10. Emily

Ifeel the pressure of the clock as I go through my day. My whole shift at Cucina, I think about telling Ethan to get in touch with Simon, but whenever I feel myself starting to break down, I find some reason to hold back.

I picture my father's face as I try to explain why I got married to a stranger. I imagine what's left of my father's pride crumbling as a man he doesn't know pays all his bills. Every time I think that maybe five years isn't all that long, and ten grand per month is worth my dignity, I force myself to stop and remember my father crying over a picture album, at the lowest he's ever been, because of men like Simon.

They offer the world. That's what they did to my dad. They made him promises, so many promises, and all he had to do was send a little more money, just a little bit more, and all their problems would disappear, and my father would become a very wealthy man. Just do a little more, just go a little further.

Until one day my father raised his head and saw that he'd gone too far, and he had nothing left.

Simon will do the same to me. He's promising money, he's promising comfort and security, but there will be catches and clauses and always more to give. I can't do that to myself. I can't do that to my father, either.

I keep my mouth shut. I go home, get a little sleep, start the next day. I make bagels, fry eggs, cook bacon, and smell like sandwiches. I shower off, put on my blacks, and head into Cucina.

It's the second day and my last chance.

"You seem twitchy tonight," Rachel comments on our break. She's smoking away and texting like her thumbs are about to fall off. "What's the deal? You keep looking at the door like you expect someone."

She's right, I keep staring at the entrance hoping Simon will swoop in, hoping that he'll take this decision away from me, but he doesn't. He's not going to. That's not the kind of man Simon is. He needs his victims to come to him.

"I'm totally fine. Just one of those nights."

"God, don't I know it." She rolls her eyes, puts her phone aside, and launches into a story about how Danny got in a fight with the Domino's delivery guy, which makes me hate Danny even more and also start to question her taste in both men and pizza. I'm not sure which is worse.

The night continues. I get tips, run food, take orders, do my damn job. I think about Simon constantly, but I force myself to stay clear of Ethan. When it's time to close, I throw myself into the work just to make the time go faster, and when that's done, I practically run to my car.

Simon's not there.

I'm disappointed. Honestly, I expected him to be sitting behind the driver's seat again, taunting me. Instead, it's just my car, with the stale gum in the center console and the sticky Diet Coke stains in the cup holders. No Simon, no suits, no husband, no future.

It's not happening.

And on my drive back to my apartment, I keep thinking about my father sitting alone in his room sobbing over a bunch of old photographs.

He doesn't deserve to feel this way. If I could hunt down the people that did this to him, I'd kill them all, and I wouldn't even hesitate. Dad was always a good person, outgoing and generous to a fault, and now someone took advantage of him in his old age. They stole everything. They dangled lies, they manipulated, and they took far more than money.

But it's too late. Two days have come and gone, and I made my choice.

As I head up to my apartment and unlock the door, I wonder if I can live with it.

Right up until I spot Simon sitting on my couch and start screaming.

"You're going to wake the neighbors," he says with a casual smirk and it's his completely calm demeanor that snaps me out of my sudden fight-or-flight mode.

"What the fuck, Simon!" I throw my keys at him, really winging them at his face, and he dodges with a laugh as I slam my door behind me. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I'm here for your answer." He stretches his legs out, and a stab of embarrassment jolts into my core. His feet nearly touch the TV console against the wall opposite, and I'm very aware of my shabby little apartment: sitting area on the left, miniscule kitchen in the middle, and a combination of bedroom and curtained-off bathroom to the right. It's the definition of efficiency.

"You could've called like a normal person." I storm over to my refrigerator and take out a four-day-old bottle of rosé, pour myself a glass, and down it in two gulps, not really caring if it tastes stale. Alcohol is alcohol.

"I don't have your number."

Now he's just fucking with me. "You have my credit score, dickhead. You have my number."

He shrugs like that's neither here nor there. "What do you think, topolina? Are you going to be my wife?" He gets up and I bite my lip to keep from groaning. It's the way he said that word wife, and the way he's looking at me like he wants to pin me down and take me like it's our honeymoon here and now.

Which also terrifies me, because Simon's absolutely enormous. His size is only underscored by how tiny my apartment is. This place wasn't built for a man like him, and I'm forced to move back toward my bed just to put some space between us.

"It's really hard to want to trust you when you keep breaking into my stuff." I rub my face with both hands and suck in a deep breath, trying to calm myself down. It doesn't work.

"This isn't about trust. This is about business." He leans casually in front of my kitchen sink. We're six feet apart, at most. He could reach out and grab me if he wanted to. "You get something you want, I get something I want. That's more important than trust. I won't betray my own self-interests."

I give him a hard look. "Assuming you're being honest about what this is all about. How do I know you aren't going to, like, drain my bank account? Or human traffic me?"

"If I wanted to sell you to sex slavers in Eastern Europe, I'd shove a pair of panties in your mouth and drag you to my car right now. You'd be gone on a ship bound for distant, morally flexible ports by the time the sun came up."

My heart races into my throat because he said that like he's done it before.

"Okay, great, you're not sex trafficking me. That's a huge relief." I'm not kidding about that—it really is a relief. "We're going to be partners, right? And yet you keep violating my space like you have zero concern for me as a person."

He tilts his head as if he's never considered the idea of personal space in his entire life. "We can't exactly have these discussions in public, baby. I don't want anyone to know what I have planned until you're wearing my ring."

I hold up a hand. "Don't call me baby."

"Marry me and I'll stop."

I stare at the ceiling. Somehow, I doubt that'll happen. "What if I made demands?" I ask, not even sure where I'm going with this but curious about what he'll say.

"Go ahead." He makes a dismissive gesture. "I can be accommodating and very attentive to your needs."

I raise my eyebrows. I'm pretty sure that's an innuendo, but I decide to let it go. "First, my dad can't find out."

"That'll be pretty hard. You know, on account of you living with me and carrying my child."

"No, asshole, I mean about the money." A strange tingle fills my core at the thought of sleeping in his bed. Get it together, Emily, you're not spooning with this mafia psychopath, you're just making a bargain with a devil, that's all. "He can't know where the money comes from. I don't want him to know that I married you to help him, ever."

He presses his perfect lips together and tilts his head side to side. "That'll be complicated, but it's doable. What else do you want?"

I didn't expect this to be that easy, but I start to get a little confident. I must have underestimated how much Simon wants me, but now I can see a little glimmer of hope. I'm not as powerless as I thought.

"No baby for the first year." I hold up a finger. The middle one. I'm tired, buzzed, and not mature. Whatever. "One year of bliss, then we'll do the baby thing."

He grunts and doesn't look happy. "The sooner I knock you up, the better. The baby is a big part of my plans."

"Fine. Six months."

"Four months. And when we get you pregnant, we do it the old-fashioned way." His grin is wolfish and beyond sexy. I hate him for that.

"Fine. Four months, but I turkey-baster it. You jizz in a cup and I squirt it up myself."

He cracks his neck. "How romantic. Do I at least get to watch?"

"Freak. Not going to happen."

"Fine. Done. Four months and then you artificially inseminate yourself." He waves a hand as though he doesn't care, but I can tell he's disappointed.

Simon wants to fuck me. It's a visceral and exciting realization, and honestly, not the worst thing in the world.

But I have to stay focused. "Last requirement. You take care of my father for the rest of his life. Even after the five years are up. You take care of him way beyond paying his debts."

Simon's face softens. For a second, I catch sight of the man behind the beast, and I wonder if I have him all wrong, if he's not the heartless monster I keep imagining, the vampire that's going to drain me dry.

"I promise," he says, nice and simple. "If you agree to be my wife, your father will be set for the rest of his life. I swear on my family's name."

I feel a little heady and breathless. The way Simon's looking at me is pure longing and need, and against my intuition, I believe what he's saying. He really will make sure my father has a comfortable retirement and doesn't want for anything financial ever again.

And that's when I understand.

I made my decision two days ago when I walked in on Dad crying.

I've been fighting it, trying to convince myself that Simon's a snake and he'll eat me alive, but even that doesn't matter.

Simon will ask for more. He'll keep asking for more until I have nothing left to give him.

And I'll gladly hand it all over as long as it means my father never has to sob alone in his room ever again.

"What do we do now?" I ask, my fingers numb and my cheeks feeling hot. "Do you get down on one knee and propose or something?"

He comes toward me, the enormous menace, the gorgeous, dark-suited god of chaos and discord and sex and everything dark and glorious and delicious. He's a poison apple, and I want to sink my teeth right in. Let him kill me. Go ahead, I'll die with an arched back and his name on my lips.

"Is that what you want, baby?" he asks softly. I knew the fucking baby thing was going to be a problem. Because I kind of like it. "You want to be a traditional bride? White gown, big wedding?"

"I just want to get this over with, that's all."

I just want to survive.

He stops in front of me and puts a hand against my cheek, brushing his knuckles back into my hair. I let him do it, staying still like he's about to strike.

Then I pull back.

He looks disappointed, like he wanted to grab hold, but he drops down to his knees in front of me.

I let out a startled yelp and try to get away, but he grabs my thighs and holds me down.

"Emily Hayes, will you do me the honor of being my wife?"

It's some proposal. We're alone in my pathetic apartment, and he's holding me down to keep me from squirming away.

But there's that look in his eye. That needy stare like he's doing his best not to rip my dress up and run his teeth down the front of my panties.

My god. I'm dripping wet for this guy, and it's beyond frustrating.

"If I say yes, will you let me go and get the hell out of here?"

He pouts, almost disappointed. "I thought we'd spend our first night together."

"No way in hell."

"Then say yes and I'll leave you alone. But don't get used to it."

I bite back a curse and slowly nod my head. "I'll marry you."

"That's what a man's always wanted to hear." He leans forward, his mouth coming toward me, and in my panic, I turn toward him.

I'm not sure what he was trying to do, if he was aiming for my cheek, or if he was going to whisper something in my ear, but he seems as startled as I am when his lips meet mine. For a second, we don't move, a kiss suspended, hung in mid-air, two mouths wanting each other but not sure if it's safe to keep going.

Until he pushes slightly, increasing the pressure.

And I relent a little, opening my mouth.

I taste his tongue, his warm musky, slightly grassy with a hint of whiskey bite.

Then we're kissing in earnest. I draw in a breath through my nose as he invades me, his mouth like a vortex down which I'm tumbling, and I don't want to stop falling.

Because it feels good.

This kiss, his soft lips, the pressure he exerts against my teeth, his tongue lapping along mine, and fuck, oh my god?—

That growl.

The groan of desire in the back of his throat.

And my whimpered reply.

A surge of ecstasy rolls down my spine.

I've never been kissed like this before. Hell, I've never kissed like this in my life.

I don't know why it's this man. He broke into my car. He violated my apartment. He caught me stealing, and now he thinks he can use that as leverage to push me into this marriage. He's giving me something I want, but he's using it against me.

I still want him.

Because of this kiss, the way his tongue moves, and his taste, and his hands on my hips, moving up toward my breasts?—

As abruptly as it begins, I tear myself away.

I'm breathing hard, gasping for air, and I crawl back to the top of the bed. This time, he doesn't stop me, and he doesn't follow.

He stares at me from his knees, his fingers gripping the sheets tight, his mouth open and puckered, swollen with my kiss.

"You should go," I croak because I don't trust either of us right now.

"Four months," he says as he slowly stands. I clamp a hand over my mouth to keep another whimper inside at the implication. And at the sight of his erection straining against his pants. "Then I'll kiss you like that again, and we'll see if you don't want me to fuck you."

He turns and leaves, slamming the door in his wake, and it's like my life's a pond with a brick dropped in the middle, everything rippling and roiling, and I'm not sure it'll ever calm down again.