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“The general convention is three months’ salary. So I’m told.” She gives a demure flutter of her lashes.
“You’ll need to get her a full-time security guard,” Max mutters.
“Perfect. Just perfect.” I tip my head to the ceiling, not sure whether I’m looking for divine intervention or a good old smiting.
“Troy, darling, I’d wear a curtain ring for you.”
“Sit down.” I point at the chair I recently vacated.
She makes tiny paws with her hands and practically trots over to the thing. I guess I should be happy she doesn’t add woof.
“For the record, I had no part in this,” Max begins, his brow jutting over his eyes like a shelf. “And I know nothing about any ring.”
“There isn’t a fucking ring.”
“What?” Clara looks like someone just told her Santa Claus isn’t real.
“Knock that off. He knows this is an arrangement between us.” He guessed, at least.
“I know it’s a clusterfuck that I want no part in,” Max retorts.
“Too late,” I say. “Because we need that prenup. And now you know why this needs to be in house.”
“What the man says,” Clara chimes in, out of character now.
“No.” Max stands so abruptly, his chair shoots back. “Absolutely not. So close to the IPO, Troy? No way we’re compounding the situation with a . . . a personal detonation.”
“Marriage is the opposite.” Clara’s tone is even. “It’s a stabilizing agent. It’s cement.”
“What?” He looks confused.
“I’m sorry about earlier. I was nervous,” she says, pushing out a quiet breath. Should I find it weird that she doesn’t send daggers my way? “But we know what we’re doing.”
“I highly doubt that,” Max retorts, his gaze finding mine. “You have no idea how this will look.”
“I do. And that’s the whole point. How this looks.”
“The optics,” Clara clarifies. Optics and narratives. Those words will be chiseled on my fucking tombstone.
“What optics?” he demands.
“Fintech CEO marries Manhattan royalty.”
“That’s crazy.”
“But it’s a calculated kind of crazy,” I reason. “We go way back.” Clara glances my way. It feels like we’re coconspirators. “And we fully intend on making use of that history.”
“Just how are you gonna do that?” Max folds his arms.
“Sound bites to the press. Maybe some old photos for the feels.”
“I don’t have—” Clara looks suddenly flustered.
“I have one or two.” My shoulder lifts and falls as though I don’t mind admitting it.
“Why do this?” Max pulls at the knot of his necktie. “Why go to these lengths?”
“Because I can.” And because I’d do much worse for Table’s continued success.
