Chapter 7
Bailey
Idon’t sleep.
How can I, when the check is sitting on my kitchen counter? I circle it like it may bite, then pick it up, set it down, and calculate how much freedom that number represents.
No more student loans crushing me every month. No more choosing between groceries and art supplies. No more pretending graphic design is enough when animation is what makes me breathe.
If I’m careful, three years—maybe four—will be enough to build a portfolio and make something tangible out of my life. All I have to do is pretend to date my boss, who is also my brother’s best friend and someone I’ve already slept with.
Simple.
By six AM, I’ve given up on sleep entirely.
Gretchen texts at seven. How are you still alive?
I’m pretty sure I’m on the brink of death.
Did you decide?
My eyes immediately find the check on the counter again, and then my reflection in the darkened window.
I’m going to say yes.
Three dots appear, then disappear and appear again.
Are you sure?
No. But I’m doing it anyway.
Call me after. I want all the details.
I shower and dress in navy pants and a cream blouse. The check goes in my purse before I can change my mind. I arrive at the office at eight, exactly one hour before I must. An hour to pace, second-guess, and convince myself this isn’t the worst decision I’ve ever made.
At eight forty-five, I can’t wait anymore, so I take the elevator to the top floor. Daniel’s assistant waves me through without comment. I find him at his desk, laptop open, tie already loosened even though it’s not even nine. He looks up when I enter.
Relief flickers across his face.
“You wanted an answer?” I clear my throat a bit too loudly. “You’ve got it.”
He stands slowly, closing the laptop. “Would you like to sit?”
“I’d rather stand.”
“All right.”
We face each other across his desk. The morning light streaming through those ridiculous windows makes everything too bright.
“I have questions first,” I say.
“Of course.”
“How did you know about the student loans and the animation dreams? I never told you any of that at work.”
He’s quiet momentarily, then says gently: “You told me at the reunion.”
I think back and realize he’s right. I’d actually rambled during the nervous chatter when Daniel and I were left alone for those awful thirty seconds.
“I mentioned it in passing,” I say slowly.
“You said you wanted to be an animator, but the field was too competitive. You settled for graphic design because it paid the bills and you had loans to think about.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “You remember that?”
His gaze drops to my mouth for just a second before meeting my eyes again. “I remember every single word you said.”
My heart races.
“Why?”
“Because I was listening.”
I don’t know what to do with the idea that he’d heard me and cared enough to remember. It makes him harder to dismiss as just my arrogant boss making a business proposition.
“Okay,” I say finally. “Second question. If I agree to this, what exactly are the terms?”
“I already told you, public appearances as needed, dinners, charity events, anywhere the press might be present.”
“How often?”
“Two to three times a week. Maybe more during critical periods and less when things stabilize.”
“And physically?”
His mouth curves slightly. “I’m not asking you to sleep with me, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I’m asking what you expect. Hand holding? Kissing? What counts as necessary for appearances?”
“Whatever makes us believable as a couple. Hand holding, yes, standing close, perhaps an arm around your waist, and kissing on the cheek for photographers.”
“Nothing more.”
“Nothing you’re not comfortable with.”
I cross my arms. “I want that in writing.”
“Done.”
“And I keep my job. This arrangement doesn’t affect my position here.”
“Agreed. Though you’ll need to move some things to my place.”
That stops me cold. “Excuse me?”
“For appearances. If we’re dating, you’d spend weekends at my apartment, which means you’ll need to have clothes and stuff there. Enough that it looks real if anyone asks.”
My pulse kicks up. “I’m not moving in with you.”
“I’m not asking you to. Not fully.”
“We’re supposed to be keeping this professional.”
“We are. You’ll have your own room, your own space. I’m hardly ever home on weekends anyway.”
“Then why do I need to be there?”
“In case someone checks. We just need to be covered.”
I study him across the desk, looking for signs of the unstable man Cassidy described. However, I see no signs of the volatile billionaire who throws phones and berates staff; all I see is exhaustion poorly hidden.
“You’re not what she said you are,” I hear myself say.
His jaw tightens. “You don’t know that.”
“I’ve worked for you for two weeks. I’ve seen you under pressure. You’re strict, sometimes infuriating, but not erratic.”
“People can hide things.”
“Not that well, not all the time.” I move closer to the desk. “I’m not saying you’re perfect, but you’re anything but unstable. That article is garbage, designed to get at you.”
“Thank you,” he says.
Raw and unguarded gratitude flickers on his face for a second, so out of place that it almost hurts to see.
He’s not someone who does thankful, not naturally.
Which only means that this has been eating at him.
Everyone else must be tearing him apart, and for once, Daniel Williams has no fight left in him.
“I’m not doing this for you.”
“I know.”
“I’m doing this for me … and the money.”
“I understand.”
“Good. So we’re clear this is business.”
“Completely clear.”
“No mixing work and personal.”
“Agreed.”
“No expectations beyond what we’ve outlined.”
“None.”
“And nothing physical. At all.”
His mouth curves into a half-smile. “You’ve mentioned that three times now.”
Heat floods my face. “Because I want to be clear.”
“You’re very clear. Though I have to say, the lady doth protest too much.”
“I’m not protesting. I’m establishing boundaries.”
“Boundaries I’ve already agreed to.” He leans forward slightly. “Unless you’re worried about your own restraint?”
My pulse jumps. “I will have you know that I have excellent restraint.”
“I’m sure you do. It’s just interesting that you keep bringing up the physical aspect.”
“Because it’s important to establish parameters.”
“We’ve established them. Several times now.”
“Good.”
“Though if you’d like to practice maintaining those boundaries while spending weekends in proximity, I’m happy to oblige.”
I glare at him. “You’re enjoying this.”
“I’m clarifying expectations. You want distance while living in my space two days a week. I’m simply noting the inherent contradiction.”
“It’s not living in your space. It’s maintaining appearances.”
“By sleeping under my roof, wearing my guest bathroom robe, and possibly raiding my kitchen at midnight.”
The image he’s painting makes my stomach flip for reasons I refuse to examine.
“I won’t raid your kitchen.”
“Shame. I have excellent snacks.”
“Daniel.”
“Bailey.”
We glare at each other, neither refusing to back down. He’s hiding a smirk, teasing me, and I want to smack it right off his face. Or kiss it off.
“This is exactly why we need boundaries,” I say quietly.
His expression sobers. “You’re right. I apologize. Old habits.”
“What habits?”
“Enjoying seeing you blush.”
The honesty disarms me. Again. I clear my throat.
“Are we done negotiating?” I ask.
“Unless you have more conditions.”
“Nothing.”
“I won’t do anything you’re uncomfortable with, you have my word.”
I reach into my purse and pull out the envelope he gave me yesterday. “Then I’m in.” I set it on his desk.
He slides the envelope back toward me. “Take it.”
“After the first event.”
“Bailey—”
“After. When I’ve proven I can do this and you’ve proven you’ll keep your word, I’ll take it.”
Respect flickers across his face. “That’s fair.”
He extends his hand across the desk. “Partners?”
I look at his hand, remembering the last time we touched. The electricity that had sparked between us, even through the formality, was intense. This is different. This is business.
I take his hand.
The moment our palms connect, heat floods through me.
Daniel’s fingers tighten fractionally around mine. His eyes darken.
We both feel it.
The memory of skin on skin. I pull back first, and he releases me immediately.
“Professional,” I say, my voice not relatively steady.
“Completely professional,” he agrees.
But the air between us says otherwise.
I turn toward the door before I can do something stupid.
“Bailey.”
I stop.
“The first event is on Thursday. Investor dinner at the Four Seasons. I’ll send you details.”
“Fine.”
“And you should probably tell Trevor about us working together, at minimum, before he hears it from someone else.”
I turn back slowly. “You want me to lie to my brother?”
“I want you to control the narrative. Tell him we’re dating. Tell him we work together. Let him process it on your terms instead of finding out from gossip.”
“He’s going to lose his mind.”
“Probably.”
“He’s going to interrogate you.”
“I can handle Trevor.”
“He threatened to kill anyone who hurt me. Multiple times. To your face.”
“I remember.”
“And you’re asking me to tell him we’re together.”
“I’m suggesting you tell him before someone else does. The choice is yours.”
“When you’re ready,” he adds quietly. “No pressure. But sooner would be better than later.”
I nod slowly. “I’ll think about it.”
“That’s all I’m asking.”
I reach for the door handle again.
“Thank you,” he says. “For doing this.”
“Thank you for the money.”
“It’s not a gift. You’re earning it.”
“By lying to everyone.”
“By helping me show them the truth. That I’m not the man Cassidy described.”
I meet his eyes, seeing the exhaustion and fear underneath the mask of control.
“You’re not,” I say. “Whatever else you are, you’re not that.”
It’s slight, but his shoulders hunch. “I hope you still think that in three months.”
“I guess we’ll find out.”
I leave before he can respond.
The door closes, and I lean against it, heart hammering.
What did I just agree to?
My phone buzzes.
Gretchen: Well?
Me: I said yes.
Gretchen: I swear I'll die if I don't see you straight after work! You better be home.
Gretchen wasn't lying. I hear a knock on my door at 6pm sharp, and open it to find Gretchen holding two bottles of wine and a bag of Thai takeout.
“Move aside. We’re dissecting this.”
I step aside to let her in. She’s already kicking off her shoes and heading to my tiny kitchen like she owns the place.
“I didn’t invite you over.”
“You texted me that you agreed to fake date your boss slash brother’s best friend slash the guy you already slept with. That’s an automatic invitation.” She pulls out plates and starts unpacking containers. “Pad Thai, spring rolls, and drunken noodles. Plus wine because you’re going to need it.”
Despite everything, I smile. “You’re the worst.”
“I’m the best, and you know it.” She pours two generous glasses of wine and hands me one. “Now, let me make sure I have this right. He’s paying you enough to quit your job and start your own studio?”
“Basically, yes.”
“And all you have to do is show up to events, hold his hand, and look pretty?”
“That’s the deal.”
“And that’s the only reason you said yes…?”
I stab a spring roll with my fork. “Yes! It’s amazing money and it gets me closer to my dream.”
“Or could it be … because you also want to spend time with him?”
“That’s not why.”
“Bailey. Come on. It’s me.” She sets down her plate and turns to face me fully. “You could have said no or told him to find someone else, but you didn't.”
“The money—”
“Is great. I’m not saying it’s not. But that is not the only reason you agreed, and we both know it.”
I drain half my wine glass. “I’m not falling for him.”
“I didn’t say you were falling for him. I said you want to spend time with him. There is a difference.”
“Is there?”
“For now, yes.” She refills both our glasses. “Look, I’m not judging. He is hot, rich, and apparently he remembers random things you say, which is basically the bare minimum but still more than most guys manage.”
“He is also my boss.”
“Yes, and the worst person for you. But here is what I think. You’re doing this for the money, sure. But you’re also doing it because for the first time in forever, it seems like someone sees you.”
My throat tightens. “Don’t.”
“I’m serious. When was the last time someone actually listened to you? Actually cared about what you wanted?”
“You listen.”
“I’m your best friend. That’s literally my job.” She reaches over and squeezes my hand. “Daniel doesn’t have to care about your animation dreams or remember that you mentioned them once but he does.”
“It’s still a terrible idea.”
“Oh, absolutely. This is going to blow up in your face spectacularly.” She picks up her wine glass. “But at least you’ll get paid for it.”
I giggle. “You’re supposed to talk me out of bad decisions.”
“No, I’m supposed to support you through them.” She clinks her glass against mine. “To terrible ideas and the money that makes them slightly less terrible.”
“To terrible ideas,” I echo.
We drink, and then Gretchen leans back against the couch. “So when is the first event?”
“Thursday. Investor dinner at the Four Seasons.”
Her eyes light up. “Fancy. What are you wearing?”
“I have no idea. I don’t exactly own ‘billionaire’s girlfriend’ clothes.”
“Then we’re going shopping tomorrow. No arguments.”
“Gretchen …”
“If you’re going to do this, you’re going to do it right. You’re about to walk into a room full of people who will judge you for everything from your shoes to your nail polish. You need armor because, well, you need to show those rich motherfuckers exactly what you’ve got.”