Page 21 of Wicked Arrangement

“Good. I thought we’d eat outside on the veranda as it’s such a nice day,” he says, gesturing to the fully laden table just outside. Beyond it, I can see the fabulous swimming pool and perfectly manicured gardens.

I shrug noncommittally, “Whatever you want, it’s your house.”

If he notices my frostiness, he doesn’t let on. He simply nods and leads the way to the table outside. As well as the continental-style options I was provided with for breakfast yesterday, there are now pancakes, eggs, bacon, and sausages.

Judging by Yaroslav’s honed physique, I doubt he’s in the habit of eating this sort of stuff, so someone’s gone to a lot of effort just for me. Unsurprisingly, he tucks into some granola, fruit, and scrambled eggs but steers clear of the less healthy options. Torn, I contemplate what to have. On the one hand, if I eat the unhealthy stuff, will that mean they think that’s what I want and make it every day for me? But, if I don’t eat it, it will go to waste, and someone spent an awful lot of time making all this.

I give in and decide to live a little, opting for all of the new breakfast items. It’s not often I can afford to eat like this. Yaroslav watches me, his expression unreadable.

“This is just a treat for today, I’d hate for it to go to waste,” I explain. “But please, there’s no need for all this,” I say gesturing at the spread, “I usually just have cereal or toast for breakfast, if I eat at all. Half the time, coffee is all I want.”

He nods, “Understood.”

We dig in, eating our food in an awkward silence. Well, I feel awkward, Yaroslav is his usual calm and collected self. As we finish our meals and the plates are taken away, he produces an envelope and hands it to me.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get this to you sooner, my lawyers drew it up, it’s just a standard NDA and basic contractual agreement. I thought it prudent for us to have something more formal.”

“An NDA?” I ask, confused.

“Non-Disclosure Agreement,” he explains, wiping his mouth with a napkin and leaning back casually in his chair.

“I know what an NDA is, it just seems a bit… extreme,” I reply.

“I’m a wealthy man, people in my position need to take extra precautions that may seem over the top but are an unfortunate necessity,” he reasons.

I suppose he has a point, while I don’t know much about his business, I imagine if he’s a big enough deal that there’s a risk of me running to the press and selling a story. That wouldn’t be a good image for him if it was phrased in the wrong way. I flick through the NDA, it seems pretty straightforward, so I take the pen from him and sign. The contract is a little more complex and I take my time reading it.

Most of it is pretty much what we’ve discussed about me spending time with him in exchange for the money he’s already spent paying off medical bills, covering loss of earnings, and putting Gran in a care home for the duration of my stay. However, I come across an unexpected addition.

“It says here you have the right to automatically extend the stay for another two weeks. We agreed on two weeks,” I state, glaring at him defiantly.

“Yes, but you’re just so charming, two weeks might not be enough,” he replies teasingly. “It’s more of a just in case. We can remove it if the thought of being here for any longer is so abhorrent to you.” His collected demeanor slips slightly, and I suspect I’ve wounded his pride.

“It’s not that. I just have responsibilities. There’s no way I can just drop everything for that long. Two weeks is pushing it,” I explain, biting my lip anxiously.

“The same rules of making sure your employment is secure, your grandmother is taken care of, and that you are financially compensated apply. I would have thought that would be preferable to you than going home,” he states.

“Just because I’m poor doesn’t mean you can buy me or that my life is somehow less important or unfulfilling. Besides, this fantasy has to end sometime. Did it ever occur to you that the longer I live like this,” I gesture around at the mansion grounds, “The harder it might be to return to the banality of normal life?”

He has the decency to look chagrined. “You’re right. I apologize. We can remove it if you wish. It’s totally up to you, I would only want you to stay longer if you felt the same way. You’re free to leave at any time, even before the end of the agreed two weeks, should you wish.”

Placated, and searching his eyes for any dishonesty and finding none, I nod. “It can stay, as long as we understand that both of us have to agree to it.”

“Of course,” he replies smoothly.

I continue to read. Before long I come across another section that we most certainly haven’t discussed before.

“It says here I am legally and contractually obligated to take STI tests, be on some form of contraception, and that I cannot sleep with anyone or date anyone else while I’m here,” I summarize aloud.

“That’s correct,” he says, without a hint of irony in his voice.

“Don’t you think it would have been prudent to check if I am on contraception, have any STIs, or am currently dating anyone before we had sex?” I state, raising an eyebrow at him.

“It would have, but we can’t change the past. I could say the same of you,” he points out, meeting me with that steely gaze.

He has a point. “Yes, but I’m not the one asking you to sign a legally binding contract.”

“Is there an issue with this then? Are you currently dating? Not on contraception? Do you have a sexual disease I should be aware of or some sort of moral opposition to taking tests?” he asks, frustratingly reasonably.

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