She did not sleep that night.
She lay on the huge bed with her mother's photograph propped against the lamp, staring at the ceiling and turning the question over and over. It was impossible.
It was ridiculous. It was exactly the kind of thing that happened in cheap novels and never in real life.
And yet.
She thought of the voice in the rain, saying, Go and get her. She thought of the staff bowing, the hot soup, the restored photograph. She thought of a man standing in her library doorway, awkward with hope, asking a stranger for help because he had no one else.
He took me in when I had nothing. He asked for nothing in return. And now he is asking for one thing.
She still did not like it. But she could not shake the feeling that if she said no, he would simply nod, thank her, and find another way. He would never mention it again. He would never make her feel she owed him.
And that was exactly why she could not refuse.
On the third morning, she knocked on his study door.
"Come in."
He was at his desk, papers spread in front of him, though she suspected he had not read a single one. He looked up, and she saw the faint shadows under his eyes.
"I'll do it," she said.
His pen stilled. "You will?"
"On conditions."
"Name them."
"One." She held up a finger. "I will not take money. You paid my fees. You've given me a roof. That is more than enough."
"Lily..."
"That is my first condition."
His mouth twitched. "Very well. Two?"
"I want to read the contract myself. Every word. And I want to change what I don't like."
"I would expect nothing less."
He had it drawn up by the next afternoon. A real contract, four pages, on thick cream paper, signed at the bottom by a lawyer whose name she did not recognize. She read it three times in the library, with a pen behind her hand, the way Mr. Abel had taught her.
The terms were simple:
One. The agreement shall last twelve months, or until Mr. Alexandr is confirmed as chief executive, whichever comes first.
Two. In public, both parties shall behave as an engaged couple. This includes appropriate displays of affection, to be determined by necessity.
Three. In private, both parties shall maintain separate rooms and respect each other's boundaries.
Four. Neither party shall develop romantic attachment to the other.
She stopped on the fourth clause and let out a short laugh.
"Something amusing?" Alexander asked, from the doorway.
"'Neither party shall develop romantic attachment.' You can't put that in a contract."
"I can put anything in a contract."
"It's not enforceable."
"It is a statement of intent." He stepped into the room and stood a careful distance away. "I wouldn't want you to feel pressured. Or misled."
"I'm not worried about being misled," she said, and then wished she hadn't, because his eyes met hers and held.
She cleared her throat and picked up her pen. "'Appropriate displays of affection, to be determined by necessity.' Define 'necessity.'"
"Photographers. Board meetings. My mother."
"Define 'affection.'"
For the first time since she had known him, Alexander Whit-more looked flustered.
"Holding hands," he said. "Perhaps... an embrace. If it is called for." A pause. "And possibly... a kiss. In public. Only if necessary."
She felt the heat rise in her cheeks. "I'm not sure about that part."
"Nor am I. But I do not see an alternative. If we are going to be convincing..."
"I understand."
"If you are not comfortable, we can strike it."
She looked at the paper. Then at him. She thought of how carefully he had never touched her, not once in months, not even to steady her on the stairs.
"Leave it in," she said. "But I get to say when."
"Agreed."
"And I'm adding a clause."
"Which is?"
"If my stepmother or my stepsisters ever try to contact me, you let me deal with it. You do not step in. You do not handle it."
Something hard and unreadable passed over his face. He did not answer for a long moment.
"Agreed," he said at last. But he said it the way a man says it when he has no intention of keeping a promise.
She signed at the bottom with a steady hand.
He signed beside her. Their names sat together on the cream page, looking absurdly official.
"Well," said Alexander. "Welcome to the family, Miss Thompson."
She almost smiled.
She did not notice, as she handed him the pen, that his fingers lingered against hers a fraction longer than the contract required.