Chapter 6
POV: Camille ?
The invitation came in the most Michael Vanderbilt way possible. Not in a text, not in a call but in an email. A single line—no greeting, no signature, just—“Meet me tonight at the Atrium at 9:00 pm in booth 7.”
It read less like an invitation and more like a command.
And against every rational thought screaming in my head, I found myself standing outside at The Atrium at 8:58 pm, tugging self consciously at the hem of my red dress.
The Atrium wasn’t your average Manhattan bar. From the outside, it was discreet, almost unnoticeable since it was tucked between a boutique hotel and a jewelry shop. Inside, though, it was all moody lighting and shadowed spaces.
Even in the dim light, it wasn’t hard to find him.
Because Michael Vanderbilt didn’t blend in.
He was already seated in a secluded corner booth with his back to the wall like he owned not just the bar, but the city itself.
A glass of something amber colored rested in front of him.
His dark brown hair was perfectly in place, his jaw sculpted enough to look perfect, and that lean, muscular frame filled the booth like it had been made for him.
When his eyes found mine, it felt like the air shifted in weight.
There it was again.
That laser focus. And suddenly my carefully rehearsed speech about “needing more time to think” evaporated into shadows.
I slid into the booth across from him, trying to appear nonchalant even though I knew that I looked anything but.
“You’re punctual,” he said, a slight smile curved at his lips.
“Law school trains you for punctuality,” I replied, trying to hide my nerves. “Be late to class, and the Socratic method will eat you alive.”
His lips turned up a bit. “Good, I like punctuality.”
“And control..I imagine,” I added, arching a brow and all but scoffing.
And that sure got his attention.
Something flickered in his eyes—amusement maybe.
“Control,” he repeated, like he was tasting the word. “Yes, control matters.”
A server appeared cutting into our tense moment by setting down a glass of red wine in front of me before I’d even spoken.
My brows shot up. “Did you just order for me?”
He shrugged like it was nothing. “Cabernet. You strike me as a woman who doesn’t like unnecessary sweetness.”
I blinked in disbelief. “So what, you read wine lists and people now?”
“I make it my business to understand what people want,” he said smoothly.
I wrapped my fingers around the glass, it was movement that was more to ground myself than anything else.
“Well, you’re not wrong.”
“I rarely am.”
We sat in silence for a moment, sipping our drinks but the weight of his gaze never left me, and though it should have unnerved me, it didn’t.
It anchored me.
Finally, he slid a sleek black leather folder across the table.
The Contract.
Black leather and embossed MV initials.
“You already know what this is,” he said as his gaze locked on mine.
“Six months,” I whispered, fingertips grazing the front of the leather folder. “Companionship. Discretion. Intimacy.”
“And compensation,” he reminded me. “Generous compensation, that will be enough to erase your debts, secure your future, and give you room to breathe.”
“You make it sound so…businesslike.”
“It is a business,” he said simply as though he never considered otherwise. “Every relationship is, at its core. This one just has clearer terms.”
“Terms that make me sound like an employee,” I countered.
His eyes glinted. “You already are, Camille.”
That shut me up.
He leaned forward with his elbows braced on the table. “Tell me the truth,” he asked softly, almost as if he thought it would entice me into agreeing. “What’s holding you back?”
I stared at him and I couldn’t look away. “Maybe the fact that this is insane?”
“Insane,” he echoed, lips curving faintly as he laughed quietly. “Or honest? I don’t waste time with pretense. I know what I want and I know what I’m offering and I know what you need.”
“You sound awfully sure of yourself. I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard the word ‘no’ in your life?”
“Once or twice.” His mouth curved into a smirk. “But never from a woman who kept looking at me the way you’re looking at me now.”
Heat bloomed across my cheeks and I felt my core wetting.
I shook my head. “I’m not—”
“Yes, you are.” His interruption was soft but certain.
Damn him.
I forced myself to look away and down at the folder.
“You think this will solve everything,” I said finally, fingers tightening around the edge of the folder.
“I know it will. Money is freedom, Camille. You’ve been caged by debt for years and I’m offering you the key.”
I lifted my gaze to his, steady now despite the havoc wrecking inside me. “And the cost?”
His tongue ran over his lips, wetting them and almost making me drool. “Me.”
It was reckless, dangerous and completely unprofessional.
And yet, I couldn’t look away.
I flipped the folder open. The contract was pristine and every clause was outlined. There were dates, expectations and terms of discretion. There was even an exit clause, though the penalties for breaking it made my stomach flip.
And at the bottom, two blank lines waited.
His name and mine.
“You make this sound so easy,” I murmured, not looking up at him.
His gaze never wavered. “I didn’t say it would be easy. I said it would be worth it.”
The server returned and set down another glass for him.
“I could walk away right now,” I said, almost daring him.
“You could.” He sipped his drink, calm as ever, as if he knew I wouldn’t dare. “But you won’t.”
“And why not?”
His smirk returned. “Because you’ve already decided, you just haven’t admitted it to yourself yet.”
Damn him again, he was right.
I stared at the contract and at the clean white page that could alter the entire trajectory of my life.
Debt-free.
But also bound.
Bound to him—to Michael Vanderbilt.
I picked up the pen as it shook unsteadily in my hand. “Six months,” I whispered almot to myself.
“Six months,” he confirmed.
“Nothing more?”
“Nothing less.”
And then, with a trembling hand, I signed my life away.
Michael reached across the table as I slid the folder back towards him, and his fingers brushed mine. “Welcome aboard, Camille.”
I stared down at the ink that sealed my fate.
Six months.
Six months that could ruin me or save me.
And as his eyes held mine I realized something terrifying.
The money might erase my debt.
But Michael Vanderbilt?
He might erase me.