and glance at the next. Not that I’m considering any of them. “This one’s from Serbia. Ames is going to think she’s a fucking mail-order bride.”
“She already has her green card.” He points to a paragraph on the bottom, summarizing her “qualities.”
According to this, her name is Petra and she speaks four languages. She spent eight years in the Moscow Ballet Company, one of them as prima ballerina. Now she practices immigration law pro bono. Honorable, but she’s not the one for me.
The next girl is Tiffin Wisecup Hurstfield.
I know those names: Wisecup and Hurstfield.
She comes from blue-blooded old money. Her mother and father spawn from a long line of thoroughbred breeders and international shipping magnates respectively. If her parents haven’t yet fixed her up with someone in their vast and extensive social circle, she’s likely damaged goods.
Also, her face has had way too much fucking work. Lips like swollen sausages. Chipmunk cheeks. Baby doll lashes down to her nose. Brows lifted to the middle of her forehead so she appears permanently surprised. She looks ten years older than her actual age and plastic as hell.
I’ll be damned if I sire a child with a human fuck doll.
“I don’t know whether to thank you or to be offended,” I tell him. “Clearly you have no idea what I like, and after ten years working for me, I’m not sure what that says about our professional relationship.”
“It’s a start.” He’s unfazed as always.
“It’s not a start, Broderick. It’s a fucking joke is what it is,” I say. “Stop wasting my time and get me Sophie.”
He clears his throat, folds his hands in front of him, expression wiped clean. We’ve worked together long enough that I know he’s about to tell me something I don’t want to hear.
“All due respect, Trey, there’s only so much I can do. I can’t make someone be with you if they don’t want to be with you. Obviously money’s not a motivating factor for this woman if she’s willing to walk away from almost twenty mil. We could double, triple our offer, and I don’t know that it would matter.” He exhales. “Maybe she’s not interested in fake. Maybe she wants real love. A real family—not a contractual agreement.”
I lean back in my chair, my fingers grazing my mouth. It’s easy to forget that some people give a shit about things besides the number of zeroes in their bank account.
“So I’ll give her real.” I don’t know how. I’ve never done real in my life. But I’ll fucking try if it means getting her to sign on the dotted line.
“Too late, don’t you think? You told her you need a wife, someone to give you a child. You told her you were willing to pay a lot of money for that. No offense, but none of that sounds romantic. You start pursuing her, she’s going to see through it.”
I grab the stack of files and page through a few more before discarding them all in the “big fat fucking no” pile. There are perfectly good candidates in here. Educated. Beautiful. Well-traveled. Laundry lists of accolades. Most of them would serve the purpose fine, at least on paper.
But Sophie has something they don’t have—self-respect … the kind of thing you can’t illustrate with honors, awards, and pedigreed names. You can buy fake tits and lip fillers, but you can’t buy self-worth.
It’s priceless.
“I want you to call her into a private meeting this afternoon. Double the offer and give her another twenty-four hours to reconsider,” I say. Most of the time, if you give someone a sharp deadline, it lights a fire.
Urgency is key.
“Tell her she’s the only one I’m considering,” I say. It’s proven that if you know someone is interested in you—romantically, professionally or otherwise—they’ll think about you more. This could soften her resolve, make her reexamine her decision, contemplate what our future could look like.
I slide the stack of file folders into the garbage can beside my desk.