Page 40 of Top Shelf

His jaw tightens. “Heidi.”

“No.” I stand up because sitting in front of him while he says my name in his accent isn’t helping. “You don’t get to say my name like that. I’m doing the talking now.”

He closes his mouth, and I plant both hands on the edge of my desk and lean forward. “I’m not for sale, Viktor. My studio is not for sale, and my name is not for sale. I’m not gonna become some weird little wife project because you have an inheritance problem and a bank account.”

“I know, but—”

“I’m not finished.”

He nods, then waits. The fact he lets me keep going helps, but I hate that it helps.

“I’ve spent years building credibility in this clinic,” I say. “Years. Moreno backs my concept because he knows I can do it, not because I’m adorable and ambitious but need a rich husband. I don’t get rescued, and I don’t get managed. And if we got married, and my studio was funded by you, what’s to stop you turning around and claiming it for yourself?”

“You would retain complete ownership,” he says quietly. “That is in the folder.”

“I—what?”

“The studio would remain yours. I do not want any ownership or control. The money would be an investment without voting rights, or however your lawyer would like it phrased. I am not attached to the wording, so long as you are protected, and it remains yours only.”

My mouth opens, then closes again.

Viktor nods toward the folder. “There are options for you.”

“To protect me from you?”

“Yes.”

Well. That is inconveniently respectful.

I look at the folder. “You knew I’d push back?”

“I hoped you would.” His steady gaze meets my blazing one. “If you did not, I would worry I had asked the wrong person.”

My throat goes tight in a way I don’t appreciate.

“So let me get this straight,” I say, because this tone is safer than whatever that feeling was. “You wanna marry me so you can inherit Solvik, and in return, I get my studio funding, and then… what? We shake hands and file joint taxes? If I take money and sign this with you, there’d need to be terms. Significant ones.”

“Yes. We would have a contract. There is a clause to for a minimum of six months, which would take us to the end of September, so the marriage looks believable. There would be public appearances, probably some events, and some time living together.”

I stare at him. “Living together.”

“Yes. For optics.”

I look at the ring box, then him. Then back at the ring again.

My brain, the vile traitor that it is, supplies the memory of me three margaritas deep at Carina’s kitchen counter six months ago, telling her I would like to fuck Viktor Karlsson just once, purely for scientific purposes. Because there’s no way a man so quiet with thighs that sculpted isn’t either spectacular in bed or disgustingly kinky. I think it might be both. Carina had laughed so hard she inhaled salt.

That memory isn’t helpful. That memory should be erased forever.

“Okay.” I clear my throat. “What about sex?”

Viktor goes very still.

Fantastic. Excellent. Wonderful. My big mouth has once again let me down.

“I mean,” I add quickly, feeling heat crawl up my neck, “in terms of the agreement. Are there expectations? Because if this is supposed to be believable, I assume there’ll be rules about whether we’re exclusive, and I’m not agreeing to anything with implied access to my body. So that better be super fucking clear in any paperwork.”

His eyes hold mine. “There would be no expectation of sex.”