CHAPTER 3 #2
I could start over. I wouldn't have to sleep on a couch that smells like wet dog. I wouldn't have to start from zero. I could take my life back.
"And what do I have to do for this 'consulting fee'?" I ask, looking up at him suspiciously. "Because nobody hands over this kind of money just to annoy their little brother."
Malcolm’s dark eyes lock onto mine. The temperature in the room seems to drop.
"You are going to put my ring on your finger," he says slowly, every word carrying a heavy, undeniable weight.
"You are going to stand by my side at every Vance family event for the next six months.
You are going to smile at the cameras, you are going to look at me like I am the center of your universe, and you are going to let Simon realize that the woman he threw away is now untouchable. "
I stop breathing for a second.
Fake dating. He wants to fake an engagement.
"You want to parade me around your family," I say, my brain struggling to catch up with the sheer audacity of the plan. "Simon will lose his mind. He hates losing things, even things he threw away."
"Exactly." A dark, dangerous smirk touches the corner of Malcolm’s mouth. "He will unravel. He will make mistakes. And when he does, I will dismantle his real estate portfolio piece by piece."
It’s brilliant. It’s petty, vicious, and absolutely brilliant.
But I am not an idiot. I spent four years dealing with contractors and corporate landlords. I know how to read the fine print.
I flip to page four. Section 4, Paragraph 2.
Residential Requirement.
I read the paragraph twice. A hot flush of anger creeps up my neck. I drop the contract onto the coffee table and glare at him.
"Absolutely not," I say, my voice hard.
Malcolm doesn't blink. "Is there a problem with the terms?"
"You want me to move into your penthouse?" I point at the paper. "Today? Are you out of your mind? I’m not living with you."
"We are announcing an engagement, Audrey. The media will be watching. My father will be watching. If we maintain separate residences, the narrative falls apart in forty-eight hours."
"I don't know you!" I throw my hands up, the frustration finally breaking through my defensive sarcasm. "You tracked my car like a serial killer, you broke into my friend's apartment—"
"I knocked," he interrupts calmly.
"—and now you expect me to pack my bags and move into the lair of the Devil of Chicago? No. Dealbreaker. I'll fake the smiles. I'll wear the ring. But I need my own space."
Malcolm goes completely still.
The relaxed, indifferent posture vanishes. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. The physical distance between us shrinks, and I am sharply aware of how large he is. How much power is coiled beneath the expensive fabric of his suit.
"Let me explain how this works," he says, his voice so quiet it’s almost a whisper.
"My father, Preston Vance, is not a fool.
He employs a team of private investigators to vet anyone who enters our family circle.
If you live in this apartment, he will find a way to intimidate you.
He will send people to follow you. He will make your life a living hell until you break. "
He tilts his head, his dark eyes stripping away my defenses layer by layer.
"But if you are in my penthouse," he continues, "you are behind my security doors. You are under my protection. No one in my family will dare to approach you without my permission. Not my father. And certainly not Simon."
I bite the inside of my cheek. The metallic taste of fear and adrenaline coats my tongue.
He’s right. I know he’s right. Simon locked me out of my office using a loophole in a contract I didn't read carefully enough. The Vance family plays dirty, and I don't have the armor to survive them on my own.
But moving in with Malcolm Vance feels like trading a cage for a tighter, more dangerous one.
"I have conditions," I say stubbornly, lifting my chin.
Malcolm’s eyes gleam with something that looks dangerously like amusement. "Name them."
I grab a cheap plastic pen from the coffee table. "First. No non-compete clause. If I want to take on freelance design clients while we do this, you don't own my professional time." I cross out a line on page six with a sharp scratch of ink.
He nods slowly. "Acceptable."
"Second." I flip back to the residential clause. "I get my own bedroom. A lock on the door. And if you ever try to use this fake relationship to leverage me into... anything physical, I walk away, and I keep the money."
Malcolm’s gaze drops to my mouth for a fraction of a second. It’s so fast I almost miss it, but my stomach tightens involuntarily.
When he looks back up at my eyes, his expression is unreadable. "I don't need to leverage women into my bed, Audrey. You will have your own room. Your privacy will be respected."
He says it with such absolute, arrogant certainty that I want to throw the glass of water at him. Instead, I grip the pen tighter.
"Fine."
I flip to the last page. My hand is shaking again, but this time, it’s not from the hangover. It’s from the terrifying realization that I am actually going to do this. I am going to sell my soul to get my life back.
I press the pen to the paper and sign my name on the dotted line.
The moment the ink sets, the atmosphere in the room shifts. The hypothetical game is over. We are bound.
I toss the pen onto the table and push the contract toward him. "There. We have a deal."
Malcolm doesn't take the contract immediately. He reaches out and picks up the plastic pen I just used. His large fingers turn it over once, deliberately slow.
"A car will be downstairs at four o'clock this afternoon," he says, his tone shifting from negotiator to commander. "My security team will handle your luggage. Do not bring the Honda. We will have it moved to a secure garage."
"I can drive myself," I argue, hating the feeling of my independence being stripped away piece by piece.
"You are the fiancée of Malcolm Vance now," he says, standing up. He towers over me, blocking out the sunlight from the window. "You do not drive a ten-year-old Civic with a dented bumper. You travel with security."
I cross my arms, refusing to look intimidated. "Are you always this controlling?"
Malcolm looks down at me. For a moment, the cold, calculating mask slips, and I see the raw, dangerous intensity underneath. It’s the same look he had in the bar right before he told me to keep my money.
"You haven't seen me controlling yet, Audrey," he murmurs.
He turns and walks toward the door. He doesn't look back. He just opens it, steps out into the hallway, and closes it quietly behind him.
The click of the lock echoes in the small apartment.
I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding, my entire body sagging against the sofa cushions.
The bedroom door creaks open. Vivian pokes her head out, looking from the empty doorway to the contract sitting on the coffee table.
"Did you just sell your soul to the mafia?" Vivian asks, her voice pitched high with panic.
I look down at the black business card, then at the signature on the legal document. My heart is hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
"No," I whisper, pressing my thumb against the edge of the paper. "I think I just sold it to the devil. And I have to pack."