Chapter 15
15
ADRIAN
I glance at my watch—7.00p.m. sharp. The low hum of chatter filling our open-plan office fades as my traders shut down their computers and grab their bags, eager to escape for the evening. Someone taps my shoulder.
“Hey Adrian, a bunch of us are grabbing drinks at Sullivan’s.” Sarah flashes me an expectant grin. “You in?”
I hesitate for a split second before shaking my head. “Thanks, but I’ve got dinner plans with my girlfriend tonight.” The word still feels foreign on my tongue.
Sarah’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Girlfriend? I didn’t know you were seeing anyone!” Her tone is light, but I detect an undercurrent of shock.
I force a casual shrug. “It’s relatively new.” And 100 per cent fake.
Sarah chuckles. “Oh, well, have a good one, then.” She gives me a wave before heading out with the others.
As their voices fade down the hall, my muscles unwind with relief that Sarah believed I could have a girlfriend. My personal life has been practically nonexistent for years now, consumed by ninety-hour work weeks and an unrelenting drive to succeed. If it wasn’t for this charade with Rowena, my evening plans would comprise a re-heated meal and spreadsheets, as usual.
I shoot Sam a text that I’m ready to head out and make my way down to the lobby, my mind already jumping ahead to tomorrow’s meetings. But as I slide into the backseat of the car, my thoughts drift unexpectedly to Rowena.
When we first agreed to this ruse of an engagement, I saw it as just another obligation to juggle, one more complication in an already demanding life. But the other day, when we went to pick a ring, something shifted.
A strange warmth took residence in my gut as I watched Rowena bypass the flashiest diamonds in favor of a vintage ring, one with a soul as she put it. One that reminds me of Rowena herself—quietly luminous, with hidden depths. And when she slipped it on to try, the way her eyes lit up, crinkling at the corners… I smile at the memory.
“Good day, sir?” Sam meets my eyes in the rearview mirror.
I settle back against the leather headrest. “Not bad, Sam. Not bad at all.”
As the city blurs past the car windows, it hits me that for the first time in longer than I can remember, I’m looking forward to getting home. To seeing her.
Sunshine indeed.
A short while later, I stride into the foyer of my penthouse, loosening my tie and shrugging out of my suit jacket. The usual stillness of my apartment is punctuated by the unexpected clinking of dishes and the indistinct murmur of music. Curious, I follow the sound to the kitchen.
And there she is. Rowena is standing behind the island in leggings and an oversized T-shirt, transferring something from a skillet onto two waiting plates, her hair piled into a haphazard bun. She’s singing along absent-mindedly to the pop song on her phone, her hips swaying almost imperceptibly to the beat.
And there it is again, this warmth ballooning in my chest, threatening to take up all the space.
“Hey.”
Rowena startles as I come up behind her, then turns with a smile. “Oh good, you’re home! I hope you’re hungry.”
I glance past her to the kitchen table, noting the place settings. I can’t remember the last time I sat down to have dinner with someone else at home.
“You didn’t have to go to all this trouble,” I say, trying to navigate this foreign terrain of domesticity.
Rowena just laughs. “It was no bother. I hope you don’t mind that I set up in the kitchen. That dining room table is so long, we’d have to text each other to pass the salt.”
Under her glasses, her eyes dance cheerfully, making my lips twitch in response. “Fair point. So, what’s on the menu?”
“A pregnancy-friendly feast, courtesy of the fabulous Mrs. Rosa Doherty. We’ve got frittata with chard and a quinoa salad. Your housekeeper was keen to cook for your pregnant future wife.”
I raise an eyebrow.
Rowena shrugs, looking suddenly self-conscious. “I didn’t know what else to tell the staff. I thought it was best to just go along with the whole fake marriage thing?”
I nod pensively. It’s a good call. The fewer people who know the truth, the better.
We sit to eat and, after we’ve gotten a few bites down, Rowena picks at the food on her plate with her fork, asking, “So what is it you wanted to discuss tonight? ”
I grab my phone and pull up the file I typed earlier with a list.
She mock-frowns at me. “Please tell me we’re not mapping out our fake relationship on a spreadsheet.”
I flash her a sheepish grin. “Are bullet points better?”
Her eyes go to the ceiling, but I catch a flicker of amusement there. “You’re hopeless.”
I set the phone on the table, sliding it to her side. “Not a spreadsheet, just some notes.”
“Okay, Mr. Bullet Points.” She slides the phone right back at me without looking at it. “What’s the first item on the list?”
“Learning basic stuff about each other. Siblings, where we’re from, foods we hate, allergies… things people in a relationship would know about each other.”
She grins at me. “Let me guess, you made me a spreadsheet?”
I have, in fact, typed her a list. “Shouldn’t computer programmers love spreadsheets?”
“We do.” Rowena nods, chewing enthusiastically on her frittata. She looks more healthy, livelier. “Just not about our romantic lives, perhaps, fake or otherwise. But I’ll make you a list and then I can quiz you on it.”
“Great. We should also decide what the official story for how we met is.”
She finishes chewing before saying, “We should stick to reality as much as possible. We used to work in the same building, bumped into each other in the elevator every morning or something until you asked me out. I mean…” She falters, a soft blush creeping up her cheeks. “If you asking me out”—she points at herself self-consciously—“might be believable.”
I stop cutting into the frittata and lower my fork and knife over the plate, pinning her down with a stare. “I don’t date. But if I did, I’d ask you out.”
Rowena dips her chin as she asks, “You don’t date, like ever?”
“I stopped a while ago. Anytime I tried to see someone on the regular, soon the complaints about me being married to my job started, and I just got fed up.” I shrug. “Didn’t see the point of trying for a relationship anymore.”
“What do you do for sex?” she blurts, then her eyes widen as if she regrets the impulsive question. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry?—”
“I have people for that.”
“Oh, okay.” Her gaze shifts to her plate.
“You sound the opposite of okay .”
“No, no.” She’s looking everywhere but at me. “I’ve got nothing against sex workers.”
I rub the bridge of my nose. “I didn’t mean prostitutes .”
Rowena meets my eyes again. “You said you had people , like the ones you sent to help me move. I thought you meant for hire.”
“No, just women like me, with high-stress careers and no time for relationships.”
She smirks now. “Is there a special app where you high-flying executives meet?”
I lean back in my chair, folding my arms. “Manhattan is a small island. It’s not that hard to meet people.”
“Right.”
I tilt my head. “Are you imagining me in some sort of perverse sex club?”
She snorts on her water. “Yes, sorry. It all sounds a bit ritualistic.”
“Not really… Stress-relief sex can be very hot. ”
Now her face turns positively purple. I shouldn’t have said that.
Rowena takes a long sip of water and nods. “I bet. So, were you seeing someone when you—when we?—”
“Yes, but I won’t be seeing her anymore.” I wipe my mouth with a fabric napkin I didn’t even know I owned. “And this is another thing I wanted to ask you. Even if this marriage is fake, I need it to be monogamous. Will that be okay for you?”
“You mean…?”
“I would prefer you not to have sex with other men while you’re married to me.”
“Oh, yeah. Sex isn’t in my future.” She chuckles. “In a few months, I’ll turn into a small whale, and I doubt anyone would want to have sex with me.” She plays with her napkin, not having any idea how wrong she is. “Then my vagina will be destroyed and I won’t be able to have sex even if I wanted to, so… What about you? Won’t that be a problem for you?”
“No, my work is my priority.”
She looks at me dubiously, her eyes scanning my face with a hint of amusement. “Not even a little tempted to go to your secret clubs? I bet you all wear masks and no one would even recognize you.”
I can’t help the laugh that escapes me—a genuine one, not the strained chuckles I’ve perfected for boardroom diplomacy. “Rowena, I promise you, there’s no secret society or masked orgies in my schedule.”
Her lips quirk up, and she seems to mull over my response.
“Okay, then.” Rowena polishes the last bite of her frittata. “Monogamy it is.” She glances at the now-dark phone screen. “What else did you plan for our relationship itinerary?”
I swipe to unlock the device, scrolling through my meticulously organized list. “Ah, public appearances. We need a few of those to make this all seem authentic.”
She nods thoughtfully. “Like what? Charity galas? Movie premieres?”
I smirk at the mention of movie premieres. “Do I strike you as the red-carpet type?”
“Not really, but hey, I’d prefer a movie than being presented as your sex slave to your masked orgy buddies.”
I downright guffaw at that. “I’m never getting that image out of your head, am I?”
“No, sorry.”
“Charity events are more my speed,” I say. “I have a few coming up.”
Rowena nods, her hazel eyes glittering with that humor I’m beginning to appreciate more with each passing moment. “Got it. And what about… couple things? You know, grocery shopping together, arguing over where to go on vacation, Netflix binges… that sort of thing?”
I lean back in my chair, imagining the domestic scenario she’s painting. The thought is oddly disarming, a stark contrast to the sterile, calculated life I lead. “Rosa does all the shopping and I haven’t been on vacation in years, but I’m sure we can find other mundane activities to publicly bicker about.”
Her grin is infectious. “No rest for the wicked,” she deadpans.
I tap my fingers on the table, surveying her—the woman who’s going to become my wife, in a manner of speaking. It strikes me how comfortable I feel around her, even during our peculiar discussion. “And as for Netflix, I can’t remember the last time I watched something that wasn’t news or market analysis.”
She rolls her eyes. “Your life sounds riveting. ”
“Wait, it gets better,” I tease. “Sometimes, I even read financial reports before bed. It’s like a bedtime story, but instead of sending you to sleep, it just gives you anxiety about the Asian markets.”
Her laughter fills the room, warm and infectious. It’s been so long since my home has echoed with anything other than the click of a laptop or the distant hum of New York City.
“So, are we going to schedule in ‘Netflix and chill’ on that phone of yours?” Rowena asks with raised eyebrows.
She’s not meaning that kind of chill, is she? And why don’t I find the idea unappealing?
I tap on the screen thoughtfully. “I don’t…”
“I’m just messing with you.” Rowena smiles then shifts on her seat and stretches sideways as if the chair is uncomfortable. Time to move the conversation to the living room.
I scoop up our plates and walk them over to the sink. “I’ll leave these here for Rosa in the morning. Want to move to the couch?”
Rowena nods. “I’ll just make a cup of ginger tea first.” She busies herself with the water boiler. A minute later, she pours the water into a dark-blue mug that must be hers as white writing on its side recites: I am currently unsupervised. The boiling water engulfs the small packet of tea already inside the mug, steam rising in fragrant wisps. With the heat from the water, a second part of the writing appears in bright pink. I know, it scares me too. The full slogan on the mug makes me chuckle silently; it’s quirky and cute, just like her.
“How’s the nausea?” I ask.
“So much better; that doctor you sent me to is a miracle worker.”
“Glad to hear.”
With the mug in her hands, Rowena pads out of the kitchen and over to the couch and settles in, tucking her legs underneath her. I join her, keeping a respectful distance.
She takes a sip and sets the mug on the end table, her brows furrowing. “So, I was thinking… when we see your colleagues and they ask why I’m no longer working in the building, should I tell them the truth? That I got fired?”
I shake my head emphatically, my voice coming out harsher than I intend. “You can’t say that.”
Her eyes widen in surprise. “Why? Isn’t it best to stick to the truth as much as?—”
“Rowena,” I cut her off, intensity burning through my words. “If some asshole middle manager at a fintech start-up fired my girlfriend for any reason, I would buy the whole damn company and clean house. Every last one of their management team would be out on the street faster than they could blink.”
She stares at me, her mouth hanging open. I soften my expression, clenching and unclenching my hands to come off less aggressive.
“Unless… that’s what you want me to do?” I raise an eyebrow. “Say the word and I’ll have my assistant making calls tonight.”
Rowena lets out a laugh, shaking her head. “No, no, that won’t be necessary. Your world domination plans can wait.” She chews her bottom lip, contemplating. “Maybe we could just say I quit, then? Because of the pregnancy being too much to handle with work?”
I mull it over. It’s not the full truth, but it’s close enough without revealing the ugly reality of what those pricks did to her.
“Alright, it’s settled then,” I declare. “If anyone asks, you decided to focus on your health and our family. No mention of those ungrateful bastards who didn’t deserve you.” I drop my hands on my thighs. “We’re good then… that was all for tonight.”
Rowena shakes her head and leans in just a fraction. “Not so fast, tiger, we have to come up with a great proposal story first…”
She’s right.
“Any ideas?”
“Nope.” She cracks her knuckles. “Time to get your romantic mojo on.”
I’m fucked.