Chapter 9
Jenna
Idon't know who's more shocked by my answer—Grayson, or me.
One million. That's six zeroes. A whole stack. A million fucking dollars. I've only ever dreamed of that sort of money, and now it's mine… or it will be in six months.
I'd agree to do a lot of things for that kind of money, because I know exactly how much it could transform my business. I could hire more staff, boost marketing, take on bigger projects. With that kind of backing, I could finally position myself as an industry leader.
Yeah, a million dollars will change my life.
Still, I force my pulse to steady. Keeping a cool head is rule one in negotiation, and this bastard already proved he can't be trusted. There's no way this comes without fine print. He'll try something the second I turn my back, so I need to stay sharp.
And if he plans to play me, fine. I'll make damn sure I'm the one milking this situation dry.
"I assume we're going to put everything in writing?"
"Of course."
"And it'll only last six months?"
"Yes. Perhaps even less—it depends on how stubborn my father decides to be."
The whole not-making-your-son-CEO-because-he's-not-married thing baffles me.
I've met plenty of eccentric rich people—worked for some, too—but this is next-level absurd.
Usually, it's women forced into those ridiculous ‘arrangements,' not men.
In a weird way, it's almost refreshing to see the boot on the other foot.
Either way, I'm not wasting a tear on Grayson Wolfe.
He deserves every bit of chaos coming his way.
"There's one other thing I want to seal the deal," I say.
"Something more than a million dollars?"
"A million dollars and my company's expenses for your event, you mean. Yeah. This is additional to that."
His gaze sharpens like glass. "I thought what I offered you was more than fair."
"Perhaps it is. But you're the one who needs this deal, aren't you? You wouldn't be here if you weren't desperate." I can see the flicker in his eyes that tells me I'm right. "So, I want more."
I lace my fingers, elbows on the table, leaning in. "I'm under no illusion that dealing with you for six months is going to be peaches and cream, Mr. Wolfe. You're an asshole, and I don't expect a personality transplant anytime soon. I'm already bracing myself for it."
He doesn't flinch, just gives me that sardonic half-smile. "I'm sure you can wipe your tears on the big fat check you'll be getting from me."
I smirk and lean closer—close enough that the scent of his cologne drifts between us, dark and spicy. My chair creaks as I rise half an inch, pulse thudding.
"You keep mentioning that million dollars like it means something to you," I murmur, ignoring how his eyes drop to my mouth. "Let's face it. That's pocket change. You could lose that much in a day and not even notice."
"Yes." His voice lowers, smooth as smoke. His gaze traces my lips slowly, deliberately, and a tremor runs through me. "But you can't, can you, Ms. Marlowe? And isn't that the point?"
He's right, of course, but I'll be damned if I admit it. I straighten, swallowing the rush of heat his tone sends through me. "As great as that money will be for me, there's something else just as valuable—to both me and my business."
"Which is?"
"I want to be put back in charge of the showcase."
Surprise flashes across his face. "I thought you said you never wanted to work with me again."
"You're right—I don't. But I've had time to think about it, and now I realize that…
well, that showcase is the biggest event in the city after the Met Gala.
Too many people already know I was organizing it, and losing it—voluntary or not—looks terrible on my record.
Not to mention the publicity I'd forfeit. "
I've had time to think it through. I'd need at least four or five hefty contracts to make up for the loss of this one. There's a reason agencies fought tooth and nail for it: the media coverage, the exposure, the doors it opens. I can't walk away from that.
And then there's the reputational hit—getting fired leaves a stain that sticks.
"Look, I'm not opposed to working for you again," I say evenly.
"Just not the way we were before. I'm open to changes, but I'll need proper communication and enough lead time to implement them without torching my relationships with suppliers.
If you can't manage that, then maybe just trust me and let me do my job. "
"Trusting you and letting you do your thing is what led to that dumb, gaudy setup you had."
Rude bastard. I draw a slow breath and let it slide off me.
"No. Not reviewing the proposals we sent you in a timely fashion is what made you end up with something you didn't like. Did you ever actually sit down and read the plan? Not just glance at the design, but read the concept, the vision, everything that went into it?"
He says nothing, but I'm sure the answer is no. He didn't read it.
"So," I say, holding his gaze. "I want the contract back, and I want your commitment to work directly with me. No hiding behind secretaries or PAs, no delayed decisions. Do we have a deal?"
He presses his lips together, cocks his head—then his phone rings, slicing through the tension and making me jump.
He pulls it from his pocket, frowning at the screen. "Hey, Ramesh, good to hear from you, man." A pause. "Yeah, sure, but listen—I'm finishing up a conversation. Give me two minutes and I'll call you back." He ends the call and looks at me again.
"I'll think about it," he says. "If I agree to your terms, I'll send you the contract today. For now, I need to get back to work."
"Sure." I aim for calm and matter-of-fact, but my stomach is flipping between triumph and dread. Did I just outsmart him—or torpedo myself?
Calling his bluff and tying the deal to being re-appointed to the Wolfe Foundation showcase was a gamble. Right now, I'm wondering if I've just made a catastrophic mistake. Shit.
For the rest of the day, I try to occupy my mind, but it's hopeless. When someone offers you a million bucks, you push for more, and they respond with "I'll think about it," you don't just shrug and move on.
If I lose this, I'll be kicking myself for months. No—years.
Still, I had to take the chance.
And if I'm honest, there's something else.
Something about the way he'd held me that night at the cocktail bar—the heat of his breath, the solid weight of his body, the faint scent of sandalwood and smoke.
The pressure of his hand on my waist. His stiffness growing between us—God, no, don't even go there.
This isn't that kind of deal. He made that clear.
No sex. Strictly business. End of story.
He's going to say yes. He has to.
I try to believe in the power of positive thinking and all that manifestation crap my roommate Ash keeps preaching. According to her, all I have to do is will it into being. Even as my stomach knots and unknot, I repeat it in my head like a mantra: He has to say yes. He has to say yes.
It's just after six p.m.—closing time—when my computer pings with an email. Subject line: CONTRACT.
"Yes!" I explode, punching the air. "Fuck yeah! That's how it's done!"
The shout is loud enough to send Iris sprinting into my office.
"What happened?" she asks. "Did you win the lottery?"
"Oh, even better, you beautiful girl." I grab her hands, spin her in a ridiculous waltz, and pepper her cheeks with noisy kisses. She squeals and twists away, laughing.
"Jesus, boss," she says, breathless. "One of these days I'm filing a million-dollar harassment lawsuit against you."
"Yeah? Well, lucky you. I might actually be able to pay you off."
She stops, blinks. "What do you mean?"
I shake my head, grinning. "Tell Gracie to cancel that strongly worded letter she was drafting to the Wolfe Foundation's finance department. We won't be needing it."
"Why not?"
"Because we're still working with them. We got the showcase back."
Her eyes practically pop out. "Are you serious? How?"
Aside from the NDA, there are details I'm not sharing—not even with Iris.
"I can be very convincing when I want to be. They couldn't resist my charm."
She gives me a skeptical look. I roll my eyes.
"It's a long story. Anyway, I need you to stay a little late tonight. We're going back to the drawing board."
"So what else is new?" she sighs, but she doesn't protest. She never does. She knows I'm a fair boss—flexible hours, good pay, room to breathe. It's a mutual understanding: she goes the extra mile when I need it.
"You sure you want to work with them again?" Iris asks, arching a brow.
"Yup," I say, forcing a confident smile. "It'll be different this time. I promise."
At least, I hope so.
By eight p.m., the office is silent and I'm the last to leave.
I've barely stepped into my apartment when there's a knock at the door.
I open it without checking the peephole—a stupid habit—and freeze.
Grayson Wolfe stands there, framed by the glow of the hallway light, a stretch limo idling behind him.
"Well," he says smoothly. "Are you packed?"
"Packed for what?"
He lifts an eyebrow. "Did you not read the contract?"
"Um… actually, no." I cringe. I am always so careful with contracts… what was I thinking about?
"Because," he replies, voice calm and unyielding, "upon signing it, you have to move in with me."
"Huh?" I blink in confusion.
Grayson smirks and steps through the doorway, forcing me back a pace. With him, I always need distance — at least three feet at all times. Yes… let's make that a rule.
"Firstly, Grayson, if this is going to work, I need my personal space. You stay at least three feet away from me at all times, got it?"
He considers, then shakes his head. "Well… yes and no, I'm afraid."
"What do you mean, yes and no?"