Page 32 of Dirty Damage

“‘Produce an heir.’ You make it sound so… clinical.”

He runs a long finger around the rim of his whiskey glass. “Business often is. Marriage can be, too… in my experience.”

I have a feeling I don’t want to know what his experience with marriage has been. Mine has been horrifying enough.

“Marriage shouldn’t be a business proposition, though,” I say for both of our sakes. “It should be about?—”

“Don’t you dare say ‘love.’”

“Well, it should be. About love.”

His eyes rake over me, lingering on places that make my skin burn. “I’m surprised. I didn’t take you for a romantic. Then again, maybe the princess dress should’ve tipped me off.”

“Believing a child should be brought into a happy home with two parents who love them doesn’t make me a romantic.”

Whatever part of me was a romantic was chewed up and spit out by my family’s curse. Why dream about something I’ll never have?

“Why do you think our child’s home won’t be happy? We’ll both be getting what we want, and I plan to be a good parent.” His voice drops an octave as he dips his chin. “Do you?”

The question pokes at a lifetime’s worth of old bruises. “Of course. If I had a child, I would love?—”

“Then I don’t see what the problem is. We may not love each other, but we’ll love our child. It will be cared for and provided for. That’s the most important thing, isn’t it?”

When he slid that contract over to me, I was certain.

My decision was easy, my mind unwavering.

But now…

When did this conversation slip away from me?

When did his insane proposition start making a twisted kind of sense?

My problems aren’t because my parents didn’t get along; it’s because they abandoned me. Because Syd and I were left to navigate the world on our own.

Maybe if my parents had gone into the whole arrangement with the understanding they wouldn’t stay together…

Maybe things could’ve been better.

His eyes lock onto mine like heat-seeking missiles. “Have I misjudged you, Sutton?” The way he says my name should beillegal. “Are you one of those sad, lost causes who still believe in fairytales?”

My palms are sweaty. My chest aches with how fast my heart is racing. “You think I’m the one obsessed with fairytales, but people call you the Beast.”

“I’m aware,” he drawls. “And Chloe told me whenever you play princesses, you’re always Belle.”

What a pair we make.

I lift my chin. “That was a game. I’m no Belle. I’m certainly no princess.”

“I believe you.” He smiles. “That dress didn’t quite fit.”

“I’m no princess,” I repeat, “but are you really a beast?”

His answering eyebrow raise is not a denial. “Depends on who you ask.”

My gaze dips down to the contract between us. The paper seems to pulse with dark possibility.

Maybe this is my chance.

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