Chapter Eight
MICHAEL
I knew very well that my request was not the most conventional. Especially for me, in fact.
I had never in my life imagined myself proposing to a woman, and even if I did, it wouldn't be with someone I barely knew and whose most intimate contact had been a ridiculous little dance in an elevator, as well as a few kisses and wandering hands. Nothing more than that.
But still, I expected her to have some reaction.
Any reaction.
But she simply didn't react at all. She just seemed to freeze, staring at me. She didn't even blink.
“Did you hear what I said?” I tried.
She finally blinked a few times, as if processing those words. Until, finally, she said something, pointing her index finger at me in fury.
“I knew it! This whole story about taking the promotion away from Smith and giving it to me, I knew there would be blackmail in return.”
What? Who did that woman think I was?
Well... she might have thought I was like my father. It was the kind of 'exchange' he used to do frequently with his female employees: promotions and salary increases in exchange for sexual favors.
I wasn't like my father, though. But she couldn't have known that. So, I tried to stay calm as I explained, “There is no blackmail. Nothing will change my decision; the position is yours.”
“And why did you do that, then?”
“Because he stole your work. I just did what was right.”
“And you believed that so easily, just from the little you heard of my discussion with him?”
“Not just because of that. We talked about it Friday night, remember? Right after I joined you at the bar.”
She rolled her eyes, seeming to force her mind to remember that conversation. And I guess it worked, because a look of dread settled over her face.
“Didn't I happen to call you...”
“ Asshole ? Yeah, you did.”
“Oh my God... That's not a very polite or sensible way to refer to one’s boss.”
“We weren't boss and employee then, only two people drinking and talking. And don't worry, despite the initial insult, we soon got along well.”
Her face turned completely red, giving me a hint that she was embarrassed by my last sentence.
Well, actually, that wasn't my intention. I actually used the 'we got along' associated with the fact that we were soon chatting in a relaxed manner, laughing together, and even dancing.
That last part made me feel awkward too.
I cleared my throat, getting back to the subject:
“Why would I blackmail you into becoming my bride?”
“Because I also remember why you bought me that ring. I was drunk and I said that only with a serious commitment would I... Ugh, that's beside the point. I was out of my right mind, now that stupid analogy won't work.”
“Do you think I want to... No! For the love of God, I'm not using the term "getting engaged" as an analogy to get you into bed. You can rest assured, because nothing will happen between us.”
She crossed her arms in front of her and her head lolled to the side.
“Then I don't understand what you're getting at.”
I pointed to the armchairs in front of my table, already knowing that this was a conversation we should have a little more calmly, so that there would be no more misunderstandings.
“Why don't you sit down?”
“I'm fine right here. Tell me what you want from me.”
“I really want you to become my bride, but...”
She interrupted me, not allowing me to finish:
“You're not going to say you fell in love with me over night, are you? For God's sake, no way, I know your reputation very well.”
Everyone knew my reputation. This was exactly my biggest problem at the moment.
“That’s the reputation I’m trying to change. Listen, Collins… I want you to pretend to be my fiancée. That’s it. It’ll be fake. All you’ll have to do is wear a ring, show up with me to a few events—just for three months. That’s all. We don’t need to be close; nothing has to happen between us.”
Again, she seemed to freeze, as if she was mentally going over every word I had said and trying to find some reason in them.
I didn't blame her, after all. It wasn't something you heard every day.
Before she could finish, however, I decided to give her a little nudge with the counterpart for that favor, “My offer is five hundred thousand dollars, for three months pretending to be my fiancée.”
She coughed, as if she had choked on the proposal. Had she thought it was too little? I could increase it if she wanted.
“You want to pay me half a million dollars to spend three months pretending we're engaged?”
“Yes.”
‘Without any obligation of intimacy?”
“None.”
“And in exchange for what?”
“I’ve already told you; I need to change my image.”
“Why me ?”
“Because someone filmed us on Friday night, going to the hotel room together, and leaving on Saturday morning.”
She put her hands to her head, looking worried.
“What do you mean they filmed it? Are they going to put it on the internet? My God, if this gets to my grandmother...”
What did her grandmother have to do with anything?
I didn't want to be selfish, but... gosh, the focus here was on me .
Okay, maybe it sounded a bit selfish when I said it like that. That's why I suppressed that thought. The attribute of 'selfishness' was part of the bad reputation that I needed to clean up at any cost.
“No one is going to send anything to your grandmother. Your grandmother has no relevance whatsoever.”
She pointed her index finger at me again, furious. I guess I had made a poor choice of words.
“Repeat that one more time and I'll leave here straight to a police station to report you for harassment and for trying to bribe me.”
For God's sake, the last thing I needed was a complaint against me.
I took a deep breath, trying to get my own ideas in order. I had started this whole thing off in a bad way, and I needed to fix it.
“Please, Camila, let's sit down and I'll explain everything to you.”
“Explain what? None of this makes any sense. You know what? I quit. I’m grabbing my stuff and walking out of here before you say something worse and we end up with a much bigger problem.”
She turned, starting to walk towards the elevator.
But I couldn’t let her walk away. Things were already bad enough for me, and they’d only get worse if the woman I’d been caught heading to a hotel room with after a night of drinking—who also happened to be my employee—ended up quitting on the first business day after it all happened.
I could already imagine the kind of argument those bloodthirsty hellhound lawyers would use against me.
I needed to make Collins understand how serious and important this all was.
She was already reaching the elevator when I declared, practically shouting, “I have a daughter.”
And I thanked the heavens that my statement had made her stop.