Page 41 of Hate You More

“But for two years?”

“I thought the situation could be open ended.”

“Still sounds like a prison sentence. What happened to parole?”

“So tell me, what does an exit plan look like for you? When do you want this to end, in other words.”

“Quickly.” Her shoulders jump. “I just need my trust fund, which will only take a matter of weeks to be released. A month tops?”

“That’s not long enough to suit my purposes. It’s not like I want to live with you for two years.”

“Rewind that, would you? Who said we were living together?”

“We’re gonna need to live together, Clara.”

“You and me?” Her voice quivers. “Under the same roof?”

“Married couples usually inhabit the same space.”

“Not all married couples,” she says a little desperately.

“Remember the narrative.” I mean, fuck living together for two years, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t enjoying her horror. “You need it to be convincing too. One hint of the truth, and according to you, dear old Dad will have you certified and me crucified.” In the court of public perception, at least.

“I don’t see how anyone would find out.”

“You want to take that risk?” I let that sink in for a minute. “Give your dad that kind of ammunition? I sure as hell don’t.”

“So I guess we’re living together.” She looks like she’s about to throw up.

“Maybe I should just crucify myself,” I mutter.

“Be a doll and do it while I’m not home,” she snipes. “This is so effed up. I didn’t consider . . . I just thought I’d get the certificate, that the legalities would be covered. I didn’t stop to consider what you’d need.”

“Let me find my surprised face,” I deadpan.

“I know that sounds bad, but things have been so desperate. I thought we could just stay married for a short while. A couple of weeks, maybe? A month before we part amicably?”

“You think we’ll be amicable in a month?”

“I think there’s more chance at least one of us will consider murder before the two-year mark.”

“A year.” And so goes my counteroffer.

She pulls a yikes face.

“I’ll permit revisiting the situation at the six-month mark.” Though my gut says a year is what I’ll need.

“You’ll permit it?”

“I’m just covering all my bases.”

“Three months. We revisit at three months.”

“Any newly floated company trades on confidence, Clara. And confidence requires stability. Thanks to Fifth Ave . . . whatever, Table is publicly aligned with a powerful family, your family. But we need more than that. More time. This isn’t just about the share price.”

“That narrative,” she mutters unhappily. “Okay, so we’ll do the married thing for a year.” She holds up a forestalling hand. “But we’re not living together that long. Three months of publicity is all I’m willing to gamble on.”

I run that over in my head. Three months of being seen together. Attention will have moved on to someone else by then. The company will be in safer waters. “Fine.”