5. Corm
Chapter 5
Corm
I put my phone into my pocket and fidget with my cuffs, briefly revisiting all my recent choices. Choices that got me into this fucked-up situation. One I really don’t want to be in.
When Vladislav suggested I settle down—meaning, I marry and divert the media attention—I seriously considered giving up on the deal.
Do I need more money? Not really.
Do I want to fail at establishing the best financial group in the country? Fuck, no.
And if it should cost me my bachelor status for the time being, so be it. It’s not such a steep price to pay.
According to my overpriced PR handler, Betsy Ham, I might get away with a fake engagement and a few staged photo ops in the next few months. With the right fiancée on my arm, she could get my image cleaned up pretty fast.
As soon as the deal between AetherTech and Atlas is signed, I’d break off the engagement and move on with my life, laughing at the fuckers with their archaic views and expectations.
I close my eyes briefly, reining in my irritation about the situation. Betsy promised I’d like the bride. And who knows, we might hit it off and enjoy the next four months.
My gaze follows the sound of Betsy’s throaty laughter and lands on… Fuck. My. Life. What are the odds?
With her dark blonde hair styled in waves around her angelic face, Saar van den Linden looks like a supermodel. Obviously. No wonder fashion designers and brands pay to work with her. That face can sell air in a jar.
I came here with the let’s-get-over-with-this-bullshit attitude. But seeing that Saar van den Linden is my potential bride just increased the value of this transaction.
The only woman who ever fascinated me enough to even consider having a wife.
I adjust my collar, ignoring the subtle jump in my heart rate. This is going to be fun. Or a complete disaster, if her glower is any predictor of the outcome.
When I saw her in one of my clubs recently, I didn’t realize she was in town for longer than her usual day or two. Not that I’ve been keeping tabs on her.
Her nostrils flare, and she leans back in her chair, folding her arms across her chest. Her dark blue eyes shoot daggers in my direction.
She looks as fragile and even more defiant than when she came to see me two years ago. I tried to find out what was beyond that pretty face and fierce loyalty, but she’s been immune to my charms.
But at least I sold that stupid building, and now she owes me; and I like my odds because, by the looks of it, she walked into this meeting blindsided.
Just like me.
I only have myself to blame for it, because I told Betsy I don’t fucking care who my future fiancée is. I’m paying Betsy way too much for something I don’t really want, so I expect her to deliver.
Well, deliver she did. This is a treat.
And a major complication. Saar’s brother will never agree to this match. As much as I’d like her fine ass in my space. As much as this candidate has just enhanced the value of this fucked-up PR plot significantly.
Saar may intrigue me, but I’m not going to jeopardize my already shaken relationship with my partner, her brother. Especially since the reason I’m here is to protect the deal, not to break another one. Though I’m not above fucking with Cal.
Based on Saar’s surprised scowl, the whole arrangement might be off the table already. But when have I ever given up this fast?
As I take my time walking across the restaurant, Saar moves her glower from me to the man by her side, and then to Betsy. She’s ready to bolt and rip Betsy’s head off. And probably mine.
“What a lovely surprise.” I smile when I reach the table.
Saar stands up, her chair almost toppling over. “Book me those jobs, Vito.” She storms away.
“Principessa.” Vito, I assume, stands up. “Excuse me. We’ll be right back.” The pretentious prick pats the silky scarf inside his open collar.
I have no idea who he is, but I don’t like the man. And why does he call her princess?
While he rushes away, I try not to follow to check if she’s gone. Vito may irritate me at first sight, but I hope he gets her to come back.
“What were you thinking?” I accuse as soon as I take my seat, glaring at Betsy.
“I’m not sure what’s going on.” Her eyes dart between me and the exit, and I relish seeing her flustered.
“I guess you didn’t do a very thorough background check.” I enjoy not giving her more details.
“She’s a supermodel, and will look great in pictures. She hasn’t been associated with any scandals bar the falling out with her parents. And even that is more associated with her brothers. Besides, we could spin that as a found family, with a few pictures together with your mother.”
She taps her long nails on the side plate and studies me for a beat before she continues, “Now, if there is a history between you and her…” She grimaces, like the mere idea is repulsive. “It might be the first and only instance where you were discreet and I didn’t find out about it in my research. What’s going on, Cormac?”
She sounds like my English teacher, patronizing and righteous.
“Betsy, in what universe did you assume that when Caleb van den Linden demanded I go through this sham to clean my image, he wanted his little sister to take any part in it?”
She opens her mouth, but I raise my finger to shut her up. While I was busy ogling Saar and reveling in this entertaining twist of fate, I completely forgot to consider one key element.
“Why does she need a fake husband?” I raise my eyebrow slightly, my face a stone otherwise.
I mastered that demanding look when I was a teenager. My father used it effectively to get people to cater to him, expecting it, commanding it.
Betsy looks away for a moment. It may be imperceptible, but it gives her away. She’s searching for an answer. Which can only mean one of two things.
She doesn’t know—which would be a major oversight for someone as good at her job as she is. Or the truth needs to be sugarcoated.
I don’t like any of those options.
“It’s for financial reasons. She wants access to her trust fund. It’s tied to her having a husband.”
Betsy grimaces again, as if that would reinforce her stand on women’s rights, and stop fuckers like old van den Linden from treating their daughters like property or business leverage.
Her or my opinions on the matter are irrelevant at the moment. What’s more intriguing is why Saar van den Linden would need money.
“She must make a lot of money. Are you sure this wouldn’t be another scandal in the making?” I force myself not to look toward the exit, where I more sense than see Saar arguing with that Vito guy.
Betsy straightens up, her cleavage practically covering the whole table, and looks at me like… well, like my English teacher again. Fuck this woman with her haughty attitude. “She wants to retire.” She perks up.
“That’s fine, but what happened? Did she spend all she earned?” I snort. “Well, I’ll need a really good prenup,” I say, unreasonably excited about the prospect of marrying Saar van den Linden.
But being the bastard that I am, I utter the words because I assume Betsy’s brightening relates to Saar and Vito’s return, which is immediately confirmed.
“An iron-clad prenup is one of my conditions as well.” Saar sits down across from me, her features arranged in a stone-cold manner, a mixture of animosity and resignation.
And why does she look at me like her being here is my fault?
Those fucking blues. That’s what always captivated my attention, her haunted gaze. I never allowed myself to investigate further what it is I see in her eyes.
Now, when she holds my gaze like it’s a contest, something stirs in me. A weird, misplaced need to bring a spark to those eyes. To find out who or what made her so guarded. To protect her from it.
That is just a plain fucked-up sentiment on my part. Over the years, at every brief encounter, she made it abundantly clear she wants nothing to do with me.
And yet, she came back to this table.
“One of your conditions? There is more?” I smirk, leaning back in my chair.
“Before we move ahead,” Betsy fucking dares to interrupt. “Corm, this is Vito Conti. We have collaborated before. He’s Saar’s manager.”
“Nice to meet you.” Vito smiles at me like he is in any way relevant.
But he’s relevant to Saar, because she smiles at him and he pats her hand. He returns her smile and nods. Reassuring her?
And why does a part of me want her to look at me with so much affection? Or why do I want to punch his face for touching her? Maybe pretending to marry a woman I have been mildly obsessed with isn’t the best idea.
Betsy fidgets and clears her throat. “The two of you”—she points between me and Saar—“clearly don’t need an introduction, but I hope your prior relationship won’t be a problem here.”
“There is no relationship.” Saar looks offended by the mere suggestion.
Betsy gives her a professional, condescending smile. Why does she work with people if she doesn’t like them? “What I meant is that from my client’s perspective, your future relationship would require publicity. I would need you to not only pretend that you can stand each other, but actually pretend you are in love.”
Saar snorts. “I have been photographed most of my life. I’m paid to look a certain way. I can look madly in love with him.”
“Him” falls from her lips, flat and flavorless.
She leans forward, stretching her arm over the table. Placing her delicate hand on my chest, she looks at me through her lashes and smiles ever so lightly.
She licks her lips, and the gesture surges blood to my groin, my cock twitching. Her touch is light, but even through my shirt and my suit jacket, it burns me.
She dusts a nonexistent lint from the fabric. “You had something there, Cormy-bear,” she breathes.
She doesn’t fucking say, she breathes, and I inhale sharply like some teenager.
Leaning back, she winks and gives a blinding smile to Betsy, who is staring wide-eyed.
“Oh, was the pet name too much?” Saar blinks innocently. “Should I stick with a more traditional one and call him darling or honey?”
Fuck, she is selling the act well. Vito bows his head, hiding his smirk, pleased with himself like her performance was his achievement. Asshole.
What’s more concerning, however, is my body’s reaction to her fake display of affection.
Goose bumps, held breath, and a fucking semi in my pants. I better sign the deal between Vladislav and Donovan quickly. This is going to be a challenge.
My competitive nature kicks in fully, and damn me if I don’t see this through. She thinks she can rile me up; she’s in for a surprise.
I lean back in my chair and crack my neck. Game on.
“Let’s get this over with,” I snap. “A prenup is essential. What other conditions do you possibly have?”
She bristles. “A prenup is essential for me too. Don’t think for a second I need your money.”
I chuckle, a low sound that seems to annoy her. “And yet, here you are.”
She rolls her eyes. “No wonder you have to pay someone to pretend to like you. It’s not just your reputation that is toxic; it’s your personality.”
“You need money, I need a wife. Let’s not make this more complicated than it has to be.”
“Again, I don’t give a flying fuck about your money.” Saar’s voice is now laced with annoyance. “This is about what’s mine. My trust fund is locked up because of a stupid clause. So, trust me, I’m not here for your millions, Quinn.”
I push my chair out and cross one leg over the other, adjusting my cuffs. “Billions.”
Saar huffs, exasperated. I should not enjoy this so much.
Betsy clears her throat, glaring at me. I guess if someone captured the current mood on camera, we won’t sell the happy story.
Well, Saar is not the only one capable of selling this. I stand up.
“Corm,” Betsy warns.
I round the table, not leaving Saar’s eyes for a moment. In one swift move, I grab her hand and pull her up. Fuck, she is really light.
The momentum and her surprise propel her forward, and she lands with her hands on my chest, her body flush against mine.
Before she can react, I snake my arm around her waist, pulling her even tighter to me.
She looks at me wide-eyed, and for a moment, she is just herself. A little bit vulnerable, and a hell-of-a-lot beautiful.
She wears no makeup, and for that beat of a moment, she isn’t acting, posing, or pretending. She just is, taken aback, mask down. And for an equally brief moment, I find myself mesmerized, completely spellbound by her.
But she snaps out of it quickly and frowns. “What—”
“Make no mistake, The Morrigan…” I dip my head and whisper into her ear.
Her breath hitches, and I pretend the scent of her, the warmth of her, the feel of her, has no impact on me. Plastered against me in my vice-like hold, she can certainly feel how ‘not’ impacted I am.
She shivers slightly. Good. I’m not the only one.
“I think there is a threat there somewhere you lost track of, Quinn.” Her breath feathers the skin around my collar, and I take a deep breath to stop myself from bending her over my knee and teaching her a lesson.
But my unhinged thoughts aside, my lips quirk up. Fuck, she’s refreshing.
“Make no mistake, The Morrigan,” I repeat. “I have something to gain here, and I won’t let your daddy issues fuck it up for me. You don’t want to be on my bad side. Your teeth are not sharp enough for that. So let’s keep this amicable before I put that mouth of yours to better use. You owe me a favor.”
I didn’t sell the Hudson River property to her brother to hold it over her head, but I’m not above doing it either.
Her chest rises and falls rapidly, her cheeks a beautiful pink color. “I don’t owe you anything.”
“We’ll see about that.” I smirk.
I lean back, not letting go of her yet. Gently, I tuck a strand behind her ear, and she shivers again, her lips trembling.
The heat in her eyes has a very different temperature than the angry glare she’s been rewarding me with since I arrived.
There might not be media here yet, but I lower my lips to her hair, inhaling. Lavender and sin—I wish I could bottle her scent and take it with me.
I step back so suddenly she drops to her chair, her eyes searching for a target, avoiding mine.
“Okay, why don’t we order lunch before we continue?” Vito suggests in his thick Italian accent.
“And copious amounts of alcohol,” I quip, my gaze on Saar.
She bristles and opens her mouth, no doubt to retort. Instead, she sits back, eyes narrowing. “I have demands.”
I don’t flinch. “By all means. I’m curious to see how creative you can get.”
“First, I want complete autonomy. My life, my schedule, my career—you don’t get to control anything. You just smile pretty for the cameras and stay out of my way.”
“Your career?” If retiring isn’t her reason to be here, then what is?
She flinches. “Yes, my career,” she snaps, and Vito reaches to touch the top of her hand. She glances at him before she straightens up, abandoning the topic. “No controlling me, no calling the shots.”
I shrug. “Done.”
She opens her mouth—and after my earlier macho move, I keep picturing those lips around my cock—but then jerks her head back and sags a bit, frowning. She didn’t expect my cooperation.
“What?” I chuckle. “You’re free to do whatever you like, as long as it doesn’t embarrass me or affect the business. Anything else?”
“I want a separate residence. I don’t care what the media thinks. I’m not living with you.”
“I’m pretty sure you’d enjoy sharing a bed with me, but your loss.” I shrug. “Deal.”
I would certainly enjoy having her in my space. Taunting her. Breaking her. Claiming her.
“No deal,” Betsy interjects.
Fuck, I almost forgot we are not alone. What the fuck is wrong with me? I’m always in control. In every fucking room. Every situation. And here I am, verbally and non-verbally sparing with this woman and forgetting about the real objective here.
“Miss van den Linden,” Betsy doesn’t sound like my English teacher anymore—more like a ruthless lawyer. Saar flinches. I rein in my irrational need to interfere.
“While I applaud your need for autonomy, this arrangement requires selling a fairy-tale love story. Mr. Quinn is under a tight schedule to improve his public image. And given the unfortunate current media attention, it won’t be an easy task. I will need you to comply with a public appearances schedule. And you need to move in together.”
I have to give it to Betsy, her tone doesn’t leave much room for argument. Saar glances at Vito, and he gives her the compassionate look again.
First, why doesn’t she search my eyes? It’s me she will live with.
Second, compassion? Give me a break. I’m not a monster.
Some communication passes between Saar and her manager before she sighs. “Separate bedrooms.”
Betsy gives us her insincere smile. “Wonderful. This arrangement will look great. You two look perfect together.” Her eyes flick to Saar. “You’re exactly the kind of woman we need to clean up Corm’s image. Beautiful, sophisticated—”
“She is not a prop,” I snap, cutting my PR handler off.
Saar’s eyes widen, and she looks at me with… Curiosity? Surprise? Wonder? Gratitude?
“I understand I’m here to be arm candy.” Saar’s gaze on me turns harder.
I hold her gaze, unflinching, fighting the urge to send everyone away and spend time with her alone.
The silence stretches between us, thick and heavy. The tension rolls off her. Something shifted when I cut Betsy off, but I don’t understand what.
Something about this woman is… She awakened the protector in me. A side I fucking didn’t know I have.
She showed me her teeth. She doesn’t need saving, and yet… It’s concerning how much I want to unravel her. To understand what is under that carefully hidden persona she shows to the public.
Saar pushes her chair back suddenly, the screech of metal on tile echoing in the quiet room.
“This meeting’s over,” she says, standing abruptly. “You’ve got yourself a wife. Now let me know when you plan on parading me around.”
Vito scrambles to follow her. I guess you won’t get that lunch, fucker.
“Oh, one more thing, darling.” She smiles at me, no longer selling anything besides animosity. “I want a big wedding. The biggest of the season.”
She turns on her heel and strides out, her back straight, her head held high. She is so fucking attractive, my gaze remains glued to the exit long after she leaves.
Like her allure stays behind, demanding attention effortlessly. Stubbornly. Dangerously.
It should bother me. It doesn’t.
Something about the way she stormed out sticks with me. That fire in her eyes. That intensity.
I laugh. This is not going to be easy. But it certainly will be fun. Making Saar van den Linden mine suddenly feels as important as the Atlas/AetherTech merger.
“Fuck. As if I didn’t have enough on my plate with you, now I have to tame a Bridezilla. Fucking Vito told me she was unproblematic.” Betsy makes a derisive huff.
I turn to her. “Careful how you talk about my fiancée,” I warn, and she laughs, but the sound dies on her lips when she meets my eyes.
I stand, buttoning my jacket. “Get her a wedding planner.”
“I thought the plan was to stall and avoid the actual marriage.” Betsy’s expression tightens with frustration.
I smirk. “That’s still the plan.”
I think.