“And walk away from my inheritance?” Slade counters without hesitation, reminding me that this has always been about money and nothing else. “I would never.”
I’ve read the contract a million times, backwards and forward, over the years, hoping I could find some kind of loophole or way out of this, but the thing is airtight. Not only that, but Slade has more to lose than I do. Should he choose not to marry me, he’d walk away from his entire inheritance, a fortune estimated to be worth just north of ninety-eight billion dollars (if Google is to be believed).
If this arrangement falls through, his father plans to dismantle Delacorte Media Group piece by piece—a fate worse than death for Slade as he’s made his family name and legacy his entire life’s purpose.
Nothing—and I mean nothing—matters more to Slade than this company, which is why Slade’s father placed a series of stipulations into the contract, stipulations that span beyond the simple marriage itself.
By our first anniversary, I’m expected to be with child—assuming there are no verifiable medical issues to prevent such a thing. Once a baby is born, Slade is slated to receive a ten percent interest in Delacorte Media Group.
By our fifth anniversary, as long as we have two children, Slade will receive another twenty-five percent.
By our tenth anniversary, as long as we’re still married, Slade will receive another fourteen percent of the company, with the other fifty-one percent controlled by a board of trustees.
By our twentieth anniversary or Victor’s death (whichever comes first)—Slade will receive the remaining shares of Delacorte Media Group.
For Slade, I’m a means to an end.
He needs me more than I need him.
My parents have, naturally, threatened disinheritance should I back out of this arrangement. While our family fortune is comfortably in the millions, it’s considerably small compared to the Delacortes’.
Our prenuptial agreement guarantees me five million dollars for each year we’re married, plus “bonuses” of twenty million per Delacorte child that I bring into the world.
While I’ve no doubt I could be happy living the simple life and I’m fully capable of figuring things out on my own and making my own way in this world, I know I could bring about more change and make differences in people’s lives—and the world—with a bank account that size. In that regard, I’m choosing to look at the one and only bright side that comes with spending the next twenty years as Mrs. Slade Delacorte.
That, and I’ve always wanted to be a mom.
Slade might be a bona fide prick ninety-nine point nine percent of the time, but having him as a father would be like setting my future children up to win the genetic lottery. He’s intellectually brilliant. Driven. Athletic. And beautiful. Not to mention, he’d ensure the entire world was at their fingertips. What mother wouldn’t want that for her babies?
I’ll have to work double time to keep them humble, of course, but I have no doubt it’s doable—especially if I involve them in my philanthropic efforts. I’m thinking we could start out with an animal sanctuary and expand into affordable housing for the masses before launching a nationwide campaign to ban harmful chemicals from American foods.
I’ve got a long list …
All I have to do is marry the man sitting next to me.
“Have you ever been in love?” I ask him the question that’s been on my mind the most lately. The closer we get to the big day, the more I’ve been grappling with the notion that I’ve yet to know what it’s like to love or be loved, and marrying him means I may not get the privilege of knowing what that feels like for at least twenty more years.
“Never.” He takes a drink of wine, his lips pressing flat as his eyes squint. “You?”
I shake my head. The crackle of the fire and the darkness that engulfs us makes this moment seem more intimate than it probably is, and I’m tempted to confess to him I’m still a virgin, that I’ve only ever kissed a small handful of guys before. But instead, I swallow my words and decide to play my cards close to my chest as I’ve done all along with him.
There’s an intelligence about this man that’s as unsettling as it is sexy.
The last thing I should be doing is exposing my vulnerabilities unless I want him to play me like a fiddle.
“There’s more to life than things like love.” There’s a hint of confidence in his tone. Or maybe it’s arrogance. “Besides, they say romantic love lasts a minimum of three years. It’s just a phase fueled by hormones and novelty.”
“How could you possibly know that if you’ve never experienced it before?” I ask.
“Your argument is weak. I don’t have to murder someone to know that killing is a bad thing or that I have no desire to commit such an act.”
“Apples and oranges.”
“We’re all entitled to our opinions. You asked mine and I gave it to you.” He downs the rest of his wine in one swallow before abandoning the empty chalice on the side table. “It’s getting late.”
“It’s barely 9 PM. I’d hardly call that late.”
“Spoken like a true night owl,” says the man who wakes up at 5 AM on the dot without an alarm.
I imagine the next twenty years will be filled with plenty of lonely late nights … might as well get used to them now.
Pulling my throw blanket tighter around me, I remain planted in my seat by the fireplace. It’s not like he needs me to show him to the guest room. There’s no one else around. No need for us to waste our precious energy with phony displays of kindness.
“How bad do you think it’s going to be?” I ask before he leaves.
He stops in his tracks. “Excuse me?”
“Our loveless marriage,” I clarify. “How bad do you think it’s going to be?”
Slade mulls my question with a moment of silence.
“Bad is the wrong word,” he says. “It’s not going to be bad so much as it’s going to be the hardest thing either one of us has ever done.”
I’m not sure what I was expecting him to say, but it wasn’t that.
I nurse the remaining ounce of wine in my glass and ponder his words—and our future.
“What if it doesn’t have to be hard?” I ask. “What if we can find a way to make it easier?”
Slade’s full lips curl up at the side as he rakes his hand through his thick dark hair, and I can’t help but notice the veins popping from his forearms. In the corner of my mind, I picture those hands in my hair and those muscled arms holding me tight.
“What?” I ask. “What’s so funny?”
“Your optimism,” he says. “Goodnight, Campbell.”
.
Slade—
Sorry to hear about your cat. Next time maybe don’t let it wander outside and then no one will steal it?
Campbell (age 9)
Campbell—
You’re dumb and you have no idea what you’re talking about.
Slade (age 10)
Slade—Maybe it was trying to run away on purpose? That’s what I would do if I was your cat.
Campbell (age 9)