The Bargain With The Mistress's Brother

CHAPTER 005: Nicely Ask Me

~~Damon~~

I’m in the backseat of my car with my eyes fixed outside, heading to the office.

Even after all these years, I don’t think I particularly like New York.

Of course, there are things I enjoy—how could I not? There’s a strange comfort in the city’s architecture. I love the mom-and-pop diners tucked into quiet corners of neighborhoods, where the coffee tastes divine and the servers call you “hon.” I love the thrill of finding a secret jazz club on a random Tuesday night. I adore the parks too.

But it's not California. Everyone here seems sane. Or at least, they're insane for the wrong reasons. Money. Money. Money. No fun.

"You have a 10 a.m. meeting with the investors regarding the Parkview Heights acquisition—” Stephen, my executive assistant, rattles off my schedule for the day like a preacher delivering a sermon.

I zone him out.

It’s been three weeks since Cassie died. My pain-in-the-ass sister, who hadn’t spoken to me in years unless she needed something. And yet, somehow, she’d decided to make me her next of kin. Not our younger brother, Henry, who she actually got along with. Not anyone else in our circle of chaotic family. Me.

I can still see her, cold and lifeless on that hospital bed. They’d called me to identify the body. Her skin was pale, her lips were blue, as if death had stolen every ounce of color from her vibrant, infuriating self.

Even in death, she manages to be the biggest source of my inconvenience. Funeral arrangements, dealing with the media circus over her affair with Harold Montague, and now—oh, now—managing the fallout of her stupidity.

My attention draws back to Stephen when I hear the word ‘Montague.’

“Could you repeat that?” I say.

Stephen clears his throat. “What part, sir?”

“You said something about the Montagues.”

“Right. I asked what we’re going to do about the Montague situation, sir.”

Just hearing that name is enough to sour my mood. Cassie and her poor life choices.

“Why do we need to do anything about them?” I ask, keeping my tone as neutral as possible.

“The children are still trying to get an audience with you. I was wondering if you’ve changed your mind about that.”

“It’s still a no, Stephen.”

He nods.

But then, I’m curious. “Just the children?” I ask. “No one else in the family contacted you?”

For some inexplicable reason, the image of a blonde in a bun with impossibly nice legs flashes through my mind. Calling me an asshole. I clear my throat.

“Just the children for now,” Stephen confirms.

I don’t know why I feel a flicker of… disappointment.

“Are you expecting someone’s call, sir?”

“No,” I reply quickly.

He shrugs. “Alright. And how about the wife?”

I turn to him, wondering if he’s somehow read my mind.

“The wife?”

“Yes,” he replies. “Yesterday, you said you were meeting with the lawyer to transfer the inheritance over to her. How did that go?”

I lean back against the seat, the memory of that meeting flashing through my mind. Her walking into Peter Whitmore’s office, all fire and fury. That bun, that sharp tongue, those legs, the dimples.

“I changed my mind,” I say.

Stephen blinks. “That’s… strange. Did something happen, sir?”

“Let’s just say I met Claire Montague, and I don’t think she deserves the money.”

“Right,” he says. “But wouldn’t that be a burden to you? I mean, the entire reason you went there was to transfer the duty of the child’s welfare to the mother.”

“Your point being?”

“The trust funds, sir. It’s going to be like you’re married to the woman and paying child support.”

His words linger, settling uneasily in my chest. Married to her? The thought shouldn’t amuse me, but it does. She’s chaos wrapped in elegance, a problem I can’t decide if I want to solve or let simmer.

“I can handle it,” I reply curtly, more for my own benefit than his.

We pull into the parking lot of my building, and I step out, adjusting the cuff of my jacket. Stephen is already a few paces ahead, his ever-present clipboard in hand, rattling off details about the day.

As we push open the glass doors, his tone shifts, a touch of hesitation creeping into his voice. “There’s one more thing, sir. The junior assistant.”

The receptionist greets us with a wide smile. “Good morning, Mr. Penrose,” she says.

I nod absently, my focus zeroed in on Stephen, who has that look. The look that says whatever he’s about to say is something I won’t like.

“Edith?” I ask, as we head for the elevator.

He shakes his head, almost apologetic. “Edith was the last one. Tyra. She quit yesterday.”

I stop mid-stride, turning to face him fully. “Again? That’s the second one this month.”

Stephen offers a diplomatic shrug, the corners of his mouth twitching like he’s deciding whether or not to respond. “It would seem so.”

I narrow my eyes. “Are you chasing them away or something?”

“I think they’re afraid of you, sir.”

“Afraid of me?”

Stephen doesn’t flinch, which is why he’s still around. “With all due respect, you can be… intimidating.”

“Intimidating,” I repeat the word slowly, as though it’s foreign. “I pay them to do a job, not to feel coddled.”

Stephen’s silence speaks volumes. We reach the elevators, and he pulls out the keycard for the private one, waving it in front of the sensor. The metal doors slide open with a soft chime. He steps aside, allowing me to enter first, and follows closely behind.

“Get me another assistant,” I say. “One who won’t piss her pants when asked to perform a simple task like getting coffee. And make sure this one lasts longer than a week”

“Understood,” Stephen replies. “I’ll get right on it.”

Just as the doors begin to close, something halts them. Or rather, someone. My gaze instinctively drops, catching a flash of skin. A single, well-moisturized leg. Pointed toes. Stilettos. The doors retract, revealing the second leg, just as moisturized as the first. They move together now, coming toward me.

My eyes travel upward, past the tight pencil skirt, up to the blouse that dips at the cleavage. And then the bun. Just like I remember.

It’s her. Of course.

Claire Montague, standing there like she owns the goddamn elevator.

The doors slide shut behind her, and for a fleeting second, there’s silence. That is, until Stephen decides to play gatekeeper.

“Excuse me," he says. "This is a private elevator."

Claire doesn't so much as glance at him. Her eyes are locked on me, burning with the kind of determination that had me entrapped yesterday. I doubt she even knows Stephen is here.

"Mrs. Montague," I say, keeping my voice calm, though my blood feels anything but.

"Mr. Penrose," she replies with the same calm.

"We meet again.”

“We sure did,” she says.

“I can’t say it’s a pleasure, though."

She smiles. "The displeasure is all mine."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Stephen’s head swiveling between us, his brows knitted together.

"You’re Claire Montague?" he asks.

She finally acknowledges him. "Indeed. And you are?"

"Stephen," he says, stepping closer and extending his hand. "Stephen Hargrove, Mr. Penrose’s executive assistant. If you need an audience with him, it has to be through me."

Her lips curve into a smile that could be mistaken for genuine, but I know better. "Oh, right. I’m so sorry. Where do I need to sign?"

Stephen smiles back, clearly charmed. "You do look like you’d be Claire Montague."

"Oh?” she says. “What does that even mean?"

I find their easy communication annoying. So I step in before Stephen can dig his own grave. "I think what he's saying, Mrs. Montague, is that you look like a typical trophy wife."

Her head snaps back to me, eyes blazing. There it is—the fire. Time to cut the bullshït niceties and bring out the Claire Montague I met.

"Do you have a problem with me, Mr. Penrose?" she asks, stepping closer, her voice low and dangerous.

"Why would I?" I reply.

"How about because you attack me every chance you get? Even when I’m trying to be nice to you."

"This is you being nice? I’d hate to see you be unnice."

The elevator dings as it reaches the executive floor, the doors sliding open with a whoosh. But no one moves. Not even a step. After a beat too long, the doors glide shut once more, sealing us back in.

Claire takes another step toward me, and suddenly, she’s close—too close. Her perfume, jasmine mingled with warm vanilla and something sharper, fills the space. Stephen’s still hanging off to the side, wide-eyed and immobilized, like he’s witnessing a car crash.

"Tell me what you have against me, Mr. Penrose," she demands. “Because I only met you once. And I did nothing wrong to you. Why is it that whenever I say a word, you lose your shït?”

I lean in. "You want to know my problem, Mrs. Montague? It's women like you, people who think because they’re pretty they're entitled to someone else’s money. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To nicely ask me for the money?"

For a moment, she just stares at me with an expression I can't name. Is it hurt? Amusement? I can't tell. But I forget all about that as she takes another step. The movement is deliberate, calculated. She tilts her head up, locking her gaze with mine, and the intimacy of the gesture sends a jolt through me. Her breath, warm and laced with a hint of mint, fans against my neck. My pulse quickens, and I have to clench my fists at my sides, fighting every instinct not to react—not to let my gaze drop to the curve of her cleavage so brazenly positioned in my line of sight.

"Do you want the truth, Mr. Penrose?" she whispers. Her voice has dropped an octave.

I hold my breath. "What truth?”

“About why I’m really here.”

“I assume you're going to tell me anyway.”

She smiles and leans even closer, until the only thing I can focus on is the shape of her lips.

"Well," she says. "I didn't just come for the money.”

I pause, wondering where she's going with this. “What else is there?”

“You, Mr. Penrose. I mean to seduce you."