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“Yes,” Spiros agreed.
“The only thing hanging in the balance is the rest of my life.”
“Mine too,” Spiros said.
“Yes,” Phoebe acknowledged.
“You said you had requirements for the marriage to take place?”
“I do.” She handed a sheaf of papers to each man and kept one for herself.
Spiros looked down at his. The top page was a simple contract—not legal so much as a formal acknowledgment of certain things. Things that she should not feel the need to spell out. He flipped to the second page before he let the growl of irritation past his lips.
The following pages were a formal contract that guaranteed Phoebe two things to do with the company. The first was a seat on the Leonides board of directors. The second was half of whatever interest in the company was granted to Spiros because of his investment. Again, that should go w
ithout saying. She was to be his wife. Half of all he had would be hers.
Funnily enough, there was no prenuptial agreement spelling that particular truth out.
Aristotle was silent until he got to the last page of the documents, and then he started to splutter.
Phoebe clasped her hands in her lap and stared at both men. “I do not think my stipulations are unreasonable.”
“You want to sit on the board of directors? You are not even twenty-five yet.”
“It’s my life being sacrificed to save the company, I believe that gives me a place regardless of my age or experience.”
“These other requirements…they are an insult.”
“I presume you are discussing my contract with Spiros?”
“You know that I am.”
“So you think it insulting that I retain a real and material interest in the company?”
Aristotle just glared. “It is not necessary.”
“In your opinion.”
“I am your father.”
Phoebe said nothing, but the look in her eyes said an important facet of father-daughter trust had been lost between them. And the stubborn tilt of her chin said she wasn’t budging, regardless.
“I have no problem with the contract you want me to sign, but I agree that the terms are insulting to me,” Spiros said.
“I am sorry it offends you, Spiros. Truly.” And her expression was as sincere as her words. “But I have my reasons.”
“They are not reasons you will discuss in front of me,” her father slotted in, faster than Spiros could take a breath.
“I will not agree to the marriage until he signs the contract,” Phoebe said with intransigence.
“I will sign.” But he would make her explain her so-called reasons to him later.
“Good.” She turned to Aristotle. “And you, Father? Will you sign your contract?”
“It requires both my signature and Spiros’.”
“I am aware of it. But he has already said he will sign.”
