Chapter 7
April
Everything feels like too much today.
The hum of the office printer sounds more like a chainsaw. My keyboard clacks sound like gunfire. My blouse sticks to my back and neck even though the thermostat insists that it’s sixty-eight degrees, and the lingering smell of Anthony’s daily banana protein shake is making me nauseous.
I’ve been sitting at my desk for nearly an hour now, staring at the same sentence I’d written in Anthony’s upcoming shareholder memo. I can’t tell whether it’s brilliant or incoherent. I keep rereading it, hoping it’ll either become clear or shift in my mind into something usable, but it doesn’t.
The door between our offices is open because, of course, it is.
It was open when I got here this morning, so I had nowhere to hide again.
Shutting it would just clarify that I’m a coward.
He’s in there, cool and unreadable. Sitting in front of his computer, focusing all his attention on work.
His sleeves are rolled almost to his elbows, and I find myself fixated on his muscular arms and strong hands.
I’d like them wrapped around my body instead of thumbing through financials like nothing about our dynamic has shifted.
As if he didn’t ask me to have his child a few days ago.
As if he didn’t text me yesterday at the show, confirming that it would be mine, too.
As if I hadn’t texted him about it anyway.
As if I hadn’t clenched my thighs when he called me a brat or said I was cute.
I try, genuinely try, not to look at him, but it doesn’t work. He hasn’t brought it up. No raised eyebrows, no follow-up information, just silence and work. Perfectly, infuriatingly tailored silence. He’s acting like nothing is happening, like I imagined the whole thing. I hate that it bothers me.
I prop my elbows on my desk and press my fingers into my temples as if I can rub clarity into place.
I’ve been sleeping like shit since this all began.
My brain won’t shut off for the life of me.
Every time I close my eyes, I see him. His gaze locked on mine as I sat there staring at him, looking so enticing that I’d forgotten how to breathe.
He never confirmed that he would grant my requests.
He’d sidestepped it like a pro, asking me what I wanted and giving me nothing in return but dominance and sex appeal like a pro.
I can’t stop thinking about that, either.
I’m wondering if he took me seriously and actually cares what I need.
Could he be arrogant and generous all at once?
Is he even attracted to me?
I bat the thought away before it can stick. It doesn’t matter if he is or isn’t. It’s a deal, not a romance; that’s the whole point.
I pick at the edge of my nail polish and try not to wonder what he’s thinking about it all. The elevator chimes down the hall. I glance up as a figure passes my door in the hallway. Instantly, I regret it.
Karen Bartley sweeps through the corridor like she owns the place.
She doesn’t, but to be fair, her family does own significant portions of Voss I want to know the full scope of exactly what I’m getting myself into.
Sure enough, there’s a clause stating I’m expected to walk away in the end and allow him to raise the kid on his own.
He will permit me visitation, provided I don’t seek parental rights or try to establish a full parental relationship before the child turns sixteen.
Wild. But I was half expecting it.
Under the compensation header, is a line that nearly makes me laugh:
“Per Ms. Swan’s request, the following conditions are agreed upon:”
My heart does a little leap. He listened to what I wanted. I scan the list.
“1. Current job title and position (Executive Communications Manager) will be retained, with a salary increase of 100%, up to $350,000 per annum. This will be applicable for the entirety of Ms. Swan’s time with Voss erase every sleepless night she’s had choosing between medicine and groceries.
I read it again and again. The benefits, the retirement, the stock options, the money, the stopping of calling my work “fine” — it shouldn’t make my eyes water, but it does.
He’s willing to give me so much for this.
I keep reading, but my mind is already made up. As I get to the conception portion of the contract, my heart stops in my chest.
“Conception: 1. Conception of offspring to occur through natural means. *Ms. Swan is to keep track of her menstrual cycle to best determine when she is ovulating and share that information with Mr. Voss.”
My brain short-circuits. Natural means. “Conception of offspring.” The very first line he wrote about it.
There’s a footnote at the bottom.
“Natural means: including but not limited to sex, at the time of ovulation, as many times as necessary to produce results. Conception will not be tolerated via medical means.”
He’s not just asking for a child.
He’s asking to fuck me.
Not just once either, apparently, enough times to ensure it takes.
My cheeks burn, and my lungs forget how to work. I need to talk to him. I need to scream at him. Is he taunting me with what he’d learned from those stupid texts? Did he choose me because I was the first person in his direct vicinity who had unintentionally confessed to sins when he got that email?
I can’t breathe. I can’t think.
So I do the only thing I can think of. I print off a copy, and I wrench open the door between our offices.