The Bargain With The Mistress's Brother

CHAPTER 007: The Proposal

We walk down the hall. The floor is pristine, the walls lined with modern art pieces that probably cost more than most people's cars. When we pass an office labelled Executive Assistant to the CEO, I realize this must be Stephen's office. He seemed like a nice guy back at the elevator. As though my thoughts have summoned him, the door opens to reveal him with a phone pressed to his ear. He pauses mid-sentence, eyeing Damon and me.

I force a tight smile, and Stephen waves hesitantly before disappearing back inside. Damon, of course, doesn’t acknowledge him. He’s too focused on wherever he’s dragging me.

My stomach twists as we approach a large, imposing door with Chief Executive Officer - Damon Penrose engraved in black letters. Damon pushes it open and gestures for me to step inside.

The outer office is empty. His secretary must be out, because the desk is neatly organized but unoccupied. We pass through to the main office, a vast space dominated by a massive glass desk and floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a panoramic view of the city.

“Sit,” Damon says, nodding toward one of the leather chairs in front of the desk.

I lower myself into the seat. The chair squeaks faintly under my weight, but the sound is swallowed by the unnerving silence that stretches between us. Damon strides to his own chair and sinks into it.

“What’s this about?” I ask.

He leans back, his fingers steepled. “I thought about what you said in the elevator.”

“Which part precisely?”

He shifts forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “I’m not my sister, Mrs. Montague. In fact, the last time I saw or even spoke to her was three years ago—alive, that is. So whatever blame or hatred you’ve conveniently dumped on her shoulders, understand this: I am not willing to inherit it. Secondly, we got off on the wrong foot. Circumstances have brought us together, and even though neither of us likes those circumstances, we have to admit that a child is involved.”

My spine stiffens at the mention of Kieran.

“I do not want your husband’s money,” he says. “But I’m not convinced I should give it to you, either.”

I glare at him. “So you brought me here to tell me that? You could have saved us both time and said that in the corridor.”

A low chuckle escapes him, rich and condescending. “Have you had a job since you left school? Something you can put on a résumé?”

“Is this some sort of mockery?”

“No,” he says simply. “It’s something an employer would ask when they’re about to hire you for a job.”

“A job?”

“Yes, Claire.” He straightens, his voice firm now. “I’m offering you a role as my junior executive assistant. You’d get paid, of course. Stephen will show you the ropes. You’d get all the benefits that come with the job. All you have to do is say yes.”

The words hang in the air, surreal and absurd. I’ve become so accustomed to our constant sparring that it’s taking me longer than it should to process the implication of his words. Why would he want me as his assistant? Also, why would I want to be his assistant?

“You must be joking,” I say.

He rises from his chair and walks around the desk, his steps unhurried. My pulse quickens, an irritating betrayal of my body's response to him. There’s no denying the way he carries himself, though—broad shoulders squared, every line of his tailored suit fitting as if it were made by the gods themselves. The effortless power in his stride, the rigid confidence in his posture—all of it commands attention. And despite the fiery hatred bubbling within me, I admire him.

He stops just in front of me and perches on the edge of the desk, his knee brushing mine.

“So,” he says. “What’s your answer?”

I lean back in my chair, putting distance between our knees.

But before I can reply, he bends forward with his right hand above my head. There’s a faint tug, and suddenly, my hair tumbles down around my shoulders. My breath catches as I realize he’s pulled the band free.

“What did you do that for?” I ask, snatching the hairband from his fingers.

His gaze stays locked on mine. “Personal reasons.”

My fingers work quickly, twisting my hair back into a bun with practiced ease.

“Don’t tie it up,” he says.

I glare at him. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Stubborn and angry. I like it. You and I will work together quite well.”

“I do not accept your offer, Mr. Penrose,” I say, standing up, hoping the movement gives me the upper hand.

“But you haven’t heard the entire offer, Mrs. Montague.”

“I don’t need to. The answer is no.”

He smiles, but there’s something darker beneath it. “I am willing to wire the entire inheritance to you. Every cent your husband willed to my sister. I’ll also make you the trustee of your son’s trust funds.”

I freeze, my heart hammering in my chest.

“All you have to do,” he continues, “is keep a job as my assistant for a year.”

The room feels suffocating as his words sink in. A year of working for Damon Penrose. A year of tolerating his arrogance, his sharp tongue, his smug, insufferable face. My initial instinct is to reject him outright, to tell him exactly where he can shove his offer. But the money… God, the money would change everything. Kieran’s future. Our future.

“I—” The word catches in my throat, and I swallow hard, unsure whether to laugh or scream.

“You’re considering it,” he says.

“No,” I say, but the hesitation in my voice betrays me.

“Think about it, Claire. One year of dealing with me, and you walk away with everything you’ve ever wanted. Surely that’s worth the sacrifice.”

I fold my arms across my chest, trying to maintain some semblance of composure. “Why me? Why not hire someone qualified? Someone who doesn’t hate your guts?”

There comes that smile again. “Personal reasons.”

“Seriously?”

“Mmhmm,” he says, giving me a look. “One of them is I enjoy talking with you. You’re quite interesting.”

"Now I know you're joking. All we’ve ever done is fight."

He tilts his head. “What’s the problem, Claire? You were married to a man twice your age for ten years. Are you telling me you can’t stay with me for one year to achieve something you’ve already waited a decade for?”

My jaw tightens. Heat rushes to my face, and I can feel the anger bubbling beneath my skin, clawing its way to the surface. But then it hits me—this is what he wants. He’s baiting me, waiting for me to snap so he can get his kick from me lashing out.

Not this time. I won’t give him the satisfaction.

I take a deep breath, forcing myself to stay calm, though my hands itch to slap that smug expression off his face. His smile widens, as though he can see the storm brewing inside me, and it makes me want to throw something at his head.

“Or,” he says, leaning back a little, “do you just prefer old, vulnerable men?”

That does it. Before I can stop myself, I say, “Tell me one thing, Mr. Penrose: am I to be your assistant or your whöre? Because it’s beginning to sound like there isn’t a line.”

To my absolute annoyance, he chuckles. A low sound that rolls through the room and sets my teeth on edge. He stands, making my heart beat faster as he walks toward me.

By the time he’s standing in front of me, I’m practically vibrating with fury, but he remains maddeningly calm.

He reaches into the breast pocket of his suit. Then he pulls out a small card and takes my hand in his. His touch is firm, turning my palm upward and placing the card in it. His fingers linger for a moment too long.

“Go home,” he says. “Take your time to think about it. Today’s Friday. You have until the end of Sunday to give me a reply.”

I open my mouth to argue, to tell him exactly where he can shove his card and his offer, but he cuts me off in the most infuriating way possible—by placing a finger against my lips. The gesture is so audacious, so entirely Damon.

“Kieran,” he says. “That’s your son’s name, isn’t it?”

I flinch at the mention of his name.

“Go home, Claire,” he continues, his gaze never leaving mine. “Look at your boy. Look at the house. Look at yourself. Then give me a reply by Sunday.”

He starts to pull back, but then he pauses. His hand moves, and I feel the familiar tug at my hair. The bun unravels, and my hair falls loose around my shoulders.

“Again?” I say, reaching up to snatch the hairband from him, but he’s quicker this time, slipping it into his pocket before I can get to it.

“And for the record,” he says, “you’re not my type.”