Page 48 of The Love Clause

"Ms. Palmer," I say, remaining seated, using her surname like armor. "What can I do for you?"

"Really?" She crosses her arms, eyes narrowing. "That's how we're doing this? 'Ms. Palmer' and your lawyer voice?"

"This is my office," I remind her, gesturing to the space around us. "And you don't have an appointment."

"I wouldn't need to ambush you at work if you'd bothered to return any of my calls or texts," she counters. "Three days, Elliot.Three days of radio silence after whatever the hell happened Monday morning."

"I believe I made my position clear at the time." I keep my voice neutral, professional, despite the way her presence makes every defense mechanism I possess kick into overdrive. "Our arrangement concluded. The money was transferred. There was nothing further to discuss."

"Bullshit." She moves closer to my desk, palms flat against the polished surface as she leans forward. "One minute you're telling me your feelings are real, the next you're treating me like a prostitute you've paid off. Something happened, and I deserve to know what."

The accusation lands like a slap. "I never?—"

"You absolutely did," she interrupts, color high on her cheeks. "You transferred the money and then couldn't get me out of your apartment fast enough. What changed, Elliot? What could possibly have happened between Sunday night and Monday morning to make you do a complete one-eighty?"

I stand, needing the physical advantage, needing some illusion of control in this conversation that's rapidly spiraling. "People show their true colors eventually. I merely recognized yours sooner rather than later."

"My true colors?" She looks genuinely confused, which only fuels the anger I've been suppressing for days. "What the hell does that mean?"

"It means I heard you, Josie." The words emerge sharper than intended, my careful composure finally cracking. "Monday morning, on the phone. Talking about how the money was 'always the point.' How getting involved with me was just a 'weird complication' in your financial recovery plan."

Understanding dawns in her eyes, followed immediately by disbelief. "Are you serious right now? You overheard part of aconversation with my roommate and decided that meant…what? That I was using you?"

"Weren't you?" I counter, the hurt I've been denying finally seeping into my voice. "Fifty thousand dollars is quite an incentive. Enough to justify sleeping with someone you've known less than a week."

The moment the words leave my mouth, I know I've gone too far. Her face goes white, then flushes with fury, her eyes glittering with what might be tears.

"Fuck you," she says, the words quiet but cutting. "You think I slept with you for money? After I'd already earned every penny by playing your perfect fiancée all weekend? After the contract was already signed and the deal was done?"

"I think you did what was necessary to secure your payment," I say, even as something inside me recognizes the fundamental wrongness of the accusation. "I don't blame you. Your financial situation?—"

"Stop." She holds up a hand, her expression hardening into something I've never seen before. "Just stop. You don't get to stand there in your thousand-dollar suit and tell me what I would or wouldn't do for money. You have no idea what my life is like."

"I—"

"No, it's my turn to talk." She steps closer, all fear gone, nothing but cold fury left. "Yes, I need the money. Yes, I'm paying off debts and stopping an eviction. And yes, when you first proposed this insane scheme, money was my motivation. But if you think for one second that what happened between us—what we shared—was about payment, then you understand absolutely nothing about me."

Her words hit with precision, finding every vulnerable spot I've tried to protect. But I can't surrender now, can't admit howdeeply I've misunderstood. Can't face the possibility that I've ruined something genuine because of my own insecurities.

"What I understand," I say instead, retreating behind formality, "is that this was a business arrangement that became unnecessarily complicated. One that's now concluded."

"Look me in the eye," she demands, stepping around the desk until nothing separates us. "Look me in the eye and tell me what happened between us wasn't real."

I meet her gaze, steeling myself against the hurt and anger I see there. Against the echo of her vulnerability when she'd whispered that she was falling for me. Against the memory of holding her through the night, feeling for the first time in my life that I'd found something worth more than ambition or success.

"This was never real," I say, each word a deliberate betrayal of truth. "It was always just an arrangement."

The lie costs me more than she'll ever know. But it achieves its purpose. Something in her eyes goes out, a light extinguished, replaced by a coldness I never thought I'd see in someone so inherently warm.

"I hope it was worth it," she says finally, stepping back. "All of it. The contract, the partnership track, the perfect life with no messy emotions or inconvenient entanglements. I really hope it fills whatever emptiness you're so terrified of facing."

She turns to leave, shoulders straight, chin high—dignity intact despite my cruel dismissal. At the door, she pauses, not looking back.

"You know what the real tragedy is, Elliot? I wasn't lying when I said I was falling for you. But you were too scared to believe it could be real. Too scared to believe someone might want you for more than your money or your status or whatever you think your only value is." She shakes her head. "I feel sorry for you."

The door closes behind her with a quiet click that somehow sounds more final than if she'd slammed it. I stand frozen, unable to move, unable to call her back and admit the truth—that I was terrified. That I heard what I feared most and reacted with self-preservation instead of trust. That I've been drowning in regret since the moment she walked out of my apartment.

Claire appears in the doorway moments later, concern evident in her expression. "Are you alright?"

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