by Shen, L. J.
We both attended the same schools until we didn’t. Until his family went bankrupt, and he fell off the social ladder, so low he entered another dimension, full of trailer parks and canned food.
“Cillian. Thought it might be you.” He stood, offering me his hand. When I made no move to take it, he withdrew, running the same hand over his Keith Urban hair.
I hadn’t seen the man in over two decades and was perfectly content to spend the rest of my life forgetting his pretty boy face.
“Tough crowd. My family.” He gestured to the row of seats behind me, where a bleach-haired woman in full Lululemon attire practiced deep breaths to save herself from a mental breakdown, two snotty kids on her lap, at each other’s throats. “This is Joelle, my wife, and my twin boys, Tree and Tinder.”
It didn’t escape me that Andrew, who was the same age as me, had a wife and kids. The invisible noose was tightening around my neck.
I could lose my job.
My inheritance.
My golden, grand vision.
I needed to start reproducing, and fast.
“Who picked their names?” I jerked my chin toward the little monsters.
Joelle perked up, waving a hand as though I asked who found the cure for cancer.
“Moi. Aren’t they darling?”
The names or the children? Both were awful, but only the names were her fault. I turned back to Andrew, ignoring his wife’s question. I never lied. Lying would imply I gave a damn what people thought.
“Heading back to Southie?” I inquired. Last I checked, he lived in the worst part of Boston where his family barely made ends meet, thanks to mine.
Clearly, his fortunes had changed if he was flying first class these days.
“You’d be surprised to hear I am.” He grinned big, his chest swelling with pride. “Bought a house there last month. I’m getting back to my roots. To where I came from.”
He came from Back Bay, the rich pricks’ area, but I didn’t give him the pleasure of showing him I remembered.
“Just took a job with Green Living. You’re looking at their newest chief executive officer.”
Green Living was a nonprofit environmental organization that was seen as Greenpeace’s more violent, more daring sibling. There weren’t many companies that hated Royal Pipelines more than Green Living did, and there weren’t many men who loathed me as much as Andrew Arrowsmith.
This, in and of itself, wasn’t news. I could count on one hand the people who knew me and didn’t actively dislike me. What made Andrew dangerous was that he knew my secret.
The one thing I’d kept safely locked away since boarding school.
Since Evon.
Now that was a game changer.
“That’s cute,” I said dryly. “Do they know you’re about as competent as a napkin?”
That wasn’t true. I’d kept tabs on him over the years and knew that not only was he a successful attorney with a flair for ecology and environmental issues, but that he was also the morning shows and CNN darling. Every time climate change popped into the news, he was there with a microphone, either leading a mass demonstration, chaining himself to a goddamn tree, or talking about it on prime-time TV.
Andrew had interfered with Royal Pipelines’ business many times along his career. He bullied advertising companies from working with us, had a gaming company drop their partnership with us, and wrote a best-selling book about petroleum lords, essentially blaming companies like mine for giving people cancer.
He had fans, groupies, and Facebook groups dedicated to him, and I wouldn’t be surprised to know there was a dildo with his face on it.
“Oh, they know my capabilities, Fitzpatrick.” He plucked a flute of champagne from a stewardess’s tray. “Let’s not pretend we haven’t been keeping tabs on each other. You know my credentials. My victories. My agenda. I let my principles guide me just like my old man.”
His old man had been fired by my old man when we were both boys, thrusting the Arrowsmith family into a life of poverty. Before that, our families had been close, and Andrew and I had been best friends. The Arrowsmiths never forgave the Fitzpatricks for the betrayal even though Athair had a solid reason to fire Andrew Senior—the accountant had dipped his hand into the company’s honey jar.
“How’s your old man doing?” I asked.
“He passed away three years ago.”
“Not terribly good then.”
“I see being an asshole still runs in your blood.” He downed the champagne.
“Can’t fight my DNA,” I said bluntly. “Now, people who are out for my blood are another thing. I can fight them tooth and nail.”
“How ’bout Gerald? Still hanging in there?” Andrew ignored my thinly veiled threat.
“You know Gerry. He can survive anything short of a nuclear blast.”
“Speaking of soon-to-be dead things, I hear Daddy gave you the keys to Royal Pipelines since he had to step down because of… what was it?” He snapped his fingers, frowning. “Type 2 diabetes? Gluttony always ran in your family. How is he handling his health issues?”
“Wiping his tears with hundred-dollar bills.” I let loose a wolfish smirk. Arrowsmith tried to offend my delicate sensibilities, forgetting I had none.
We were still standing in the aisle when the new reality settled in, trickling into my bloodstream like poison.
Marrying was no longer an option.
It was a necessity to secure my position as Royal Pipelines CEO.
Andrew Arrowsmith was headed back to Boston to bring me down, taking over a company that put ruining Royal Pipelines on its flag.
He had leverage, an appetite for revenge, and was privy to my darkest secret.
I wasn’t losing the company, and I definitely wasn’t losing my wealth to Hunter and Aisling’s future kids.
“Are you going to skip to the good part, Andrew?” I made a show of yawning.
“No part of me believes we bumped into each other accidentally.”
“Always such a straight shooter.” Andrew leaned forward, dropping his voice low as he went in for the kill. “I may or may not have taken the job to settle an old score. The minute I heard you were on the throne, the temptation to behead the king became too much.” His breath fanned the side of my face. “Killing you and your father financially would be easy. With Gerald weak and out of the loop, and you vulnerable after years of bad press, I am going for your throat, Fitzpatrick. The media darling versus the press villain. Let the best man win.”
Sauntering back to my seat and making myself comfortable there, I flipped a page of the contract I was working on.
“You always were a silly boy,” I mused, flipping another page of the contract I was holding nonchalantly. “I will strip you of all the things you’ve managed to achieve since I’ve last seen you. Take whatever is near and dear to you, and watch you pay. Oh, and Andrew?” I looked up, flashing him a smirk. “Let me assure you, I am still the same resilient bastard you left behind.”
He went back to his family. I felt his gaze on the back of my head the entire flight.
I needed a bride, and quick.
Someone media-friendly to balance out who I was.
What I represented.
I knew just the person.
Days dragged like a nail over a blackboard.
I was on edge. Jumpy, cranky, and incapable of taking deep, satisfying breaths.
Ever since I returned from Cillian’s office empty-handed, I couldn’t stomach anything—be it food, coffee, water, or the sight of myself in the mirror.
My mind constantly drifted to a mental video of Byrne and Kaminski throwing my lifeless body into the Charles River. About Cillian’s rejection. The unbearable sting of it.
I’d forgotten the words to all the songs during circle time in class, almost fed Reid, who was lactose intolerant, Dahlia’s mac and cheese, and mixed kinetic sand with the real one, making a huge mess I had to stay late to clean up afterward.
Gray clouds swol
len with rain hovered over me as I headed home, jogging from my bike to my entryway, clutching my shoulder bag in a vise grip. I reminded myself I had both pepper spray and a Taser, and that there was zero percent chance Byrne and Kaminski would kill me at my doorstep.
Well, maybe a ten percent chance.
It was probably somewhere around twenty-five but definitely no more than that.
The minute I got into my building, I reached for the switch. To my surprise, the light was already on. A strong hand gripped my wrist, spinning me around to face the person it belonged to.
Fight or flight? my body asked me.
Fight, my brain answered. Always fight.
I threw my bag in the intruder’s face, a growl ripping out of my mouth. He dodged it effortlessly, dumping it to the floor and causing the contents of my bag to roll out. I reached up to claw his eyes. He snatched both my wrists in one palm, locking them in place between us before backing me against the entrance door so we were flush against each other.
“Let me go!” I screamed.
To my shock, the dark, mammoth figure did just that, stepping back and picking up the pepper spray that fell from my bag to examine it flippantly.
“Cillian?”
I resisted the urge to rub my eyes in disbelief. But there he was, wearing a designer trench coat, pointy Italian loafers, and his signature go-fuck-yourself scowl that made my heart loop around like a stripper on a pole.
“You’re here,” I said, more to myself than to him.
Why? How? When? So many questions floated in my foggy brain.
“I sincerely hope our children won’t inherit your tendency to point out the obvious. I find it extremely trivial.” He popped the safety off the pepper spray and screwed it back right, so the next time I tried to use it, it would be ready to go.
“Hmm, what?” I swatted away wisps of hair that flopped over my eyes like stubborn branches in a jungle. The five o’clock shadow veiling the thick column of his throat made me want to press my lips to his neck.
His imperfections made him intimately beautiful. I despised every second of being around him.
“Remember I told you I don’t hand out free favors?” He rolled the pepper spray between his fingers, his eyes on the small canister.
“Kind of hard to forget.”
“Well, it’s your lucky day.”
“Allow me to be skeptical.”
At this point, I wasn’t down on my luck. I was six feet under it. Somewhere between hapless and cursed.
“I figured out what I want from you.”
“You want something from little ole me?” I put my hand to my chest with a mocking gasp while I tried to regulate my racing heartbeat. I couldn’t help it. He never missed a chance to belittle me. “I’m speechless.”
“Don’t get my hopes up, Flower Girl,” he muttered.
My nickname didn’t escape me. The Flower Girl was traditionally the toddler at the wedding, designed to draw coos and positive attention. The naïve kid whose job was to walk a straight line.
He stepped toward me, invading my personal space. His scent of male, dry cedar, and leather seeped into my system, making me drunk.
“For this to work, you mustn’t develop any feelings for me,” he warned darkly.
There was no point in telling him I’d never gotten over him in the first place. Not really. Not in all the ways that mattered.
He removed a lock of damp hair from my temple without touching my skin. The way he stared at me unnerved me. With cold contempt, suggesting he was brought here at gunpoint and not of his own free will.
“I will take care of your money and divorce problems. Make them go away. Not as a loan, but a gift.”
My body sagged with relief.
“Oh, God. Cillian, thank you so—”
“Let me finish,” he hissed, his voice cracking through the air like a whip. “I never let a good crisis go to waste, and yours might be very beneficial for me. You won’t have to pay me because your form of compensation will be on the unconventional side. You are going to be my wife. You will marry me, Persephone Penrose. Smile for the cameras for me. Attend charity events on my behalf. And give me children. As many as needed until I have a son. Be it one, three, or six.”
“Anything!” I cried out, rushing to accept his offer before his words sank in. “I would love to—”
Wait, what?
For a long moment, I simply stared at him. I was trying to decide whether he was making some elaborate joke on my behalf.
Somehow, I didn’t think he was. For one thing, Cillian Fitzpatrick did not possess a sense of humor. If humor met him in a dark alley, it would shrivel into itself and explode into a cloud of squeaking bats. For another, more than he was cruel, Kill was terrifyingly pragmatic. He wouldn’t waste his precious time on pranking me.
“You want me to marry you?” I repeated dumbly.
His face was resigned and solemn. He offered me a curt nod.
Holy hell, he wasn’t kidding. The man of my dreams wanted to wed me. To take me as a wife.
There was only one possible answer for that.
“No.” I pushed him away. “Not in a million years. No, nope, nien, niet.” I was rummaging through my memory for other languages to refuse him in. “No,” I said again. “The last one was in Spanish, not English.”
“Elaborate,” he demanded.
“We can’t marry. We don’t love each other.” I tilted my chin up defiantly. “And yes, I know love is so very working class.”
“Middle class,” he corrected. “The happy, dumb medium is comfortable enough not to care, and stupid enough not to aim higher. Working and upper classes always take financial matters into consideration. May I remind you the last time you married for love,” he said the word as you would say herpes, “it ended with a massive debt, a runaway husband, and death threats? Love is overrated, not to mention fickle. It comes and goes. You can’t build a foundation on it. Mutual interests and alliance are a different story.”
But here was the really pathetic part—I didn’t want to marry him precisely because a part of me did love him.
Putting my happiness in his hands was the dumbest idea I’d ever have.
No matter how much I tried to ignore it, Kill was my first real crush. My first obsession. My unfulfilled wish. He would always hold a piece of my heart, and I didn’t want to think of all the ways he was going to abuse it if we were together.
Plus, marrying Boston’s most notorious villain was a bad idea, and I was pretty sure I’d filled my quota of asshole husbands for this century.
“Look, how about a compromise?” I smiled brightly. “I can date you. Be your girlfriend. Hang on your arm and take a good picture. We’ll have a little arrangement.”
He stared at me with open amusement.
“You think your company is worth a hundred thousand dollars?”
“You’re offering me a hundred grand to become your live-in escort and bear your children. Plural. If I were a surrogate, I’d get that same amount of money for one baby,” I burst out.
“Go be a surrogate.” He shrugged.
“It’s a long procedure. I don’t have enough time.”
“You don’t seem to have enough brain, either.” He tapped my temple, frowning as if wondering how much was inside that head of mine. “Take my offer. It’s your only way out.”
I pushed him away.
“You’re a bastard.”
He smiled impatiently. “You knew that when you offered yourself to me very willingly all those years ago.”
He remembered.
He remembered, and for some reason, that completely defused me.
Auntie Tilda, what the hell have you done?
“Look.” I shook my head, trying to think straight. “How about we start dating and I—”
“No,” he cut me off dryly. “Marriage or nothing.”
“You don’t even like me!”
Cillian glanced at that chunky watch of his, losing patience.
“What does liking you have to do with marrying you?”
“Everything! It has everything to do with it! How do you expect us to get along?”
“I don’t,” he said flatly. “You’ll have your house. I’ll have mine. You will be stunningly rich, live on Billionaires’ Row, and become one of New England’s most envied socialites. You’ll be far enough away from me to do whatever the hell you’d like. I am sensible, fair, and realistic. As long as you give me heirs, give me exclusivity throughout our child-producing years, and stay out of tabloids, you shouldn’t see much of me beyond the first few years of our marriage. But no divorce,” he warned, raising a finger. “It’s tacky, bad for business, and shows you’re a quitter. I’m no quitter.”
I wanted to burst. With laughter or tears, I wasn’t sure.
This is not what I asked for, Auntie, I inwardly screamed. You missed the best part of my having him.
“You realize I’m a person and not an air fryer, right?” I parked a hand over my hip, losing patience myself. “Because to me it sounds a lot like you’re trying to buy me.”
“That’s because I am.” He looked at me as though I was crazy. Like I was the one with the problem. “People who vilify money have one thing in common—they don’t have it. You have a chance to change your fate, Persephone. Don’t mess it up.”
“Sorry if I sound ungrateful, but your proposition sounds like a very sad existence to me. I want to be loved. To be cherished. To grow old with the man I choose and who chooses me.”
Even after what happened with Paxton, and even though I still had strong feelings toward Cillian, I believed in fairy tales. I simply accepted mine was written eccentrically with too much foreword and scenes I was happy to cut.
He produced a pair of leather gloves from his breast pocket, slapping them over his muscular thigh before sliding his big hands into them.
“You can have all those things in time, just not with me. Find yourself a lover. Lead a quiet life with him—provided he signs all the necessary paperwork. You’ll do you; I’ll do me. What I do, in case you have any lingering romantic ideas about us, includes an insatiable amount of high-end escorts and questionable sexual practices.”
