Chapter 7 Chapter 6

The next day, I was already at the Crew Collective & Café. Philip, Enzo, and Salvatori were seated beside me. My fingers tapped against the untouched cup of coffee while I stared at the window. The cloudy morning reflected exactly my mood. The only thing echoing in my mind was the simplest part of the conversation with that woman: don’t be late.

But of course, she apparently couldn’t understand that.

“Sir… it’s already nine-thirty,” Enzo said, checking his wristwatch. “Are you sure she’s coming?”

I leaned back in my chair, crossed my arms, and let out a bored sigh.

“Of course she is. Her life depends on this contract. It’s not like she has many options.”

Then I see her. Running across the street, nearly getting hit by a car, like she’s fleeing the apocalypse. Hair a mess, coat crooked, and absolutely no elegance. My frown is instant.

Enzo gives me a discreet look that clearly says I warned you.

I breathe in, clench my jaw, and shake my head in disbelief.

“This is going to give me a headache…” I mutter mostly to myself.

She rushes into the café, almost knocking down a waitress carrying a tray.

“I’m here… I’m here…” she says, breathless, adjusting the bag strap on her shoulder.

I turn my face toward her slowly, without any hurry, and look at her from head to toe. Messy hair, slightly puffy eyes, and the expression of someone who clearly did not understand the importance of punctuality.

“Late,” I say, flatly.

“I know, I’m sorry… I was so tired and… I think I drank too much wine last night. I passed out, you know? Didn’t even hear the alarm,” she says, forcing a nervous smile.

I roll my eyes, impatient.

“Just sit and listen carefully.”

She drags the chair quickly and sits in a messy rush, adjusting her skirt.

“You can order something to eat or drink. Feel free.”

“Oh… okay,” she responds, grabbing the menu and scanning it with one arched eyebrow, obviously uncomfortable.

“Don’t worry about the price,” I add, motioning for the waiter to come over. “Just order anything.”

She nods, still indecisive as she looks at the menu.

“I’ll have… just an espresso, please,” she finally says, handing the menu back to the waiter.

He writes it down and walks away silently.

“Great. Now let’s begin,” I say, adjusting the sleeve of my suit jacket. “This is Philip, my lawyer.”

Philip leans forward slightly, pulling a folder and opening it on the table.

“Good morning, miss. Please state your full name for the contract.”

She clears her throat, straightens her posture, and glances at me before responding.

“My name is Chloe… Chloe Laurent.”

Philip nods with a polite, professional smile, taking notes.

Chloe? Too sweet a name for someone so clumsy.

I simply cross my arms, leaning back, watching.

She finally had a name. But that still didn’t change anything: she had to prove she was worth the trouble.

“Miss Chloe, you’re here to sign a union contract with Mr. Moretti, correct?” Philip asks with his usual I’ve seen too much lawyer stance.

“Y-yes.” She stammers.

And I shift my gaze from the window just enough to observe how her hands shook when she received the document.

Philip slides the contract to her. Chloe takes it with trembling fingers, hesitating for a moment. Her hands shake like she’s signing a pact with the devil. And technically, she is. The waiter appears discreetly and places the espresso in front of her. No thanks from her — not that I expected one. Too nervous for basic manners.

She starts reading. I say nothing. I just watch — half-lidded eyes, hands clasped in front of me, body relaxed as if this is just another routine meeting. And it is. At least for me.

Terms of the Marital Agreement

1. This marriage is strictly professional. No emotional, romantic, or conjugal involvement beyond what is necessary to maintain appearances.

2. The contractor will legally adopt my surname, Moretti, on all documents and public presentations. The bond must look legitimate to external eyes.

3. Physical displays of affection will be limited to public situations, and only in subtle levels — touches, holding hands, or whatever I deem necessary to maintain the façade. Any exaggeration will be considered misconduct.

4. From the moment this contract is signed, the contractor will reside in my primary property. This is not a suggestion. It is a requirement.

Her eyes widen for a second, finger pausing mid-line. She goes back to reading slowly, as if digesting each word carefully.

5. Everything that happens to you reflects on me. Therefore, avoid impulsive attitudes, scandals, or any behavior that may compromise my reputation. Your problems become my problems — and I hate having problems.

6. Wearing the wedding ring will be mandatory at all times. Even though this is a professional agreement, it must look real enough to prevent questions.

7. Should the contractor commit any reckless act or break the rules, there will be immediate and inescapable consequences.

She leans back harshly against the chair, releasing a deep breath. Her hands still grip the paper, but her eyes reveal her nerves.

“Any questions, Miss Chloe?” I ask, only for formality’s sake.

“No… I mean… it’s a lot. But I think I understand.”

“Perfect,” I say with a small smile devoid of emotion. “Then read it again, sign it… and welcome to your new life.”

I watch her sign the contract like someone about to sell their soul — which, technically, she is.

Philip collects the papers with his usual I’m not paid enough for this expression, and I cross one leg over the other, adjusting my cuffs calmly.

“There. Now you are officially Mrs. Moretti. Lucky you, hmm?”

She doesn’t even react. Poor thing.

“Now that everything is signed, it’s time to make a few rules… clear. Basic ones. I’m not a fan of surprises — and even less of stupidity.”

She keeps her eyes on me.