Chapter 12

Kimberly

I didn’t see Yaroslav again yesterday after his abrupt exit after we had sex. I can’t help but feel a little wounded and used that he just got dressed and left me like that. At the time, having sex in the kitchen felt hot and spontaneous but standing there half-naked and alone, feeling his seed dripping down my thigh, I suddenly felt ashamed and confused by his treatment of me. I know that I’m more or less only here for his entertainment as a ‘companion’ but there’s no need for him to disrespect me.

I half expected him to come and see me last night, to apologize or something. But he didn’t. At dinner time, a kindly and sympathetic Alheri came to my room, she said that Yaroslav was out so I would need to dine alone and asked if I wanted my dinner in my room or downstairs. I chose the former option, not wanting to go near the kitchen again just yet and preferring the safety of my room. I asked her to join me, but as I expected, she refused.

When Alheri came to me this morning, she told me that Yaroslav would like me to join him for breakfast. After confirming I’m happy to make my own way to the kitchen, she makes a hasty retreat. I take my time getting dressed, the bastard can wait for me after the stunt he pulled yesterday.

I opt for a lemon-yellow summer dress with a ruffled bust and a Bardot neckline. I toy with the idea of doing something different with my hair but immediately dismiss it, I don’t have time, so I quickly twist the sides and pop a couple of yellow barrettes in for effect. I wear the Converse again, opting for comfort, and minimal makeup with a slick of peach lip gloss that makes my lips look very kissable, if I say so myself. The look is sexy enough that I hope it will show Yaroslav what he’s missing without being slutty or over the top—I’m determined to stay immune to his charms today. If he wants to be a tease and run hot and cold on me, then two can play that game.

When I enter the kitchen, I stand there for a moment, confused. There’s no breakfast to be seen, and more importantly, no Yaroslav. It’s only when he comes in through the sliding doors that I notice the table on the outside patio has been laid.

As always, he looks devastatingly handsome. He’s forgone a suit today and is wearing chinos and a blue and white striped shirt. He’s rolled the sleeves up, showing off his tanned forearms, and has left the top three buttons undone to reveal a hint of chest hair. Somehow, he looks just as confident and formidable in his casual attire as he does in a suit.

“Good morning, did you sleep well?” he asks casually, as though nothing out of the ordinary happened yesterday.

“Yes,” I reply curtly.

“Good. I thought we’d eat outside on the veranda as it’s such a nice day,” he says, gesturing to the fully laden table just outside. Beyond it, I can see the fabulous swimming pool and perfectly manicured gardens.

I shrug noncommittally, “Whatever you want, it’s your house.”

If he notices my frostiness, he doesn’t let on. He simply nods and leads the way to the table outside. As well as the continental-style options I was provided with for breakfast yesterday, there are now pancakes, eggs, bacon, and sausages.

Judging by Yaroslav’s honed physique, I doubt he’s in the habit of eating this sort of stuff, so someone’s gone to a lot of effort just for me. Unsurprisingly, he tucks into some granola, fruit, and scrambled eggs but steers clear of the less healthy options. Torn, I contemplate what to have. On the one hand, if I eat the unhealthy stuff, will that mean they think that’s what I want and make it every day for me? But, if I don’t eat it, it will go to waste, and someone spent an awful lot of time making all this.

I give in and decide to live a little, opting for all of the new breakfast items. It’s not often I can afford to eat like this. Yaroslav watches me, his expression unreadable.

“This is just a treat for today, I’d hate for it to go to waste,” I explain. “But please, there’s no need for all this,” I say gesturing at the spread, “I usually just have cereal or toast for breakfast, if I eat at all. Half the time, coffee is all I want.”

He nods, “Understood.”

We dig in, eating our food in an awkward silence. Well, I feel awkward, Yaroslav is his usual calm and collected self. As we finish our meals and the plates are taken away, he produces an envelope and hands it to me.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get this to you sooner, my lawyers drew it up, it’s just a standard NDA and basic contractual agreement. I thought it prudent for us to have something more formal.”

“An NDA?” I ask, confused.

“Non-Disclosure Agreement,” he explains, wiping his mouth with a napkin and leaning back casually in his chair.

“I know what an NDA is, it just seems a bit… extreme,” I reply.

“I’m a wealthy man, people in my position need to take extra precautions that may seem over the top but are an unfortunate necessity,” he reasons.

I suppose he has a point, while I don’t know much about his business, I imagine if he’s a big enough deal that there’s a risk of me running to the press and selling a story. That wouldn’t be a good image for him if it was phrased in the wrong way. I flick through the NDA, it seems pretty straightforward, so I take the pen from him and sign. The contract is a little more complex and I take my time reading it.

Most of it is pretty much what we’ve discussed about me spending time with him in exchange for the money he’s already spent paying off medical bills, covering loss of earnings, and putting Gran in a care home for the duration of my stay. However, I come across an unexpected addition.

“It says here you have the right to automatically extend the stay for another two weeks. We agreed on two weeks,” I state, glaring at him defiantly.

“Yes, but you’re just so charming, two weeks might not be enough,” he replies teasingly. “It’s more of a just in case. We can remove it if the thought of being here for any longer is so abhorrent to you.” His collected demeanor slips slightly, and I suspect I’ve wounded his pride.

“It’s not that. I just have responsibilities. There’s no way I can just drop everything for that long. Two weeks is pushing it,” I explain, biting my lip anxiously.

“The same rules of making sure your employment is secure, your grandmother is taken care of, and that you are financially compensated apply. I would have thought that would be preferable to you than going home,” he states.

“Just because I’m poor doesn’t mean you can buy me or that my life is somehow less important or unfulfilling. Besides, this fantasy has to end sometime. Did it ever occur to you that the longer I live like this,” I gesture around at the mansion grounds, “The harder it might be to return to the banality of normal life?”

He has the decency to look chagrined. “You’re right. I apologize. We can remove it if you wish. It’s totally up to you, I would only want you to stay longer if you felt the same way. You’re free to leave at any time, even before the end of the agreed two weeks, should you wish.”

Placated, and searching his eyes for any dishonesty and finding none, I nod. “It can stay, as long as we understand that both of us have to agree to it.”

“Of course,” he replies smoothly.

I continue to read. Before long I come across another section that we most certainly haven’t discussed before.

“It says here I am legally and contractually obligated to take STI tests, be on some form of contraception, and that I cannot sleep with anyone or date anyone else while I’m here,” I summarize aloud.

“That’s correct,” he says, without a hint of irony in his voice.

“Don’t you think it would have been prudent to check if I am on contraception, have any STIs, or am currently dating anyone before we had sex?” I state, raising an eyebrow at him.

“It would have, but we can’t change the past. I could say the same of you,” he points out, meeting me with that steely gaze.

He has a point. “Yes, but I’m not the one asking you to sign a legally binding contract.”

“Is there an issue with this then? Are you currently dating? Not on contraception? Do you have a sexual disease I should be aware of or some sort of moral opposition to taking tests?” he asks, frustratingly reasonably.

“No of course not. I wouldn’t have agreed to this or slept with you otherwise,” I reply frustratedly.

“Well then, I see no reason why this should be an issue for you,” he states deadpan, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. “I will of course be subject to the same stipulations if this is your concern. If you wish for me to wear condoms, I can. I will not disrespect you by dating while you’re here. And I can assure you I am disease-free and regularly tested.”

If I’m being honest, part of my issue was this, he was asking it of me but wouldn’t do the same in return. That he’d be out dating and fucking while I’m here, or that he’d refuse to wear a condom if I said I wasn’t on contraception. I don’t want to admit it to him though.

“Fine. It stays.”

Again, I fall silent, reading the final page of the contract.

“Wait, what the fuck is this!” I exclaim. “If I fall pregnant with your child, I have to sign over all rights to you as the primary caregiver?” My mouth pops open, eyebrows shooting up as I look at him in shock.

He remains passive. With a shrug, he replies, “If you’re on contraception, this shouldn’t be an issue for you. It’s not going to happen.”

“Well, yes but, I mean… there’s always a slim chance,” I sputter. I get the contraceptive injection every three months, so I’m not overly concerned, but still.

“Yes. And in the event of that slim chance, I would be the natural choice to raise the child. I have the finances and stability to do so,” his tone is steely, as though he isn’t going to budge on this.

“I don’t give a fuck how rich you are, you can’t buy babies and expect mothers to sign them over without a thought!” I pick up the contract papers, flicking them with my hand in frustration.

“There are many women in this situation who would deliberately try to deceive me and fall pregnant in order to get access to my fortune, I am merely trying to protect myself from that. As I said, I do not envisage this scenario happening,” he calmly and patiently explains.

“I am not one of those people and there’s no way I’m signing this. I don’t want a child. But if by some miracle I fell pregnant, I would never abandon them. Not for any amount of money in the world. You can add in a clause that I don’t get a penny of your money beyond the standard minimum child support or hell, nothing at all if you don’t want them in your life. But I will not sign this,” I declare, slamming the paper down for effect and fixing him with a stern glare of my own. “And how dare you accuse me or assume otherwise. I will not have you question my integrity or think that just because you’re rich, you’re better than me. If you do, we can end this right now and I will pay you back every cent owed over time,” I hiss.

A look of respect crosses his face, and he slowly nods. “You’re right. I apologize. I’m afraid my business has made me a skeptic. I did not mean to offend you or imply I am better than you. I will amend this as you wish.”

His apology takes the wind out of my sails. “Thank you,” I reply.

We sit in awkward silence for a moment. He takes the contract from me, scribbling in the margins the amendments we discussed before calling over one of his men and instructing them to give it to his lawyer to fix.

“I spoke with the hospital this morning, your grandmother will be discharged today and moved to the private care home we discussed. I thought perhaps you would like to visit her and accompany her to the care home?” he states, metaphorically proffering an olive branch.

“Yes, I would,” I reply gratefully. “What will you do while I’m there?” I ask.

“I thought I would accompany you if that’s alright with you? And after that, would you want to come back here with me?” he asks cautiously, seemingly worried I want to leave and end our agreement after this discussion.

“Yes, that’s fine by me,” I reply, grateful that he’s given me the option of refusing.

I don’t think it will be an issue for him to meet Gran, she’ll probably love him, but if she’s in a bad way, he can wait outside. I don’t think I could handle the embarrassment or seeing him pity me.

“So, you will stay?” he asks, his tone almost hopeful.

In this moment, the cool businessman demeanor slips, and he seems almost vulnerable, I can’t help but soften toward him because of it.

“Yes, I’ll stay,” I concede with a small smile.

Perhaps it’s a terrible idea and I should just cut my losses and run now. I’m way over my head. Regardless of a contract, I’ve no doubt a man like Yaroslav Volkov always gets what he wants, one way or another. And yet, I want to stay. I feel drawn to him, like a moth to a flame. I don’t care if I might get burned.