5. Laila
5
LAILA
“That was fast.” I stare down at the manila envelope that Arsen just handed me. It has my name scrawled in black ink in the corner.
LAILA BARNES.
I don’t know why, but seeing it there, stark and permanent, makes this all feel a hundred times more real.
“I had it drawn up last week after our meeting,” Arsen explains. “I told you: I knew you’d come back.”
I have no idea how he was so sure when I wasn’t sure at all. Even as I got dressed and made my way downtown this morning—even as I was lifting my hand to knock on his office door—I wasn’t sure I’d really go through with it.
But he knew.
Somehow, he knew.
“You’ll find that I’ve covered everything. All you have to do is sign.”
I gently pry the contract out of the envelope and start reading. He’s right. He’s been plenty thorough and more than fair. Ridiculously generous, in fact.
The contract allocates twenty thousand dollars per month for the length of my pregnancy, then ten thousand monthly for ten years after.
“What is the ‘wardrobe allowance?’” I point to a clause at the bottom of the page.
“So you can update your closet,” he answers dryly. “Red is definitely your color, roza . But I can’t say the shoulder pads do you quite as much justice.”
Instantaneous blush.
I bury my face back in the contract. Flipping the page until I stop at another clause. “‘Security and personal safety detail’?”
“Just a precaution. To protect my child.”
“Meaning I’ll have bodyguards?” I think back on the entourage of suit-clad men I saw standing watch in the lobby this morning.
“I’ll make sure their presence is noninvasive.”
“We’re talking about me carrying your baby,” I mutter. “The S.S. Noninvasive has pretty much sailed.”
I read through the nondisclosure agreement, which is pretty straightforward—it more or less boils down to “ open your mouth about anything to anyone and you’ll die”— before I turn to the final page of the contract.
I was waiting—maybe even praying—for some sneaky little insert about selling my soul to the devil. A waiver indicating that I would have to survive on a diet of baby seals and puppy blood. Something that would guarantee I couldn’t take this job.
But it’s all perfect. Crosses in every “t” and dots in every “i.”
My chest is tight and jittery, like pure espresso is running through my veins.
I point to the seven bolded words on the final page— SEXUAL HISTORY TO BE DISCUSSED IN PERSON —and almost swallow my tongue as I say, “Not applicable.”
But just reading those words in the presence of Arsen Adamov makes it clear that it’s very, very applicable.
Our time together has been admittedly brief, but I’ve never been more aware of him than I am right now.
Of his smell—minty, a hint of spice.
Of his size—towering over me, broader and bigger and harder and denser in every way.
Of his eyes most of all—green, observant, bright with intelligence and that ever-present smirk.
“Are you on birth control?” he asks in a way that makes it the filthiest thing I’ve ever heard.
“Birth control is something a woman having sex would take. Like I just said, I am not having sex.” I laugh, but he doesn’t seem half as amused as I am. “You remember Seth, I’m sure. He’s the extent of my relationship history. Has been for a while now.”
“What about casual flings?”
I squint at him. “Is that really relevant?”
“Considering you’ll be carrying my child soon, I need to know where you’ve been. And with how many men.”
What kind of orgy does he think I just came from? ‘ How many men?’
“I’ve been with exactly three men my entire life, all of whom I was in serious relationships with and the last of which was over two years ago.” I push back my irritation and square my jaw. “Satisfied?”
“No,” he says, his eyes falling momentarily to my chest. “But I hope to be soon.”
Before I can dwell on that—which is surely the second-filthiest thing I’ve ever heard—he pulls out a Montblanc pen and hands it over. “You can do the honors.”
My trembling hand grows surprisingly steady the closer I get to the dotted line.
I touch the pen to the paper. A single black dot.
Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore.
Then I sign.
When I look up, his eyes aren’t trained on the contract like I expect. He’s staring right at me, his green eyes unfathomable.
I feel like someone sculpted me out of Jell-O. “Now what?”
“Now,” he growls, “you take off your clothes and I fuck a baby into you.”
Welp.
The rankings have been adjusted.
That is the filthiest thing I’ve ever heard.