Page 40 of The Temporary Fiancée
“Good morning, everyone,” he says. “Let’s get this show on the road, shall we?”
The head of the legal team, a tall, middle-aged man in a well-tailored suit, nods. “Very well. Everyone, you should have a copy of the contract draft in the folder before you.”
All at once, everyone opens up the manila folders on the table and produces a printed copy of the contract. I fidget, nervous; I don’t have my own copy. Luckily, Reed does. He shifts it over so that we can both peruse it.
“Mr. Eastwood,” says the head lawyer, “I’m a little concerned about this document.”
“Well, that’s why we’re here,” Reed replies patiently. “What’s wrong with it, Tom?”
“I’d like to see more protections for the company, and for your wealth,” Tom says. For a moment, his gaze slides to me, his eyes narrowed. “There’s a lot of language in this contract related to your would-be fiancé’s well-being, but I think we need more disclaimers to ensure that your finances aren’t being exploited.”
Reed frowns, his brow furrowed, but says nothing.
One of the other lawyers chimes in: “We’ve taken the liberty of adding a few potential clauses to the document. You’ll find them in red.”
Sure enough, the General Counsel’s version of the contract is marked up like a harshly-graded essay with changes to the wording.
“We’ve emphasized the outcomes of the arrangement in particular, and made amendments to the non-disclosure section,” the lawyer continues.
“I don’t see why that’s necessary,” Reed says slowly. “I thought we’d covered all of the bases.”
“We wanted to make sure it was clear that Ms. Quinn will receive nothing more than the agreed-upon compensation after your public split. That there will be no additional payouts, no pre-nuptials, nothing like that.”
“In particular,” another of the lawyers adds, brushing her dark hair behind one ear, “we wanted to avoid the potential for Ms. Quinn to hold Eastwood Hotels hostage for further payment.”
I blink, startled. “But… I wouldn’t do that.”
The lawyer at the end of the table gives me a simpering look. I can tell that she’s restraining herself from rolling her eyes, and a flash of anger goes through me.
“Of course you wouldn’t, sweetie,” she says. Her tone is condescending, and she speaks slowly, as if I can’t understand her. “But we have to write contracts to cover all of our bases, even if you’re a total saint, okay?”
“We also wanted to emphasize that Ms. Quinn will receive no compensation if a split occurs before the contract is fulfilled,” the head lawyer adds. “Termination of the contract occurs at six months, or at Eastwood’s discretion. If Ms. Quinn backs out early, she’s well within her rights to do so, but she is owed nothing.”
My heart sinks. It’s all I can do not to shrink down in my chair, despite the shield that my outfit is supposed to provide me. These people don’t trust me as far as they could throw me. They’re acting like I’m only here to cheat Reed out of his money.
Before either Reed or I can say anything in response, we’re interrupted by the trill of Reed’s cell phone. He scowls, fishing it out of his pocket, and checks the caller ID. He swears under his breath.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I have to take this—it’s the events coordinator in Dubai. Could you all excuse me for a moment?”
The lawyers nod and mutter a chorus of quiet agreements, and Reed gets to his feet, shooting me a particularly apologetic glance. He steps out of the room, closing the door behind himself.
Without Reed next to me, I feel particularly vulnerable in front of the legal team. I got the sense before that they were all holding back, trying not to say what they were thinking in case they insulted him; they have no such qualms about offending me.
Almost immediately, the general counsel pulls a piece of paper from his folder and pushes it over to me. “We’ll also be needing you to sign this.”
I pick up the paper. The words swim before my eyes, a mess of incomprehensible legalese. “What is it?”
“Additional assurance for the company,” he says. “An agreement that, both during and after this six-month agreement, you will not participate in a discussion about Reed, or about Eastwood Hotels more generally, withanyone—press or otherwise—that hasn’t been approved by our PR team.”
“What?” I gape at him. “But… that’s going to be impossible. It’s six months of my life, and you just want me to never mention it again?”
“Preferably,” he agrees. “Unless PR tells you it’s acceptable.”
I glance down at the new contract again, reeling. “Duringandafter?” A new thought occurs to me. “But… I’m supposed to have dinner with my parents tonight. I was going to tell them about the engagement.”
“Did PR tell you to do this?”
“No. It’s just… personal.”
