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Grace is thirty-three. Still young, but not so young not to think about who she’d want to procreate with one day. She is a calculating creature, always five steps ahead in the game. When it comes to profitable ventures—I am one.
“You love me?” I ask again, sitting back.
“Yes.” She narrows her eyes, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. “Why is this so weird to you? Don’t you love me?”
“I’m not sure.”
But I am. I’m sure and a half. I’m sure and fucked as a daytime hooker, because loving her brings me no joy. No fulfillment. I’ve come to think of love as a prison guard. Something you resent, not cherish.
“Your sudden declaration is awfully convenient. I’m going to need to ask for some receipts for this so-called love,” I drawl out.
“You literally had your cock in my mouth not even twenty minutes ago. While you were texting on your phone!” she thunders, her cheeks hot with fury.
I offer her a cold smile. “You like to feel a little manhandled. Helps you loosen up after being a ballbuster all day at work.”
She rolls her eyes. “You want proof, fine. What’d you have in mind?”
We are having this conversation like we are conducting business. I like it. How like minded we are.
“I want you to move in with me,” I say dryly.
She nods. “Okay. I can do that. What else?”
“You will also marry me,” I continue matter-of-factly. “Although I understand this can be delicate news to break, considering the timing and circumstances. I’ll allow you a few months to smooth out the rough edges. Prepare the soil, so to speak.”
“Marry?” Her eyebrows lift, her eyes widening with open, unabashed pleasure. She is keeping her excitement out of it, not wanting to acknowledge her own disadvantage in our negotiations. “I didn’t peg you as the marrying type.”
“Marriage is a perfectly pragmatic endeavor.” I pick up my fork and take a bite of the rare steak, its bloodied juice running down my tongue. “I’m a fan of institutions. They stand the test of time because they’re functional. Marriage is a good, low-risk investment. I need heirs, stability, and a house outside this goddamn city. The tax relief isn’t lost on me either.”
While this little speech is not going to win any romance awards, it hits the mark. Now that Grace knows Douglas didn’t make her a multimillionaire, I have my foot on her throat.
“Is this a marriage proposal?” Her dark eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets.
“It’s a declaration of intention.”
“All right.” She gives her shiny hair a pat. “Provided I get a ring big enough to be spotted from Mars. I want something gross and distasteful. Something that’ll make every woman I know despise me.”
I don’t have the heart to tell her most women she knows already hate her.
Either Grace is shit at negotiations and I gave her far too much credit, or she is desperate for this bargain. At any rate, she’s given up the fight too willingly, and I wonder why. She’s spent the last decade dumping me every few months and dragging me through all her drama . . . only to say yes to a proposal? What’s her angle?
“You’ll sign a prenup,” I announce.
Her face falls. “Why? It’s not like we’re ever going to—”
I lift a hand up. “I enjoy you, Grace. More than I should. But make no mistake. I trust you no more than tomorrow’s National Enquirer headline.”
She lets out a laugh. “You’re terrible.”
“That can’t be news to you.”
“Fine. But I reserve the right to have three lawyers go over this prenup.”
“Have a hundred, sweetheart.” It doesn’t matter. I’m going to get my way and ensure my wealth is safe from her, just like my father had with her mother.
“Now, go wait for me in the bedroom while I wash the dishes.” I stand up.
She hesitates at first, loitering, as if she has something more to say, then gets up on her feet.
My back is to her when she starts walking. I watch her from the kitchen window’s reflection. “Did I say go? I meant crawl.”
Turning my head, I watch her spine stiffen as she gives it a brief thought.
“You like to humiliate me, don’t you?”
Not particularly. But I know she likes it, and I play our game very well.
“That’s fine, Ars. The trouble is, I like to be humiliated by you too. I know you don’t love me . . .” She draws in a breath. “No, don’t even try to deny it. What you have for me is not love. It’s obsession. It’s always been obsession. I’ll still take it.”
Slowly, she lowers herself on all fours and crawls toward my bedroom, her magnificent ass in the air. I do love her. Of course I love her. Why else would I put up with everything she’s put me through?
