The next morning Arthur invited you both to breakfast in his penthouse.
The table alone probably cost more than your parents’ house. Silver trays. Fresh fruit. Coffee poured by a woman who moved so quietly she might have been part of the architecture. Arthur studied you over the rim of his cup.
“Well?” he said.
Vivian buttered toast with steady hands. She did not look at either of you.
“Well what?” you asked.
Arthur’s gaze sharpened. “Is the arrangement acceptable?”
The old version of you would have said yes immediately. Would have taken the truck keys, the management documents, the new life, and swallowed everything else because poor men know how to survive by not asking questions. But something in the hotel room the night before had changed the weight of your own silence.
“Yes,” you said carefully. “But I want to know the actual job.”
Arthur seemed mildly amused. “You’re in no position to negotiate.”
“Maybe not,” you replied. “But if I’m managing your buildings, I need to know whether you want a husband for your daughter or a servant who signs paperwork.”
Vivian’s knife paused over the toast.
