by Holly Rayner
Doesn’t he know? Isn’t it obvious?
“You’re trying to buy me,” I tell him. “Like I’m nothing more than a—”
My mouth won’t form the words. I clear my throat and try to relax, resisting the urge to burst into furious tears.
“I am not for sale,” I tell him, proud that I’m able to keep my voice firm and authoritative.
Magnus looks shocked. “I didn’t mean it that way, Leah. I was thinking of it as a business transaction, that’s all. Payment in exchange for services rendered.”
“I don’t see how that’s any different,” I say. “Why don’t you just put the money in an envelope and leave it on my nightstand? Or would you prefer to tuck it into my bra?”
“Don’t be crude,” he says, his voice suddenly gruff. “I’m a businessman. It’s how I think of the world, Leah, it’s how I interact with everyone. I see what they have that I need, and I see what I can offer them, and then I propose an exchange. It’s how the world works.”
“And you call me crude,” I scoff. “Is this how all your relationships work? You just pay for the things you want? You don’t build any real bonds of friendship or loyalty or trust? Do you even have any friends, or do you just pay people to spend time with you? What about your family? How much are they raking in for the job of loving you?”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I know I’ve gone too far. Magnus’ eyes seem to darken.
“You don’t know my family,” he says. “You don’t know the first thing about me.”
“I know you asked a woman you hardly know to marry you.”
“You’re saying no, then?”
“I’m saying no.”
He doubles the price. My head swims. The amount of money he’s talking about is beyond imagining. It’s more than I’d probably have ever been able to amass in my lifetime. And it’s being offered up to me on a silver platter.
Am I really going to say no to this?
But what’s the alternative? If I say yes, I’ll always know I’m the girl who agreed to marry a man she hardly knew just for money. But then again, if I say no, I’ll always be the girl who passed up a massive sum, a sum that could have changed her life, a sum that could have served as seed money for launching a successful app that could get me out of my cubicle for good…
And suddenly I know what to propose, the terms under which I can accept Magnus’ deal.
“I have a counteroffer,” I say.
Magnus frowns. I can tell he wasn’t expecting this.
“A counteroffer?” he repeats. “Is the sum not high enough for you?”
“The money isn’t the problem,” I say. “Or rather, it is, but it’s the money itself, not the amount. I’m not comfortable with the transaction. You can’t take out your wallet and hand me cash to marry you.”
“I would have written a check.”
“That isn’t the point.”
“Then what is?”
“I’ll marry you,” I say, “but in exchange, I want you to invest in my latest tech project. I want you to give me everything—a development budget, marketing, publicity. I want you to help me turn my project into the next great success. Just like the Vipers would have done for me if I’d won their competition.”
I meet his eyes and try to put as much meaning as possible into my next words. “If I’d even had a chance to compete.”
“I see,” says Magnus. “You want a financial backer.”
“Correct.”
“And if I accept your terms?” he asks. “What share would I hold in the product?”
“Well, I guess we would split it fifty-fifty,” I say.
I feel unprepared to deal with this sort of question. A minute ago he was asking me to marry him, and now he wants to know how much of my project—a project I haven’t fully developed yet—will belong to him.
“You should be more guarded than that,” Magnus chastises me. “After all, I’m already getting a green card out of this. Seventy-thirty. The lion’s share to you, of course.”
“All right,” I agree, feeling shell-shocked.
Magnus gets to his feet. “My secretary has your phone number,” he says. “I’ll call you in a couple of days to arrange the courthouse ceremony. We’ll also need to arrange a meeting to discuss your project and how I can best put my considerable means to use. Does that all sound good to you?”
I understand, abruptly, that I’m being dismissed. Our meeting is over.
I scramble to my feet, feeling impossibly young and out of place, and sling my purse over my shoulder. The outfit I chose with such care this morning now looks like it was picked out by a schoolgirl. Magnus, in his carefully pressed designer suit, is in another league.
He takes my hand in his as if to shake, but instead holds it for a moment, his gaze locking mine.
“I was very glad to see you again, Leah,” he says quietly. “I truly appreciate your taking the time and everything you’ve agreed to do for me. I can’t tell you how much it means to me to be able to turn to you.”
Unsure of what to say, I slip my hand out of his, nod a little in farewell, and half run back to the elevator.
What just happened? What did I just agree to?
Am I honestly going to marry Magnus Johansen?
Chapter 9
Leah
As the days go by, putting distance between the current moment and the time I spent in Magnus’ office, the whole thing starts to seem more and more like an illusion. I could almost believe I’d imagined it. After all, this isn’t the kind of thing that happens to a girl like me.
Strangely, it’s not the bizarre marriage proposal that has me doubting the authenticity of the event—it’s the fact that Magnus has agreed to back my latest project, sight unseen. That’s not something that happens in the tech world. I open up the recent idea I’m working on, wondering if it has potential or is ridiculously sophomoric. It isn’t flashy, but rather a practical app that will make people’s lives easier.
I’m back in my overly lit, annoyingly loud cubicle. Little things that would have bothered me most days are almost a comfort now. I listen to the squeaking sound of Robert rocking in his chair, letting it lull me. It’s all so normal. Surely the girl who shares a cubicle with this man couldn’t have just accepted a marriage proposal from Magnus Johansen.
I haven’t told anyone about what happened during my meeting with Magnus, mostly because it’s too hard to believe.
Aimi asked, of course. She came skidding up to our cubicle as if her feet had been greased, a tray of coffees in hand, ready to dish gossip with me. But I was prepared. I made up a story about Magnus’ wanting to get in touch with the other Vipers’ Nest contestants and wondering whether I had contact information for any of them. Aimi was visibly disappointed, both by the banality of the request and by the fact that I told her I had no contact information and that Magnus and I wouldn’t be meeting each other again. I was sure he’d think better of the marriage and change his mind. It would be easy to keep the information from Aimi.
Or so I thought.
Just three days after our strange meeting, an email pops up in my inbox from another coworker, Jane. A mutual friend of Aimi’s and mine, Jane is more of a gossip than either of us, and I’m expecting something tabloid-esque from the link enclosed in her email, which I apparently must check out “IMMEDIATELY.”
Jane is prone to overstatement, so I don’t think much of her all-caps exclamation. I click on the link, knowing that if I don’t reply, she’ll be over to my desk within minutes demanding to know whether or not I saw her message and what I thought of it. I won’t get any work done for the rest of the day if I don’t give in.
At first, I think I was right about the nature of the link. It is a tabloid publication, one I know well. The site usually features poorly sourced stories about people of all levels of fame. I wonder whether I’ll have even heard of this one. The last time Jane sent me an article, it was about an electronic music producer who was only famous in Ireland
.
But I know who this article is about before I even start to read. In fact, it’s several moments before I’m able to calm down enough to read, because the rage that burns through me obscures everything else.
The article is topped by a familiar picture—the photo Magnus showed me in his office. The picture of my younger self kissing him, in a moment I’m beginning to think I’ll live to regret, in front of the Hollywood sign. I know in an instant that it must have been Magnus who released this. No one else could have this picture.
How dare he!
I take several deep breaths, forcing myself to calm down enough to read the headline. “Seattle’s Most Eligible Billionaire Engaged to Mystery Blonde.”
Is he kidding me? We haven’t even settled the terms of the deal and he’s announcing our marriage—if it can even be called that—on this sleazy tabloid site? Can he honestly think this is how I would want my friends to find out? I feel frozen to my seat, unable to move.
I knew I should have said no to this. I should never have gone to meet him in the first place. Now I’m in way over my head, and I have no idea how I’m going to get out of it.
And “mystery blonde?” Not that I want my name released here—that’s the last thing I want—but there’s something shameful about being referred to this way, as if I’m nothing next to the great Magnus Johansen. Everyone knows his name, his face, and no one knows mine.
Of course, that’s true, but seeing it in print makes it different. I want to be a successful entrepreneur. I want to contribute my projects to the landscape of the tech world. I don’t want to be the unknown blonde girl on the arm of the billionaire. I can only imagine what the gossips must be saying about me behind closed doors. That I’m only after him for his money, no doubt.
I feel a slight flush of embarrassment as I realize how close that is to being true. There isn’t anything I want from Magnus besides his money. But it’s not sleazy. It’s not dirty. It’s a business arrangement.
This is exactly what I was afraid of.
I skim the story, still fuming. According to the site, Magnus and I have been dating for five years, ever since we met at the Vipers’ Nest competition. I suppose I always knew we’d have to come up with a backstory to satisfy anyone who took a close look at his past, but he should have discussed it with me. He definitely shouldn’t have publicized it. This was not part of our deal.
This calls for immediate damage control. Jane has already seen the article, and there’s no way she’s going to be able to sit on a juicy piece of gossip like this one. If she hasn’t already told half the office about it, she will soon. She isn’t going to wait for me to confirm or deny the allegations. Just the fact that my picture appears at the top of the article will be enough for her to consider it top-priority news.
I take another couple of steadying breaths, trying to come up with a plan. The story can’t have made it to Aimi yet. If it had, she’d be over here begging me for details, wanting to know how much of it was true. But who else might have heard about it? Is it possible Ian knows? The thought makes me shudder. I hate letting my boss in on even the most trivial details of my personal life, and this is far from trivial. What might he have to say if he found out?
I’ll have to come up with some way to pass it off as a mistake. That’s all I can think of. But how? It’s clearly me in the picture—even though I’m much younger, no one who knows me could fail to see that I’m the same person. If only my face was more obscured by Magnus’ head.
But of course, I wasn’t thinking about that at all the night I kissed him. I was just thinking about living in the moment, the utterly romantic setting and the fact that I was there alone with an attractive man who was most certainly not a famous billionaire at the time. If nothing else, this will teach me a lesson about allowing pictures to be taken of me kissing strange men! I’ll never do that again.
I hit reply on Jane’s email, and type out a lighthearted OMG, but then I get stuck. How am I going to explain away the picture? I’ll tell her I’m not marrying Magnus, but how can I explain having kissed him in the first place? I suppose I could always go with the truth—that I met him once, years ago, before either of us were anyone important. But I know that’s going to lead to more questions, questions I can’t answer. If the picture is real, why is the rest of the story fake? Jane can be like a determined dog with a bone when she spots gossip. I know she won’t just let it go.
I’m distracted from my predicament by the buzzing of my cell. The number is unfamiliar, but I have a bad feeling in my gut as I reach for it. I think I know what this is about.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Leah?”
The accent is instantly familiar. Magnus.
“I thought I ought to give you a call,” he says.
“Really? Now you thought you ought to give me a call?”
I’m surprised at the venom in my tone. My anger is palpable.
Magnus seems taken aback. He pauses for a long moment. When he speaks again, he sounds hesitant.
“I take it you saw the article.”
I feel like the wind has been sucked from my lungs. For a moment, I can’t put together a coherent answer. Then words come rushing back to me, bubbling up so quickly I can barely contain them.
“I saw it, my coworkers saw it, half the country has probably seen it by now! How could you do this, Magnus? I know they got that picture from you. Why would you release it? Didn’t you think you and I ought to finalize things before you went and blabbed about it to the internet?”
To his credit, he sounds miserable when he answers. “You’re right. Of course, you’re right. I should have waited. It was irresponsible of me. I thought it would be best to announce right away, to make things look as real—as legitimate—as possible. But I wasn’t thinking about the further ramifications.”
I’m slightly mollified. Is it possible he does give a damn about the trouble he’s causing me?
But then he continues. “I received a call from my lawyer this morning, and she let me know that my actions were unwise. The U.S. government is aware of my status as the holder of an expiring visa, and they know I have the means to arrange a green card marriage. By publicizing our nuptials at this particular juncture, I might have aroused suspicion among immigration officials that I’m just paying a woman to marry me.”
“You are doing that,” I say.
And just like that, my anger is back. I should have known his contrition didn’t come from any concern for my well-being. He was just worried about himself and his own needs, like he always has. When will I stop believing that Magnus Johansen has a good heart?
“The point is that they’ll have their eye on me going forward,” he says, brushing by my accusation. “My lawyer seems to feel it will be someone I know, someone in my inner circle. They’ll get to a friend or acquaintance of mine and incentivize that person to spy on me. They’ll be checking to see if my relationship with my bride-to-be is a genuine one.” He hesitates. “I had to sneak away and make this call on a public phone to ensure I wouldn’t be overheard. We need to meet, Leah.”
“Why all the covert ops?” I ask.
Magnus’ voice is flinty when he responds. “I want my green card. I want to stay in this country. I’ve found success here. My employees count on me for their income. And the U.S. is my home. How would you like it if someone suddenly told you that you had to leave?”
But that’s different. My situation couldn’t be more different from Magnus’ life. And yet, I can feel the faintest stirring of objection in my gut. I know he’s right. If I were being forced out of the country, I would do whatever I could to avoid it.
“What do I have to do?” I ask.
“We’re going to have to work harder than I thought to create the illusion that we’re together and happy,” Magnus says. “If we’re being watched, we’re going to have to put up a convincing image of being a real couple. Otherwise, it will become obvious very quickly that there’s nothing intimate betwee
n us.”
“What do you suggest?” I ask.
I don’t want to hear the answer. Already this feels like it isn’t optional, like I’m going to have to go along with whatever Magnus tells me to do.
“We’ll have to go on dates,” he says, and there’s nothing at all romantic about the word when it comes out of his mouth. “We’ll have to make public appearances. Let people see us out together. The press, hopefully. If we spend enough time together, it will become hard to doubt the sincerity of our feelings for each other.”
Amazing. There’s not even a shred of irony in his voice.
“The sincerity of our feelings?” I ask. “We don’t have any feelings.”
Magnus sighs. “Leah, this is what we agreed on. I know the terms are different now, more complicated, but after all, it’s not like I’m asking anything horrible of you. Would it really be such a sacrifice to spend a few evenings in my company, eating nice dinners?”
Yes, I think. But how can I tell him that? If I’m honest about the way I feel toward him, I’ll expose the fact that he’s cast a much bigger shadow over my life than I’ve ever cared to admit. And I’m starting to doubt that it’s wise of me to hold onto my anger.
Still, I’m in a powerful position right now. The requirements of our agreement have changed because of Magnus’ mistake, not mine. For the first time, I feel confident enough to set the terms.
“I want an increased marketing budget,” I say. “And I want you to attend meetings with me and support my product in person.”
Magnus hesitates. “I should probably put some of my R&D people on it too, then. Just to make sure it’s ready for market.”
Somehow, I’m both offended at the suggestion and humiliated at the knowledge that I actually don’t have a product I’m ready to market and that I’ve been so easily seen through. Either way, the last thing I want is for Magnus to send his people in to develop a product for me that we then put out with my name on it.
“I’ll handle the development side of things,” I tell him. “You just provide the budget, when it comes to that.”
