Right?
When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet. Calm. “I’m not your savior, Ronan.”
I exhaled with relief. At least she wasn’t running.
“No,” I said just as quietly. “But you could be my salvation just the same.”
Laney looked down at the contract in her hands, then back at me. Then down again. I could see her thinking, weighing, deciding.
“Please, Ari.” I shook her hands lightly. “Sign it. I just need to know that no matter what I might do later, you’ll be taken care in the end. The money, it’s nothing to me. But I know it will do something for you, so just take it. Please.”
She chewed on her lip for a few moments. Then a cute divot appeared between her brows as she took back her hands and reached for the contract. “Do you have a pen?”
I pulled one out of my jacket pocket and handed it to her. “What are you doing?”
“Editing.” She flipped a few pages in and drew a thick line through the first ten million dollar payment.
“Laney—”
“If I’m staying here,” she said as she continued to scratch out large sections of the agreement, “I’m doing it because I want to, not because you’re paying me to. I don’t need an obscene amount of money to tolerate you or your family, Ronan.”
“To be fair, you haven’t met them yet.”
She gave me that look again, then crossed out the final payment with a flourish before handing the document back to me. “This is the only way I’m doing this. Take it or leave it.”
The entire document was bleeding red.
I scowled. “One moment. I propose a counteroffer.”
I took the pen back and started writing new numbers based on what I thought might be closer to her reality. There were other ways to get Laney Fisher the life and luxury she deserved, but for now, I could at least make sure she got the things I knew she really needed.
Money for school.
The cost of her healthcare.
A settlement that would take care of her mother’s legacy.
Not enough to make her rich. But possibly enough to make her happy once I inevitably fucked this up.
“That’s the only way I’m signing it, too, Ari.” I pushed the document back to her. “You take it or leave it.”
Don’t leave. Don’t you dare fucking leave.
She flipped through the contract, now and then glancing at me while I watched. Then she sat down to write down one more thing.
Addendum B: Mutual Care and Wellbeing
Husband agrees to:
(a) Substance limits: No recreational drugs. Max 2 drinks per day. Talk to me first if you need to exceed this.
(b) Violence restrictions: No fights unless in self-defense. No reckless behavior. No “handling problems” in ways that could hurt you.
(c) Emotional sabotage prohibitions: No pushing me away when things get difficult. No deflecting serious talks with jokes-as-shield. No self-fulfilling prophecy of assuming I’ll leave. Talk to me first if you feel the impulse to sabotage.
Note: Wife is not therapist. Wife is partner. But partners tell each other when they’re drowning before going under.
I read through the addendum twice before looking up at her. Christ. Two drinks per day? I’d already blasted through more than twice that in the last hour. “If you think I can do this, you don’t know me very well.”
