Chapter 3
ASHER
"Wellness is at the core of what we do here at Sanctum."
But the prodigal son can't show a twitch of emotion.
I smile at the right times and nod when appropriate. When it's my turn to speak, I turn on the Caine charm and inflect on the right words, pretending someone from our PR department isn't sitting across from me.
When the call is finally over, I heave a sigh of relief as my office is cleared.
My brain circles back to the waitress from the other night. Ever since she walked away, all I've been thinking about is caramel-colored hair and plush pink lips.
I was ready to scold her for spilling my drink, a nasty trait inherited from my father, paired with the horrendous day I had.
But when I looked up, there were tears brimming in her hazel eyes and her teeth were chewing on her bottom lip.
She looked so young, so naive. So submissive.
The anger faded away quickly, and in its place was a throbbing need to dominate.
She responded so well to my commands. Calming at them, even. It took everything in me not to offer her a contract right then and there. And then I overheard Candace firing her while she begged to keep her job.
Instantly, my head filled with images of her on her knees, begging me.
My cock hardens at the thought.
So when I saw her walk out of Candace's office, tail tucked between her legs and eyes red, I couldn't help myself.
She needs a job, and I need a wife.
Not a real wife. A trophy that will appease my family and encourage my father to finally retire and hand over the reins of Sanctum International to me.
It’s a win/win, really.
She won’t be New York City poor, and I can finally claim my birthright.
I spin my chair and face the wall of windows. From my office on the 50th floor, I have a stunning view of the Manhattan skyline. I only admire it for a moment before I glance at my watch. It's 11:29 and Grace still isn’t here.
I wonder if she won’t come. Maybe she has no interest in hearing what I have to offer. Even if she’s only curious, she could still hear me out and say no.
Focusing on work becomes impossible as I wait for her. The minutes tick by until it’s 11:40 and I’ve begun to resign myself to the fact that she’s not coming. I open her file on my computer, sifting through the pictures and information my IT guy gathered one more time.
Grace Morgan, twenty-three, recent graduate from New York University. Moved here at eighteen from Michigan. I chuckle to myself. Midwestern girls love to move to New York with a head full of dreams that this city quickly crushes. I wonder what Grace's are…
The Creative Writing degree from NYC tells me she wants to be a writer, but zero books linked to her tells me she hasn't yet succeeded. And her only place of work since graduating is my brother’s club, Haven. Which she was fired from last night.
This is an expensive city to live in without a steady paycheck, and it seems like that's the thing Grace Morgan is lacking.
It’s 11:44 when Mel, my assistant, rings my phone to let me know Miss Morgan has arrived.
I know, because the first thing I do is check the clock.
Her lack of promptness grates on my nerves.
If I was interviewing her for any other job, I’d tell Mel to send the woman home.
Tardiness is a strict no-no in my books.
Maybe it’s the image of her filling my memories, or my desire to get between her legs, but I tell Mel to send her in anyway.
Grace walks through my door with hesitant steps, her eyes darting around. She’s wearing a puffy winter jacket with a rainbow beanie that looks hand knitted and has a giant pom-pom on the top. I hate it.
“Didn’t Mel take your coat?”
My assistant stands behind her, holding the door open. She promptly opens her mouth to defend herself. “I did—”
“I told her no thank you,” Grace cuts in.
“Are you cold?” I’m still sitting in my chair as Grace stands in the entryway. She darts her tongue across her pink lips, and it stirs something inside me.
I blink my eyes and bring my focus up. It’s unlike me to get so distracted by a woman.
Normally, I can control myself and they’re the one losing it, begging and pleading for relief.
I shake the thought from my head. Maybe this is a bad idea.
But it’s already in motion, and once I decide I want something, I don’t stop until I have it.
And I’ve decided I want Grace Morgan.
“It’s snowing outside.”
I tilt my head. “And in here?”
She rolls her eyes, the action making my cock twitch.
If she was mine, I'd punish her for that.
But she's not. Yet. So instead, I watch as she pulls the large coat from her body and hands it over to Mel.
Then she tugs the beanie from her head and tucks it into her oversized bag before smoothing her palm over her messy hair.
Finally, Mel excuses herself, leaving me alone with Miss Morgan.
“Sit.” I gesture my hand to the chair across from my desk.
Grace looks at me for a long moment, her assessing gaze rolling over my body before she moves to the chair. She sits ramrod straight, folding her hands neatly on her lap.
“So…” Hazel eyes lift to meet mine. “You said you might have a proposal for me?” she asks skeptically.
“Not might. I do.”
“Okay…” she trails off. “So? What is it?” One hand rises to nervously play with her hair, twirling the caramel lock between her fingertips.
She looks plainer than she did last night in the form-fitting dress that all the waitresses wear.
Today, she's wearing a pair of jeans, chunky boots, and a sage-colored sweater that’s swallowing her body whole.
Why is it so oversized? She dresses like she doesn't want anyone to see the shape of her, which I know from the dress last night is exquisite.
“First…” I run my thumb over my jawline. “Why were you late?”
“Oh, uhm.” She fidgets in her chair as she comes up with her answer, and I wonder if it will be the truth or a lie. I don’t know her very well, but I can sense her unease around me. Not that last night was better, since she clearly wanted me to get away from her.
There was a part of me, maybe a rare, nice side, that wanted to distract her so the tears lining her eyes wouldn’t fall. Did she cry at the club, or did she make it all the way home before the tears started rolling down those flushed cheeks?
“The subway,” she finally says, wringing her fingers together. I note the bad habit. “I missed the first one, so I had to wait.” I think she’s telling the truth. She seems embarrassed about it with the way her gaze stays on her lap.
It takes effort to restrain myself at the submissive gesture.
“I don’t normally tolerate tardiness,” I tell her. “Will that be a problem?”
Finally, her eyes rise, and her fingers clench, the nails biting into her palm. “I don’t even know why I’m here.” I can hear frustration lingering in her tone.
“You're here because you were fired last night. And I'm assuming you needed that job. Am I right?"
She purses her lips together and doesn't respond.
"So, I have a proposal for you." I continue, eyes on hers. "But I must warn you, it’s a bit unorthodox.”
A nervous laugh bubbles from her chest, and she twists her fingers together in her lap again. "Is it a job?"
“It’s a paid arrangement with defined terms and boundaries." It's not a job in the official sense. It doesn't come with health insurance or an office. But it does come with money. And right now, I think that's what Grace Morgan needs most.
She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, biting the sensitive flesh. I catalogue the movement, wishing it was my teeth on her lip.
“Okay, tell me.”
Leaning back in my chair, I prop one elbow on my armrest, my chin in my palm. “I have a specific need.”
“Mhm…” Again, her fingers twist together, her breathing picking up slightly. "What do you need?"
“A wife.”
Grace’s hazel eyes go wide, and her face pales. “I-I don’t understand,” she stutters. “You’re— Are you asking me to marry you?”
I blow out a long breath. “Yes.”
Her eyes pinch together as she thinks that over for at least twenty seconds. “Why?”
“The why is a longer, more personal story.” I don’t feel like diving into the details of my family and the iron-clad rules my father has put in place, and she doesn’t need to know any of that to do this job.
“You would just need to play the role of a lovely, doting fiancée and then wife.
After that, we'll have a clean divorce. You’ll be paid for your time and have access to a credit card to pay for anything you need or want during the arrangement. It should all be done by the New Year.
“Wait, wait.” Grace shakes her head a little, like she can’t understand the words coming out of my mouth. “You want to be married, but only for the year?”
“That's right.”
“I don’t understand—”
"You don't need to understand," I cut her off, maybe a bit too sharply.
Grace purses her lips and crosses her arms over her chest. “That's not fair.”
“And why is that?” I ask, holding in the laugh that wants to escape me. I don't allow anyone to talk back to me, but Grace looks like a puppy with a high-pitched bark, and something about the scene makes me smile.
“I need to know,” she says, even though she sounds unsure. “I won't simply trail after you like some obedient pet!” Her arms fling down to her lap with emphasis.
But what if I want you to be an obedient pet? I get the feeling Grace would love to be obedient for me.
I relax back in my chair, stroking my thumb along my jaw as I debate how much I’m willing to tell her. “Fine,” I relent, and she perks up. “My father has a stipulation that whoever takes over the company as CEO must be married.”
Tugging her bottom lip between her teeth, she bites down while she thinks that over.
“So, Miss Morgan, is that arrangement agreeable for you?”
“You said I’d be paid…”
Just as I thought. When you don’t have money, suddenly it becomes the most important thing in your universe.
Though, I guess even when you do have it, it’s still the most important thing. After all, I’m staging a fake proposal to be handed a billion-dollar company.
“I did. Would a million be sufficient?”
Her eyes widen comically as her jaw nearly unhinges. I can’t help but smile at her reaction.
“A million dollars?” she squeaks.
“Is there a different currency you’d like to be paid in?” I question.
“N-No.”
I like the way she stumbles over her words when I make her nervous.
“So I assume, one million in U.S. dollars is acceptable, then?”
She’s back to wringing her fingers, and her teeth gnawing at her lip once more.
“Miss Morgan?”
Her eyes flash up to meet mine. “Yes?”
“Is one million acceptable?"