Page 37 of Hate You More

“In ten months.”

“There’s a clause. If I’m married before the age of thirty, I can access my trust earlier.”

“That’s fucking Gothic.”

“If my grandmother had known . . .” I watch as she physically shakes off that train of thought. “This was her way of protecting an impetuous beloved child.”

“Spoiled,” I correct.

“Yes. Okay. But the danger came from a direction she couldn’t have anticipated.”

“Danger. Seems a little strong.”

“This isn’t just about money,” she says sharply. “I’m sorry.” She begins to bite the inside of her lip. “I didn’t mean to snap. It’s just, I’ve been under a lot of stress.” I say nothing because this isn’t a competition. “My grandmother obviously thought that if I was ready to marry before I turned thirty, I’d be mature enough to handle the money. And if not, then thirty, in her mind, would make me a grown-up. She was trying to look out for me. She loved me.”

“I’m sure your dad loves you too.”

She gives a tense smile. “You’re confusing love with possession. Now, I obviously won’t be as rich as you,” she says, moving on, “but a prenup will protect you.” Her hand taps the paper nervously. “I don’t need your money. Just your help.”

“Still, marriage seems . . . extreme.” More like unhinged.

“Says the man who wants to date me for money.”

“First off, I don’t want to date you. The relationship wouldn’t be real. And I didn’t offer you money. I offered you a job.”

“And if I never turned up for one single hour, would you have made sure I still received my salary?”

“That’s not the point.”

“I think it is. The job is nothing but a smoke screen. You’d still be paying to take me to dinner, parties, whatever. It’s a little . . . tasteless, don’t you think? A little transactional.”

“Really?” It’s weird how icy my reply sounds when, inside, I feel like a volcano about to erupt. “Look.” I point a finger her way but move it again as I press my elbow to the table, only to find it as rickety as hell. “That is not my intention. How it plays out is down to you. If you want to make a go of the job, build a career out of it, whatever, you’d have the full weight of Table’s resources behind you. But I forgot,” I say, sitting back again. “You’re not the kind of girl who works, are you?”

“These nails and these god-awful pants say otherwise, so how about you stop pretending you know me?”

“Fine.” But this is so far from fine.

“If you thought dating me would help your company, imagine how much better those market signals would be if you were marrying me? This is your plan, Troy. Just on steroids.”

“And we all know what steroids do to a man.” Confusion flits across her face. “It shrinks his dick.” I slump back and fold my arms across my chest.

She seems lost for words, all fluttery blinking. But then, like a terrier, she’s back again. “Dating is unpredictable by nature. Marriage is solid. It speaks to a future and longevity, to the forging of strong links.”

“Forged to you?” My tone is less than kind. The more she fights for this, the bigger asshole I seem to become.

“Forged to legacy.”

“To your father.”

“To authenticity, deep roots, history, and stability.”

With a snort, I slide her a look of derision.

“Yes, you’re right. It’s all utter bullshit. But it’s your narrative. Marrying me is marrying the gold mine.”

I fucking hate that she could be right. “How about you get to the point and show me what the hell that paper is about.”

“Fine.” Her eyes flare, as blue as a storm over the ocean. “My dad cut me off because, in his words, I defied him. In my words, it was because I was done being controlled.”