Demanding Exclusivity

CLARA

It is Thursday morning, and as the early sunlight filters through the sheer curtains of my bedroom window, I feel a rare, unfamiliar spark of optimism blooming in my chest. For the first time in what feels like an absolute eternity, the crushing, suffocating weight of financial anxiety isn't dragging me down the moment I open my eyes. With the massive influx of money from the marriage contract finally sorted out in my mind, my entire perspective has shifted. I can entirely focus on my mom’s chemotherapy without the constant, gnawing panic of overdue bills and eviction notices clouding my thoughts.

I visit her at the hospital first thing. I walk through the sterile, bleach-scented corridors carrying a cold, condensation-covered bottle of her favourite mango juice and a small white bakery box containing a batch of freshly baked cupcakes. When I slip into her room and sit by her bed, a wave of genuine relief washes over me. She looks noticeably better today. A faint, healthy bit of colour is finally returning to her usually pale cheeks, and she seems to have more energy than she has had in weeks. She stirs awake, blinking sleep from her eyes, and a soft smile touches her lips when she sees the treats I brought.

However, my heart aches with a dull, persistent throb when her expression shifts. She looks at me, her eyes clouded with a mother's gentle worry, and hesitantly asks how Mick is doing.

Without missing a beat, I lie smoothly, the falsehood rolling off my tongue with practiced ease. I tell her he is doing absolutely fine, casually mentioning that he is staying over at Rocco’s place for a while. In absolute truth, I haven't seen the man since the violent, ugly night I kicked his pathetic ass out of the apartment. I had even gone so far as to call a locksmith the very next morning, changing all the locks just to feel a modicum of safety in my own home again. Knowing he can never just waltz back into my life brings me immense peace. Good riddance. He is a closed chapter, and I refuse to let him ruin this morning for me.

After pressing a warm, lingering kiss to her forehead and saying a cheerful goodbye, I leave the hospital and head straight to the office to face my boss—and soon-to-be husband.

Taking a long, deep breath in the elevator to steady my racing pulse, I mentally brace myself for the encounter. I push open the heavy glass door to Mr. Bancroft’s office and walk right up to his massive, imposing desk. He is seated in his leather chair, looking exactly as he always does. Without a word of hesitation, I slide the fully signed contract across the polished mahogany surface.

He picks it up. His sharp hazel eyes quickly scan the bottom of the page to verify my signature, lingering on the black ink for a fraction of a second before he gives a brief, businesslike nod.

"Good. I’ll get you a copy. You’ll submit your formal resignation letter this afternoon," he states smoothly, his tone strictly professional and utterly devoid of any warmth.

Then, without warning, he stands up from his chair. The sheer size of him dominates the room as he slowly walks around the desk, deliberately closing the physical distance between us with the predatory grace of a panther.

My breath violently hitches in my throat as he stops mere inches from me. I have to tilt my head back just to meet his gaze. Slowly, he reaches out. His touch is shockingly light yet intensely commanding as his long fingers gently brush a stray strand of my hair aside, tucking it neatly behind my ear.

"To convince people we’re together, you need to look the part, Clara," he murmurs. "You’re getting a full makeover. I can’t be seen in public with you looking like this."

Hearing my first name falling from his lips feels like a warm, incredibly dangerous fire sparking deep in my belly. It’s the first time he hasn't called me Ms. Farley, and the sudden, raw intimacy of it throws me wildly off balance. But his profound arrogance and the blatant insult to my appearance quickly smother the heat, replacing it with burning indignation.

I fire back immediately, refusing to shrink away from him. "It wouldn’t kill you to be nice."

He raises a dark eyebrow, clearly unaccustomed to anyone speaking to him with such sharp defiance.

"How are we supposed to successfully convince people we’re hopelessly in love if you’re constantly looking at me like you absolutely can’t stand me?" I demand, lifting my chin to glare right back at him. "If I'm doing this with you, you need to be nicer to me, as I am no longer your PA but your partner."

He visibly grits his teeth at my words. A muscle in his sharp jaw ticks in pure annoyance. He leans in slightly, his voice a low, harsh rasp. He sharply promises that he will do absolutely anything to make this charade work, including forcing himself to tolerate my presence. He then coldly informs me that Gideon will arrive in a few hours to handle the logistics of my physical transformation.

With that, he turns slightly and gestures vaguely toward the door, clearly trying to dismiss me from his office like a subordinate.

But I boldly plant my feet on the thick carpet and do not move a single inch.

He pauses, glancing back at me with a dangerous glint in his eye.

"I know this is a fake marriage," I state firmly, stepping even closer to him, entirely refusing to let his imposing height or his immense wealth intimidate me anymore. "But you asked for loyalty. No flings. No one-night stands. No mysterious women slipping in and out of hotel rooms while we’re supposedly married."

Silence stretches heavily between us. I hold his gaze, my heart hammering against my ribs, but I refuse to back down.

"If I’m tied to you, even just on paper, I expect total exclusivity," I continue, my tone fierce and unwavering. "This might not be real love, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to be publicly humiliated by your actions."

Genuine surprise flashes across his handsome features, followed rapidly by a brief, undeniable flicker of admiration dancing in his hazel eyes. He clearly hadn't expected me to corner him like this. But just as quickly, his entire expression shifts into something incredibly low, dark, and dangerous.

"You’re claiming me, Ms. Farley?" he asks, his voice dropping a full octave, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine.

"I am. It’s only fair," I hold my ground, staring right back into his intense, burning gaze.

He stands even taller, looking exactly like a sleek predator deeply intrigued by the unexpected boldness of its prey. He takes a slow, deliberate step toward me. "You don’t get to make demands. You’re the one who desperately needed this."

"And yet," I reply, allowing a confident smirk to touch my lips as I step further into his personal space, entirely refusing to yield the floor to him, "you’re the one who came to me."

The heavy, crackling tension between us is so thick it feels like it could be physically sliced with a knife. The air in the room is suddenly suffocatingly hot. We stand chest to chest, a battle of wills stretching out in the quiet office until he finally exhales, a harsh breath fanning across my face, and relents.

"Fine. No distractions. No one else. You’ll have my absolute loyalty, as long as I have yours."

"Good," I whisper, a profound wave of satisfaction washing over me. "Then we have a deal."

"Careful what you ask for, Clara," he murmurs, his dark gaze burning intensely into my skin, making my pulse race. "You just might get all of me."