Chapter 6 TERMS AND CONDITIONS
SHAWN'S POV
‘What the fuck was I thinking when I agreed to this?’
Was the second thought I had when I stepped into this concrete mansion cosplaying as an office.
The first was that I hoped my hands were not too sweaty when I shook hands with Me Noah but after seeing him wince slightly, I was pretty sure they were.
“Mr Shawn Williams?” The deep timbre of his voice brings me out of my reverie.
“Just Shawn please.” I mentally curse as one of the perks of working a service job is you become extremely polite during conversations.
“Mr Shawn Williams.” He says pointedly staring at me fixedly whilst bringing out a folder and handing it to me.
“This could have been an email you know.” I find myself talking. Why am I talking?!
He doesn't look at me. Mr Noah looks like he'd rather be doing things billionaire did than be here.
“This is not an email situation last I checked.”
Fair.
How did he even know I would agree to this? I called him yesterday from the business card he left at the table and after waiting almost an hour, I was finally redirected to his line. A small part of me thinks that was his way of punishment for yesterday night.
Not like I had a choice.
I don't have the money for my shop, much less a different shop.
Hell with the amount I'll be making, I would be able to build two shops. Right next to that lying bastard who calls himself my landlord and-
“Are you even listening?!”
“Huh?” He was speaking to me?
Mr Noah closes his eyes in resignation and takes a deep sigh.
“Mr Williams.” He begins with his teeth clenched. “Are you done reading the contract?”
Oh so that was the question.
I open the contract and have a quick peruse through it.
“Sit.” He tells me once again in that deadpan I'm starting to hate.
I want to tell him to screw himself but my legs haven't recovered from the tension I've been holding since I agreed to this sham marriage.
I pull out the chair and sit. The scrape of metal against marble is too loud in the quiet room and I see it. The way his jaw tightens, the flicker in his eyes. A second too quick for anyone who isn’t watching closely.
Another perk of the service industry.
“Fake marriage,” I say, scanning the first page.
“Public appearances. Shared residence. Controlled narrative.”
Mr Noah nods as I continue.
I exhale through my nose when I see it.
“No romantic obligation.”
“Correct.” He deadpans. A little too quick.
Well sorry for having the wrong idea José not everyone is after your body. I'm only just after your money.
I snort through my nose as a line from a favorite movie of mine comes to mind.
The concerned look he gives me across the table is not helping my laughter either.
“No sexual obligation.”
The pen stills but he doesn’t look up. One hand is flat against the table, fingers spread wide, like he’s anchoring himself. The other grips a pen he hasn’t used yet.
“Yes.” Came his grating reply.
“You know for a marriage that isn't real you're awfully fixated on the romantic and sexual part.”
Someone please shoot me and my big mouth. I only came here for 100 grand. What's it to me if he wants to spell out the entire letters of the alphabet in the contract?
“And discretion,” I continue, desperate to finish this before I open my big mouth again.
“Yours and mine.” He repeats.
I look up then. Really look at him.
Not the billionaire. Not the man the world worships. Just him.
There’s something taut about the way he’s holding himself, like a wire pulled too tight beneath tailored fabric. Something's wrong with him.
Shut up Shawn. You're not a psychologist. Mind your business and get your money.
I turn the page.
Clauses stack neatly, brutally efficient.
No questions asked if Mr Noah suddenly disappears.
No interference unless requested.
No discussion of health with the press or family.
Physical contact in public only when necessary.
Having romantic relationships or compromising relationships during the duration of the contract is prohibited.
I take a pause.
“Define necessary.”
His lips part and close again in exasperation.
“For appearances only,” he says carefully. “Photographs. Events. Situations where absence of physical contact between us would invite speculation.”
“And in private?”
A pause from him this time as he studies me.
“Private actions Mr Williams,” he says, “is irrelevant to the contract.” he ends with a scoff.
That answer irritates me more than it should.
Here I am signing away my life and romantic freedom for a year and he's acting all riled up over harmless questions.
“Mr Noah you’re asking me to live with you, wear your name and lie for you. And you want to pretend what happens behind closed doors doesn’t exist?”
His fingers press harder into the table becoming white at the knuckles.
“I’m asking you,” he says evenly, “to help me maintain control.”
There it is.
I see the unconcealed flash of fear in his eyes before he blinks and it's all gone.
In its place, a cold glare directed at me.
Oh well. We're going to be married for a year, plenty of time to figure it out.
I glance down again, then stop at a line buried halfway through the document.
-In the event of a neurological episode, the spouse is not obligated to assist-
“What episode are you talking about her-”
“None of your business.” He cuts me short. “It is only there for formality sake it will never happen.”
So that's what it was.
Only, what exactly is it?
There are many conditions that would lead to an episode, which one did you have?
Parkinson's?
Schizophrenia?
He looks young and physically okay though.
And a billionaire would probably be in his peak of health so I can rule out a few.
So what was wrong with him?
You don’t want a husband,” I say slowly.
“No.” He replies.
“You want a witness who knows when to look away.”
Something like a smile ghosts across his mouth. His first since I got here.
“I want someone,” he says, “who won’t mistake my worst moments for weakness.”
Silence settles between us.
A heavy one.
“Why include this?” I am puzzled.
“Because,” he says quietly, “pity complicates things.”
“One more clause,” I say as I pick up the pen.
His brow lifts. “This contract has already been vetted by-”
“I don't care.” I cut him short. It feels good to do it. I see why he does it.
I write it myself, neat and deliberate.
-Consent may be withdrawn at any time. No explanations required-
I slid the document back to him.
“If we’re pretending,” I say, “we do it on equal ground.”
He reads the line. Once. Twice.
Then his hand trembles.
Just slightly.
He notices I see it.
For a second, neither of us moves. I see the fear trickle in his eyes before he does.
“Get out.”
“Mr Noah are you-”
“Get out!” He snarls in anger cradling his left hand to his chest with his right hand.
Someone rushes in and I recognize him from the shop as the one that came with Mr Noah yesterday.
He ushers me out of the office before locking himself in.
What just happened?
