Slay One: Rivalry

by Paige, Laurelin

  His lids appeared to grow momentarily heavy, a gesture I’d begun to realize was his version of an eyeroll. “I meant questions about the prenup,” he said curtly. “But, since you’ve asked, I don’t see that pretense will be a problem. The master suite is on the next level. Along with the bedroom and two dressing rooms, there’s also a flex space for a nursery or a morning room or what have you. It’s a decent size and will adequately fit a king bed. We won’t even have to share a bathroom.

  “Since that floor is completely devoted to the master suite, there’s been no reason for anyone to go up there except for me. The guest rooms, including Camilla and Fred’s room, are all on the fourth floor, and everyone tends to access that using the lift. No one will have any cause to know what happens—or doesn’t happen—in our rooms.”

  It was almost refreshing to have grown up as wealthy as I had and still be surprised by the extravagant lives of other billionaires. An entire floor dedicated to the master suite? Two dressing rooms?

  That was...wow.

  But more than being impressed, I was disappointed. I’d hoped beyond hope that we’d have to share a room.

  I wasn’t ready to give up on that aspiration. “The house staff will know there’s two beds being slept in when they make them up every day. You might think you have a loyal staff, but we both know no one can ever be truly trusted.”

  “Indeed.” His smile, though tight, was agreeable, and for the briefest second I thought I might be on the verge of victory.

  He stood up and crossed to the minibar. “However, there’s no reason to need them to keep silent in this matter. Plenty of couples sleep in separate beds. It doesn’t mean anything about their relationship or, for that matter, their sex life.”

  Somehow I’d momentarily forgotten how old-fashioned he was. Like, nineteen-fifties old-fashioned.

  As if to bolster this stereotype, he began pouring cognac into two tulip glasses without asking if I wanted any. “Marion had her own bedroom when we were together as well, and that was a ‘real marriage,’ by your definition.”

  “You slept apart? No wonder that ended,” I muttered.

  “Pardon?”

  Not wanting to discuss his “real” marriage, I looked back at the prenup still in my hand. This time I managed to focus enough that a section caught my eye.

  When he came back to the desk and stood over me, holding a glass out for me to take, I ignored the offer and raised a curious brow. “There’s a clause here for children.”

  A clause stating how much I’d get if we had kids when we got divorced. Ten million for each one, which seemed awfully generous.

  And suspicious.

  We weren’t even supposed to be having sex. Was that a ploy? Was he setting me up to have a child with him after all? Was he expecting me to do in vitro, because no way. An heir to the Werner fortune, though—that made more sense than the ridiculous reason Edward had put forth before.

  The notion of adding a baby to the bargain should have made me angry, but instead, a warm bubble of hope began making its way up my chest.

  Because it would make this game easier, was why. No other reason. Certainly not because I wanted kids with him. Or anyone, for that matter.

  But if I could use that excuse to get him into bed...

  He still stood next to me, one cognac held in my direction. “My lawyer said it was irresponsible not to include it. You and I will be the only two who know it’s there merely for appearances.”

  And just like that, the bubble popped.

  I practically growled in frustration.

  “Take the drink, Celia.”

  I started to shake my head, but his stern frown made me change my mind.

  Relenting, I took the glass and brought it up to my mouth for a sip. I wasn’t generally a fan of brandy, but I hadn’t tasted any with quite as complex of flavor as this. There were so many different notes, I couldn’t discern them all. Jasmine. Vanilla. Cigar box. Something earthy. I liked it.

  I took another sip. “Are you hoping to liquor me up?”

  “Why would I want to do that?” He sounded innocent, but he was far from. Every move he made was purposeful. Every action had a goal.

  Maybe this time his goal was to get me in his bed.

  A girl could hope. But I’d learned hope works best with action.

  “I don’t know,” I said seductively. “So I’ll agree to something not in my best interest.”

  He chuckled, and, admittedly, I liked the sound. I liked that I amused him.

  “It’s a digestive, Celia. Don’t make more of it than it is.” He circled to the other side of his desk, but didn’t sit. Studying me, he took a swig of his drink, his Adam’s apple bobbing as the liquid ran down his throat. “How does the agreement look?”

  I blinked, tearing my gaze from his far-too-sexy swallowing action and forced it back to the papers. After a second, I put down my glass so I could fold the document in half. “It looks good to me at first glance. I’d like to have a lawyer look it over as well before I sign, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course. I’ll email you a copy.” He took another swallow, his expression saying he knew I would have signed it right then and there if he’d asked.

  Tell me to sign it, then. Tell me so we can move on to what’s next. I was pretty sure my own expression gave away my thoughts as well.

  “I didn’t expect your signature tonight,” he said, reading me. “We’ll do it in front of a notary. Make it legal and all that. I merely thought you should have the opportunity to go over it beforehand.”

  “How kind.” I almost managed a smile.

  “Besides, you might not want to sign it once you hear the other terms of our arrangement.”

  “You really do know how to set a girl up for thinking the worst, Edward. I’m not sure if it’s a skill of yours or a flaw.”

  “Can’t it be both?”

  I squinted my eyes at him coldly, irritated that once again it seemed he was playing with me.

  This was ridiculous. I had to be better about my moves. I could play him just as easily. It was second nature.

  Edward was about to learn from the woman who’d practically invented the game.

  Twenty-Two

  Retrieving my drink, I stood up and scanned the room. Officially, he’d told me, his office was down the hall, an equally large space with his computer and his file cabinets where he did most of his work when at home.

  This room was more relaxed, more like a library. For schmoozing, I assumed. Everything was for show. Shelves lined the room containing books that appeared to have never been read. Collector’s editions of classics. The Renaissance paintings on the wall looked familiar, and I guaranteed they were originals. The carpet was plush with a complicated design. The furniture both inviting and expensive.

  Knowing he was watching my every move, I sauntered over to the sofa near the fire, which had been roaring before we’d entered the room. I set my glass down on the end table, and I bent down to unbuckle the strap on one of my heels. “Go ahead then. Fill me in on these elusive terms. But don’t expect me not to be comfortable for it.”

  I kicked off that shoe and began working on the next, never taking my eyes off him.

  His lips twitched as if fighting a smile, and when he began to cross the room, coming straight toward me, I wondered if it was really that easy.

  But he walked past me, stopping in front of the end table. Picking up my drink, he opened a drawer, pulled out a coaster, and set my glass on top.

  God, he was more anal than my grandmother had been, and I was pretty sure that woman loved her furnishings more than me.

  After kicking off my other shoe, I pulled my feet up under me and exaggeratedly lifted my drink from the coaster as if to say, I’d only set it down for a minute.

  Edward ignored my pointed gesture and sat in an armchair cater-cornered from me. “I am what some might call a traditionalist,” he said, as soon as he was settled. “I’m the man of the house, and, as su
ch, I believe my wife’s duty is to be by my side, first and foremost. It’s her duty to submit to my authority at all times. Her primary focus is on my needs, and, in return, I will look after her needs. Certainly you are welcome to entertain yourself with hobbies and trivial pursuits, but I will not allow a wife of mine to have a career of her own.”

  “Wow.” I blinked a few times. I was having trouble digesting all he’d said. No wonder he’d thought I needed the cognac. “That’s so patriarchal. I hate to tell you this, but that way of thinking is considered out of vogue these days.”

  “I’ve never cared about popular opinion. Nevertheless, I’m aware that it would be an adjustment for you.”

  “An ‘adjustment’?” It was an understatement if I’d ever heard one. “You’re asking me to give up my business.” I wasn’t about to tell him I’d already shut it down. Right now it was a bargaining chip.

  “I’m asking you to give up your business for a better opportunity. I assure you the position of my wife comes with more prestige and higher pay.”

  I had to fight not to gape. “No one can ever say you don’t have a big ego.”

  “I have a realistic sense of self.”

  He was such a narcissist, it was unreal.

  “And the rest of what you said—you expect me to submit to your authority. What exactly does that mean? Because I know you’re not talking about the bedroom.” But I was sure he’d expect that in the bedroom too, if I ever got him to agree to taking me there.

  “It means I’m the one in charge,” he said, as though it were obvious. “I expect that you will want to argue with me about a myriad of subjects, and that’s your prerogative, as long as you understand never to disagree or disobey me in public and that I will always have the final say. And, while you are free to speak your mind in the privacy of our home, I can’t assure you that there won’t be consequences.”

  I choked back a laugh. Was he serious? “Consequences? I’m dying to know how you plan to inflict consequences on a grown woman.”

  “As I will be the sole source of your income, I’m sure you’ll see there are plenty of opportunities for punishment.”

  Everything he said was more flabbergasting than the last, almost as if he were trying to push my limits, but I refused to let him see me react. It helped that I didn’t know how to feel about so much of it. It was disgusting what he expected of his wife. It was alarming.

  It was also useful. Exposing his values alone would be enough to get him attacked by the Twitter Social Justice Warriors.

  And beyond that...it was fascinating. I was utterly rapt with the idea. Surrendering total control to another human being—by choice, not manipulation—what would that be like? What could that be like?

  It couldn’t be at all.

  There were flaws with his consequences, for one. “You’re forgetting that I come to this marriage with my own money.”

  He crossed one leg over the other, propped his elbow on the arm of the chair and worried his chin with a single finger. “Ah, yes. But as your husband I will insist on overseeing your spending, whatever the source.”

  No one had a say in what I did, what I spent. My parents had barely supervised my spending when I was a child. And he wanted me to let him tell me what I could and could not buy?

  I took a long swallow of my drink.

  He seemed to understand I was near a limit. “You’ll find that I’m more than generous beyond these boundaries,” he explained, trying to cushion the blow. “I will provide you a monthly allowance of one hundred thousand pounds, which will above and beyond pay for the kind of lifestyle you are accustomed to living. Any expenses over that will require my approval.”

  So he wasn’t a monster. Not entirely.

  But mostly.

  I tried to fight the inclination to challenge him. Had to remember the goal. If it weren’t for The Game, I would have left the room when the conversation started. I wouldn’t even be in the room to begin with. There was a point to this, and I had to keep that in mind. Going along with his stupid rules and “expectations” now would make ruining him all the more victorious.

  Except, he was maddening. And even with the silent pep talk, I couldn’t resist pushing back. “Can you remind me again what it is that I get out of this marriage?”

  “You get to be my wife,” he said, as though there could be nothing clearer in the world.

  I clenched my fist at my side, my fingernails digging into my palm.

  After a breath, I said, with as much courtesy as I could muster, “As you’ve explained it, being your wife doesn’t sound like much of a reward.”

  “I believe there are a lot of women who would beg to differ.”

  “But you’re not asking a lot of women. You’re asking this woman, and this woman wants to know what she gets out of it.” There was no doubt I sounded snarly, but what the fuck did he expect?

  “Fair enough.” While I’d thought my bitterness might earn me a reproval, Edward seemed instead to be impressed. “As my wife, you’ll have money, power, and a reputation that you can’t earn on your own with your current credentials. You’ll have respect from important people who, at the moment, don’t even know you exist. Most importantly, you’ll finally be able to move out of the shadow of your past, as I believe you want so very much to do.”

  A chill ran down the back of my neck. There was no way he knew about my past, about the things I’d done to people. The games I’d played.

  He was bluffing. He had to be.

  I played dumb. “The shadow of my past…? I don’t have a shadow on my past.”

  “I apologize,” he said, his gaze digging into me. “The shadow of your father, I should have said.” My chest loosened as the breath I’d been holding released. “Wouldn’t you like to be known as more than just Celia Werner, daughter of Warren?”

  “And you’re offering me Celia Fasbender, wife of Edward. Forgive me if I don’t see the difference.”

  “You became a daughter by the luck of the draw. You become a wife by being chosen. My decision to marry you signals to the world that I believe you are worthy of the title. Believe me when I say my approval carries a lot of weight.”

  It was the first time since he’d proposed his ridiculous plan that I considered that he actually did have something to offer me. I’d grown up believing an important man would want to marry me. Specifically, I’d believed that man would be Hudson Pierce, and when that option was taken away from me, I’d lost a sense of my identity. Even now I wondered what Hudson would think of me marrying Edward, if he’d regret letting me get away. If he’d finally see me as worthy.

  Stupid, right? Weren’t we past the age when women’s lives were valued in relation to a man’s?

  I knew that, and yet I also didn’t. It wasn’t something I’d ever been able to explain to anyone, mostly because I couldn’t begin to explain it to myself.

  Now here, this asshole got it.

  It annoyed me. It annoyed me that there was a part of me that still felt that way. It annoyed me that he knew that. It annoyed me most that, even if I acknowledged he was right, I would still never feel validated by this marriage because, even if no one else knew, I knew that none of it was real.

  “That’s so arrogant,” I said, turning my irritation toward him. “And patriarchal. And intangible. Especially when you aren’t truly offering me the position of wife.”

  “What do you mean?” He dropped his hand from his chin, and leaned ever so slightly forward, as though he really cared about my answer.

  “I mean…” I had to pause to think about what I meant. Think about how to explain it. The last thing I wanted was for him to think I wanted something like love from him or that I was infatuated with him, which I most certainly was not. “What if I want a baby? I know you said you didn’t want any more, but what if I do?”

  He cleared his throat, seemingly surprised. “Might I remind you that I said we won’t be having sex.”

  Right, right, that was another thing I
planned to address before the night was over. “But I’m certain that you’re going to be having sex elsewhere. And if you are, then I should be allowed the same.”

  He was going to say I wasn’t allowed, and that would be a perfect opportunity to demand it from him. He certainly couldn’t expect me to live as a celibate.

  Except he didn’t say that. “Whatever you do, you will be perceived as a faithful wife by everyone around us.”

  “That’s not a no.”

  “It’s not.” But his jaw twitched, and I felt somewhat mollified that the idea of me sleeping with someone else might bother him.

  Only, now I couldn’t use that as a reason to goad him into sex with me.

  I went back to my last line of interrogation. “Then, let’s say I had a discreet affair and got pregnant?”

  “You won’t,” he said with finality. “Not if you expect to stay living under my roof.”

  “So you’d make me get an abortion?”

  “I’d make you get a divorce. And you can be sure that ten million mentioned in the prenup requires a paternity test.”

  I blinked, astounded by his inflexibility. “You really hate children.”

  “I won’t raise another man’s child.”

  And now I had another angle. “What if your mistress got pregnant?”

  “They wouldn’t.”

  I tried not to flinch at his reference to plural women. “Of course they wouldn’t, because what you say goes, even with biology. Maybe you haven’t yet heard that the only reliable method of birth control is abstinence.”

  “It’s not quite the same comparison, though, is it? I could sire a child and no one would ever be the wiser. You, however, couldn’t hide a pregnancy. In other words, what happens in this area with me and my mistresses, is really not any of your concern.”