CLAUSE 4: COHABITATION & LIFESTYLE
4.1 Commencement of Cohabitation. The Parties shall establish a primary shared residence no later than thirty (30) days following the public marriage proposal by Party A (Shaw). Cohabitation at the designated residence is mandatory for the duration of the Term.
4.2 Residence Specifications. The location, specifications, and security protocols of the shared residence shall be determined solely by Party A. All costs associated with the acquisition, leasing, maintenance, furnishing, staffing, and security of said residence shall be borne exclusively by Party A.
4.3 Separate Property. This Agreement shall be deemed a full and final waiver of any and all rights, claims, and interests, including but not limited to community property or spousal support rights, that either Party may have in the separate property, assets, and income of the other Party, whether accrued prior to or during the Term.
4.4 Personal Effects. Party B (Monroe) shall have her own private quarters within the shared residence. Party A shall provide a one-time stipend of one hundred thousand dollars ($100,000.00) for Party B to furnish said quarters and acquire personal effects deemed suitable for the residence.
4.5 Conduct & Discretion. The Parties shall conduct themselves within the shared residence in a manner consistent with the public facade of a committed couple. All staff employed at the residence shall be required to sign a comprehensive Non-Disclosure Agreement.
— Clause 4, the Matrimonial Cohabitation and Non-Disclosure Agreement.
Malachai was right; I was more than friendly with the wine and now I'm paying for it dearly.
I groan, squinting my eyes against the cheerful, hateful glare of the sun. It doesn't help in the slightest. The migraine parked between my eyes has taken out a long-term lease. When I woke up this morning, I felt like a truck fucked another truck and gave birth to a baby truck just so the entire family could run me over together.
A few tabs of aspirin, a gallon of water, and chugging Sloane's miracle hangover smoothie (an incredibly green concoction) has done precisely nothing. It must have something to do with the fact that, despite being tired, weak, and unbelievably hungover, I still have to go to goddamn work.
I get off the Streetcar and begin the short, death-march walk from my stop to the office. Occasionally, I notice someone looking at me for a second too long, their eyes flickering with a vague sense of recognition. But— and God bless the fast-paced 24-hour news cycle for its ability to make someone relevant and then irrelevant in a heartbeat— one stares too much and no one bothers me. Mine and Malachai's fifteen minutes of fame has already faded into the ether.
It probably also helps that he's just some young, bachelor CEO and not an actual celebrity.
The most media notoriety he's ever gotten was during his very public breakup with actress Kaida Lovelace a few years back. Aside from that, the only people who care about him are the boring businessmen in his circle and, now, our families.
I make a quick stop at the cafe across the street for Malachai's usual double espresso and then head to the building, the little paper tray feeling like a lead weight.
I'm free of public scrutiny and on my way to making more money than I've ever seen, provided Malachai sticks to the contract. Now—I grimace as a street cleaner whirs past—if only this headache would vacate the premises, my morning could be semi-tolerable.
The front doors of the Shaw Holdings building slide open automatically. The second I step into the cool, sterile air of the lobby, all eyes turn to me.
Ah.
What was that I'd just thought? Something something free from public scrutiny?
Yeah, I spoke way too soon.
Outside these doors I'm a nobody, but everyone in this building thinks I'm fucking the boss, and they don't even bother to hide their interest.
I sigh, using my free hand to massage the bridge of my nose. Well, here goes nothing.
Whispers rise around me as I walk to the elevator.
"That's her, right?"
"I told you we'd see her today."
"She doesn't look too bad, but he could definitely do better."
The elevator doors open. Everyone inside presses themselves against the walls, creating a comical amount of empty space around me. I don't even care. More room for me. I just want to get to my desk and rest my pounding head for five minutes before Malachai comes waltzing in.
The doors ding open on our floor. I hurry out. Like a vision of heaven, my desk beckons to me. Past the main bullpen, down the hall, ignore the break room. Home free. I'm home fr—
"Hi!"
I bite my tongue to keep from screaming 'Fuck!' loud enough to shatter the windows.
The plump, doe-eyed woman in my path looks kind enough to be undeserving of my wrath, but I am in too much pain to be polite. I force a brittle smile onto my face. "Hi! How can I help you…"
"It's Sera," the woman says, as if I should know who the hell she is. "Sera from HR," she clarifies, her own smile unwavering. "We've met before."
"Oooh, Sera!" I say, my voice dripping with a fake recognition that makes me feel bad. "It's good to see you again. How may I help you?"
Sera straightens up a little, her expression turning professionally serious. "I'm sure you're aware of the rumours going around. About you being… involved… with Mr. Shaw."
The way she says "involved" makes it sound dirty, like we'd been caught doing lines of coke off his desk instead of just being the subject of a few salacious headlines.
My smile feels like it's about to crack. "You know how office gossip is."
"Right. Well, as you know, Shaw Holdings has a strict policy regarding fraternization between managers and direct reports. It creates... complications." Sera's tone is sweet, but her eyes are all business. "If those 'rumours' hold any weight, we need to schedule a meeting to discuss the parameters and get some documentation on file. A Consensual Relationship Agreement. It's standard procedure to protect all parties."
A contract on top of my contract. The irony is so beautiful it's almost painful. The aspirin isn't touching the headache pounding behind my eyes. The last thing I can handle right now is HR's corporate bullshit.
"I understand completely," I say, my voice impressively steady. I hold up the coffee tray like a shield. "And I think that's a conversation you should schedule directly with Mr. Shaw. He's really the best person to... define such parameters." I give Sera a tight, professional smile that doesn't reach my eyes. "If you'll excuse me, I need to get this to him before his 8 a.m. call."
Sera's brows scrunch up in confusion. "But he's not here yet."
"Then I'll be sure it's waiting for him." I sidestep the woman and finally, finally race for the sanctuary of my desk. I don't look back. Let Malachai deal with it. He's the architect behind this entire chaotic facade; he can handle the paperwork.
I sink into my chair and sigh, closing my eyes against the fluorescent lights. I still have a few precious minutes before Malachai—
The door to the executive suite swings open. I can hear the pep in his step even before I open my eyes to see it.
"Ms. Monroe!" Malachai greets, his voice warm and entirely too energetic for this ungodly hour. "I hope you had a good night."
No, I didn't. I feel like death warmed over, and he looks like he's eaten a fucking rainbow for breakfast. The universe loves its irony at my expense.
"Mr. Shaw," I say stiffly. "You're here early."
"Not by much," he says, plucking his coffee from my desk and taking a long, appreciative sip. "Still, I'm excited to get started on work today. Some days are just good days, y'know?"
No, I don't.
He breezes into his office, calling over his shoulder, "Five minutes, Ms. Monroe!"
The door shuts behind him. I use one of those minutes to do a breathing exercise for the sake of my sanity. Then I open my digital notebook to his schedule.
8:15 AM: Morning briefing.
9:00 AM: Call with the Dubai branch.
10:30 AM: Review Q3 projections for the "specialized logistics" division.
At exactly 8:10 AM, I stand up, smooth down my skirt, and walk to his door. Two swift knocks.
"Come in."
I walk into his office to find him where he usually is at this time, sipping his coffee at the edge of his desk, watching the Seattle skyline. The morning sun lights him up like a damned angel, which feels personally offensive given I feel like a groggy gremlin that's been dragged through a sewer.
Unlike last week when I'd walked in here with the intention of asking him to marry me, today feels so different. For starters, I'm less nervous and more pissed, and he's less pissed and more… peaceful. And now that I'm not thinking of him purely in terms of his value as my fake husband, I've forgotten what I'd thought before all this.
Since when did my mind and body become so hyper-aware of Malachai? The line of his jaw, the breadth of his shoulders, the silkiness of his hair…
That wasn't supposed to happen.
"You can sit if you want," he says, without turning around.
I sit.
"Thank you," I mutter. Then, "Shall I begin?"
He hums in response.
I dive into the schedule, my voice surprisingly steady. I list his meetings, his calls, the expected incoming reports. By the time I'm done, my pounding hangover migraine is nothing more than a fading headache.
Malachai sets his empty cup on the desk.
He says, "Thank you, Miss Monroe."
I am not so hungover that I don't notice the missing "That will be all."
My pulse spikes. "Am I dismissed, Mr. Shaw?"
"No," he says simply, finally turning and walking around his desk until he's in front of me. He sits on the edge of it, so close that my knees are almost brushing his legs, giving me a clear view of his crotch and the… outline of him.
Warmth creeps up my neck to my face. This position is doing things to my poor head. Is he doing this on purpose? He has to be doing this on purpose.
"Sera Goodfellow stopped me in the hallway on my way in," he says conversationally.
I'm not paying attention, my gaze snagged on the way his suit pants stretch over his thighs. "Sera?"
He tips my chin up with a single finger, forcing me to look up at him, directly into those steely grey eyes. Fuck. How could someone be so objectively, unfairly attractive?
A smile plays at the corner of his lips. He's definitely doing this on purpose. "Sera. From HR. My plan was a success. I heard two people down in the lobby debating on how long we've been together."
"Yay?" I say, because my brain has short-circuited and it's the only sound I can manage. The alternate response was 'I'm glad your scheme worked, now everyone in this building thinks I'm currently bent over your desk!'
More heat floods my face.
Malachai looks like he's holding back laughter. "Yay, indeed," he says, his voice a low rumble. "With your family and the company locked in, it'll be harder for my family to suspect foul play. I've asked Sera to send in the Consensual Relationship Agreement form. You should see a copy on your desk by lunch." His expression sobers slightly. "In the meantime, we should focus on your security."
I manage to snap out of his spell enough to ask, "My security?"
Malachai folds his arms over his chest, making his biceps strain against his jacket. "With your face in the public eye, it's dangerous for you to walk around without a bodyguard."
Dangerous. I've heard that word more in the past few days than in my entire life.
I retort, "To quote you, I'm a beautiful young woman." A pause. "Heck, scratch that. I'm a woman. Since when is it not dangerous for me to walk around without a bodyguard?"
He raises his hands in concession. "Fair point. But I'm not just talking about random assholes on the street—"
I cut him off, "I have pepper spray."
Malachai ignores me. "The forces that'll come after you are far more—"
"Dangerous?"
"You commute to work, for fucks sake! Why? Why don't you have a car?"
Now I'm indignant. "What's wrong with the public transport system?"
"You're linked to me now, and that means—"
"It was just a few pictures on the internet! No one outside this building cares, and by the end of the week, no one in here will care either!"
"Ms. Monroe, be reasonable. This is for your own good. The threats you'll face are much more—"
"No!"
Immediate silence echoes through the office. I'm on my feet now, my chest heaving. Malachai is still seated on the edge of his desk, but his earlier good mood has clearly evaporated.
I don't care.
There are concessions I had to make for this agreement, I know that. I weighed the pros against the cons and said 'fuck it, let's do this.' But someone following me around like a shadow? That's a bridge too far. If anything, it'll make me look like I'm someone important, instead of just another person trying to get to work.
"I think you're overstating your influence, Mr. Shaw," I hiss. "You're just another business man. Maybe if you were married and we were having an affair, this would've been a big scandal and I'd need a convoy. But the only reason we got any attention at all was because the only thing you're famous for is being loveless."
An emotion I can't decipher—a flash of something raw and startled—crosses Malachai's face. He stands up, his voice dropping, losing all its playful edge. "Juniper…"
The way he says my name, voice dark and serious, makes my knees feel weak. Guilt instantly grips my heart. That was a low blow. I open my mouth, an apology on my tongue, but…
A commotion erupts outside—angry, clipped footsteps storming down the hall, a strained, panicked voice. "Miss! You can't go in there! Miss!"
Malachai and I both turn toward the door a split second before it bursts open, revealing the last person I would ever expect to see storming my workplace.
"Sloane!?"
Behind her is a security guard who looks so terrified he's about to dissolve out of his uniform. "I told her not to come in here, boss, but she wouldn't listen!"
I take several hurried steps away from Malachai toward my best friend. "Sloane! What are you doing here?"
Sloane's glare is lethal and aimed directly at me. "I wouldn't be here if you just answered my calls. God forbid a bitch worries."
I force my hanging jaw shut. "But I'm fine."
"Oh, I see that now." Her glare doesn't soften. It just pivots, landing on Malachai with the force of a tactical missile. "I see very clearly." She takes a single step forward, her voice dropping to a venomous, snarl.
"You must be Malachai Shaw."