I bought a ring for myself—nothing too fancy, but beautiful
nonetheless. Oddly, my pink and purple cubic zirconia ring has given
people the impression that I’m married. I find it both comical and
depressing.
Depressing, because
I don’t actually have anyone special in my life. Comical, because
somehow wearing a “wedding” ring has made me more attractive. And
while I understand the latter, it only reinforces the former—and
that genuinely irks me.
Because of this,
when men assume I’m married and still try to flirt with me, I often
play along and “confirm” their assumption—then shut them down,
not always gently. I haven’t said anything outright mean, but I
have walked away abruptly. A few have even tried to follow me, which
never ends well for them once I start raising my voice and cursing.
And yet, I don’t
take the ring off. After all, I bought it for myself. I remind myself
that it’s not my fault some men are drawn to the idea of wanting
what they can’t have. As I said, I understand the psychology—but
for me, it only highlights the fact that I don’t have someone
special of my own. Besides, if the idea that I’m “married” is
what attracts a man—if he’s only interested in “tasting the
forbidden”—then he’s not worth my time.
◾◾◾◾
Monday morning, and
I’m already at work.
I’m the personal
assistant to a businessman—Ian Bevon.
He’s your typical
businessman—finance, mostly, though he also has interests in real
estate, technology, and anything else that can make money.
He’s also
handsome: tall, with a lean build; dark hair graying at the sides;
blue eyes that seem to shift with his mood; and a light beige
complexion. He speaks with a gentleman’s voice—confident, but not
arrogant…at least most of the time. He’s a serious man, though he
does have a sense of humor. Sometimes, however, that humor is a bit
demented.
As for me, I’m
not a head-turner by any means, but I’d say I’m decently
beautiful. I have short, dark brown hair, light brown eyes, and a
slightly deep café au lait complexion—courtesy of my maternal side
from Louisiana—along with a shapely, zaftig figure. I consider
myself mostly friendly, but very reserved.
Today, I’m typing
up a letter that Mr. Bevon wrote by hand. His handwriting is
elegant—so elegant that it’s sometimes difficult to decipher.
Just then, my phone
chimes. It’s a text from Mr. Bevon asking me to come into his
office. I sigh.
He’s been blowing
up my phone with texts since 10 a.m., and it’s now 1:30 p.m. I’ve
barely gotten any real work done because of all the minor—and
honestly pointless—tasks he’s asked me to do. I get up from my
desk and walk into his office.
“Yes, Mr. Bevon,”
I say, standing in the doorway.
His office is huge,
as one would expect: a large panoramic window overlooking the city; a
massive wooden desk with the usual items—a laptop, desk lamp, and
an organizer holding pens, pencils, sticky notes, and more. To the
right sits a leather sofa with matching chairs and a coffee table.
Behind that, a console table displays bottles of expensive liquor and
glasses.
Mr. Bevon looks up
at me and smiles.
“Yes, Miss Leon,
I would like your opinion on something,” he says.
I raise an eyebrow.
“And what might that be?”
“This,” he
says, pointing to his laptop.
I walk over and see
that he’s looking at cars—expensive cars I could never afford.
“Do you like the
red one or the blue one?” he asks.
It takes all my
self-restraint not to say something cutting. Once again, I sigh.
“Sir, I suggest
you choose the one you like most,” I say.
He swivels his
leather wingback chair toward me and studies me with a curious
expression, as if my answer puzzles him.
“You don’t like
them?” he asks.
Once again, I hold
back a less-than-kind response.
“Sir, if I
may…why are you asking for my opinion?”
He smiles. “Well,
I thought you might like to give your input,” he says.
“Sir, as I said,
choose the one you like most. Your opinion is the one that matters,”
I reply.
He continues to
smile at me.
“If you had to
choose, which one would you pick?” he asks.
“Realistically,
neither—I can’t afford either of them,” I reply.
“But if you
could…which one?”
I forgot to mention
that he is also persistently annoying.
“Sir, I’m going
to go back to my desk and finish the letter you asked me to type,”
I say, and I turn to leave his office.
“Martine,” he
calls out.
I pause in the
doorway and slowly turn around. “Yes, Mr. Bevon?”
“You look
stunning. I meant to tell you that,” he says, his gaze lingering as
he takes in the black, long-sleeved, dressy-casual jumpsuit I’m
wearing.
I smile a little.
“Thank you, sir.”
“One more thing,”
he adds. “I’d like to know your favorite color.”
A puzzled look
crosses my face. “Why?”
“Just curious,”
he says with a smile.
“I’m getting
back to work, sir,” I reply. I step out, close the door behind me,
and return to my desk.
Yes—Mr. Ian
Bevon: handsome, charming… and slightly annoying.
II
Friday, 6:30 p.m.—I’m home, and glad it’s finally the end
of the week.
It’s been a long one, and I have no plans.
Then again…I never have plans on a Friday night.
It’s always the same—home, shower, a frozen pizza in the
oven, and a movie or two.
As I get ready to settle onto the sofa with my freshly baked,
one-person pepperoni pizza, my phone chimes.
I sigh…my boss.
His text reads:
I’m having dinner at Marceline’s. The food is exceptional,
and the atmosphere is inviting. You should join me one night.
I roll my eyes and text him back:
I’m sure everything you say about Marceline’s is true.
However, as a peasant, I can’t afford places like Marceline’s—it’s
out of my budget. Besides, what’s so great about paying sixty
dollars for a cut of beef I could buy at the grocery store for
fourteen? It all tastes the same.
I can only imagine my thinly veiled smart-ass remark left him
puzzled. I turn on the TV, pop open a can of cola, and prepare to eat
my pizza.
My phone chimes again. No mystery there. I glance at the screen.
If Marceline’s isn’t to your liking, perhaps somewhere
else?
I groan. I just want to eat my pizza and watch movies in peace,
but my boss is getting on my last nerve.
I text back:
Sir, I’m having a peaceful night in—with my pizza,
straight from the freezer to the oven, a can of cola, and a lineup of
movies on a free streaming service. I’ll see you Monday morning.
Have a wonderful evening.
After that, I turn off my notifications and finally enjoy my
pizza, my cola, and my movies.
◾◾◾◾
Saturday afternoon.
I’m out and about—mostly at the prodding of my best friend,
Hannah. She and her husband, Mark, were determined to drag me out of
my apartment for the day—and they succeeded.
We’re at the local outdoor plaza, shopping.
I make my way to the food court and wait for Hannah and Mark to
join me. I’m dressed nicely, though casually—a simple light pink
maxi dress that gently conforms to my figure, paired with white
chunky platform sandals. As I sit patiently at one of the tables, my
mind begins to wander.
“Excuse me.”
I look up to see a man standing there. He’s fairly
attractive—slightly wavy hair, brown eyes, a nice tan complexion,
and an average height and build.
“Yes?” I reply.
“This isn’t a pickup line, but we’ve met before,” he says
as he took a seat.
I raise an eyebrow. “We have?”
“Yes—Vintage Records Etc. You were wearing a shirt with a
crescent moon and a saxophone on it. I gave you a compliment.”
I think for a moment, and then—
“Oh yes, I remember. You and your girlfriend were looking at
classic rock records, and you flirted with me right in front of her,”
I say.
“Yeah, and you told me you were married,” he replies.
I smile. “I am.”
“And as I said…that doesn’t bother me.”
I roll my eyes. I find it both annoying and offensive that men
like this jackhole think flirting with me in front of their
girlfriend or wife is a turn-on. It’s not.
“And what makes you think it doesn’t bother me?” I ask with
a sarcastic smile.
He shrugs. “Does your husband mind when you flirt with other
men?”
“I don’t flirt with other men,” I say
matter-of-factly—which would be true if I were actually married.
“So, do you mind if he flirts with other women?” he presses.
All the reasons I didn’t like this jerk when I first met him
come rushing back.
“Let me make something clear…I don’t like you,” I say, my
tone sharp.
His eyes widen in surprise. “All because of the questions I
asked?”
“Darling!”
I turn my head.
It’s my boss—Ian Bevon—dressed casually in a simple blue
button-down shirt, jeans, and canvas shoes. Black rectangular shades
rest on his face. He walks over and sits beside me.
“Darling, sorry I’m late. But I found the most amazing house
for us. It’s by the lake—one story, but with plenty of room,”
he says, meeting my eyes.
I immediately play along.
“Did you put a bid in for it?” I ask with a smile.
“Not yet,” he replies, smiling. “I want to show it to you
first. I never buy anything if you don’t like it.”
“Excuse me!” the man snaps rudely.
Ian and I turn to look at him.
“Yes, can I help you?” Ian asks calmly.
“I was talking to her.”
“And what exactly were you talking to my wife about?” Ian
asks, his tone turning possessive as he places an arm around my
shoulder. Without thinking, I lean into him.
“Well, I was asking her if you minded her flirting with other
men,” the man says.
“Of course I would mind,” Ian replies smoothly. “She’s my
heart and soul. She’s everything to me.”
As he says this, he takes my hand and kisses it. I smile and lean
closer.
That’s when I catch his cologne.
Oh…God. It smells incredible—and there’s something about it
that sends a faint, unexpected warmth through me.
The man just stares at us. Ian turns back to me.
“Darling, you never did answer me…which Ferrari Portofino M
do you prefer—the red or the blue?”
At that, the man quickly gets up and walks away.
The moment he’s out of sight and earshot, I laugh.
“Thank you, Mr. Bevon,” I say.
He smiles. “My pleasure, Miss Leon. Though I’d prefer to call
you Martine, since we’re not in the office.”
I suddenly realize how close he is to me and pull back slightly.
“So, how has your afternoon been?” I ask.
“Going well,” he says. “And I wasn’t joking about that
house.”
“Mr. Bevon—Ian…I’m sure it’s very nice, but I don’t
need to see it. That said, thank you for saving me from that
level-five jerk.”
He chuckles. “Oh, Martine…you are so special, and you don’t
even realize it.”
“Tine!”
I turn to see Hannah and Mark walking toward us.
Hannah is about my height, though her hair is longer and lighter
in color. Her complexion is similar to mine. Mark towers over
her—good-looking, with reddish-brown hair, gray-brown eyes, and a
deep complexion.
“Who’s your friend?” Mark asks curiously.
“This is my boss, Ian Bevon. Mr. Bevon, this is my best friend,
Hannah—and her husband, Mark,” I say.
“A pleasure to meet you both,” Ian says. Then, with a hint of
mischief, he adds, “Tell me—what is Martine’s favorite color?”
“Oh God,” I mutter, glancing at him.
Hannah snickers while Mark smirks.
“What? I want to know,” Ian says.
Just then, his phone rings. He sighs, pulling it from his pocket
and glancing at the screen.
“I need to take this. I’ll be back,” he says, standing and
walking away.
“Ooh!” Hannah says immediately.
“Don’t ‘ooh,’ Hannah. He’s my boss,” I reply.
“Seems like he wants to be more than that,” Mark says.
“I agree,” Hannah adds with a smile.
I cross my arms and give them both a look.
They just laugh.
◾◾◾◾
Sunday morning.
I’m still asleep when my phone starts ringing. I try to ignore
it, but eventually I give in and answer.
“Hello,” I mumble, my voice thick with sleep.
“Martine, my dear!”
I groan softly.
“Mr. Bevon, what do I owe this call?” I ask.
“It’s a beautiful, sunny Sunday, and I thought you might like
to have brunch with me,” he says.
I glance at the clock on my nightstand. It’s almost 11 a.m.
“Where?” I ask.
“Lavender Garden Club.”
I groan again. “Pass. I’d rather stay home.”
“Martine, please,” Ian pleads. “Have brunch with me.”
“Lavender Garden Club has a dress code, and I don’t have
anything in my closet that would suit the place,” I reply.
I almost added that it’s also full of heartless snots—but I
think better of it.
“Fine. If not Lavender Garden Club, then where?” he asks.
“Mr. Bevon, I’m just your assistant. There’s no need to
treat me to brunch, ask me what color Ferrari I like, or show me
houses,” I say. “While I appreciate the effort to make me feel at
ease around you, I assure you, sir, I’m fine—and you’re a good
boss.”
I politely leave out that he can also be a bit annoying. Mostly
because I know I can be, too.
I hear him sigh.
“Martine, you really are special. One day, I’ll help you
realize that,” he says.
“Have a wonderful brunch, Mr. Bevon,” I reply.
“Have a wonderful day, Martine,” he says before hanging up.
As I set my phone back on the nightstand, I realize he genuinely
sounded sad—disappointed, even. For a moment, I consider calling
him back… but I don’t. The last thing I want is for things to
become awkward.
◾◾◾◾
The afternoon is quiet. Feeling restless, I decide to go out.
I visit a few places—a bookstore, where I buy a couple of
novels; a vintage clothing shop, where I pick up a tie-dye denim
jacket; and finally, an antique store, where I simply wander,
admiring all the beautiful, unique things I can’t afford.
When I leave the antique store, I continue strolling past the
storefronts until a jewelry shop catches my eye. In the window is a
ring that looks strikingly similar to mine—a simple gold band set
with pink and purple stones.
The difference? That ring is real gold, and the stones are pink
topaz and amethyst.
I step away from the window and continue on my way.
Soon, I find myself at a local café for lunch. As it turns out,
they’re hosting a karaoke contest—open to anyone. The winner gets
a hundred dollars and free drinks.
I watch as people take the stage. Some are surprisingly good,
others…not so much, and a few are so terrible I physically cringe.
As I finish my meal, I hear the host announce the next performer,
though I’m not really paying attention.
“Before I begin, I’d like to say I chose this song because
it’s beautiful—and I dedicate it to my wife, Martine, who’s
sitting in the audience.”
No way.
I turn toward the stage.
There he is—my boss, Ian Bevon—looking directly at me.
“Martine, my darling…this song is for you,” he says.
Then the opening notes of True by Spandau Ballet begin to
play, and Ian starts to sing.
I’ll be honest—I’m partly flattered, but mostly shocked…
and annoyed. People are turning to look at me, smiling. I force a
smile in return, saving face—but in that moment, I could absolutely
strangle my boss.
He motions for me to join him on stage. Against my better
judgment, I do. As he continues to sing to me, I feel slightly
embarrassed. But, at the same time I find it charming.
When the song ends, the crowd applauds. Ian stands close,
wrapping an arm around me.
“Thank you, everyone,” he says, smiling.
I return the smile—but the second it’s over, I can’t get
off that stage fast enough.
III
I ducked into a shop to hide—but of all places, I chose a
specialty boutique.
Being surrounded by lingerie, scented candles, toys, and BDSM
items made me a bit self-conscious. I could only hope Ian wouldn’t
think to look for me here.
As I browsed, I found myself fascinated by many of the displays.
One item, in particular, caught my eye—a black leather corset
dress. I walked over for a closer look. To my delight, it came in my
size. On a whim, I asked if I could try it on.
It was a bit snug, but I managed to get it on and fasten it—the
hooks were in the front.
I studied myself in the mirror and smiled. The real question was:
where would I wear something like this?
A few places came to mind…but I didn’t want to go alone.
I stepped out of the dressing room and stood before the three-way
mirror. As I admired my reflection, I noticed a man watching me.
He was handsome—but the way he looked at me made me uneasy. It
wasn’t the kind of interested look that said, Hi, nice to meet
you—would you like to grab dinner?
No.
This was the kind of look that said, You look good—and I
want to own you.
Absolute Hell No!
I tried to ignore him and focused on my reflection, but it was
clear he wasn’t going to be ignored. Something about that look told
me I should probably change back into my clothes and get out of
there—but I hesitated, worried he might try to follow me into the
dressing room.
“Martine!”
“No way,” I muttered, turning around.
Sure enough, it was Ian—walking straight toward me.
“Honey, why did you wander off?” he asked, stopping in front
of me.
“I saw this shop and got curious,” I replied with a polite
smile.
“Well, darling, if you wanted to come here, you could’ve said
so. I would’ve joined you,” he said, glancing around.
“Quite interesting, actually,” he added before turning his
attention back to me.
“Didn’t you say something about wanting to handcuff me to the
bed?”
It took every ounce of self-control not to react. Instead, I
simply smiled.
“Yes…in fact, I did,” I replied smoothly.
“But before we go looking at handcuffs, what do you think of
this dress?” I asked, giving a small spin.
A wide grin spread across his face.
“I think you look stunningly sexy,” he said. “I hope you
plan on buying it.”
“I do, actually,” I said with a smile.
In the mirror, I caught a glimpse of the other man’s
expression. He didn’t look pleased—and soon walked away. I let
out a quiet sigh of relief.
“Looks like I just saved you from a brute,” Ian said.
“No kidding,” I replied. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he said. “Now, about this dress…”
I sighed. “Yes, I’m interested in buying it.”
“Let me buy it for you—along with the handcuffs,” he added
with a mischievous grin.
I raised an eyebrow.
“You can buy me the dress—as long as I pay you back. And no
to the handcuffs,” I said, heading back to the dressing room.
Of course, he followed.
“How about I buy the dress—and another little number I saw on
the way in?” he suggested.
Curiosity got the better of me, and I poked my head out.
“What ‘little number’?” I asked.
He smiled. “Tell me your size.”
“Size 22,” I replied.
He disappeared for a moment, then returned with a long, red
strapless dress made of stretchy satin, with a slit along the right
side.
To my surprise…I liked it.
“Thank you,” I said as he handed it to me.
“You’re welcome,” he replied.
I tried it on—and liked it even more. It hugged my body
perfectly, and I felt…confident. Sexy, even.
I stepped out to show him.
His smile widened.
“What do you think?” I asked.
“I think I need to take you somewhere—dinner, dancing…perhaps
my place afterward,” he said in a tone that was unmistakably
alluring.
“Ahem,” I said, clearing my throat. “Well, I like the
dress.”
“I do too,” he replied.
At that point, it was clear I wasn’t going to stop him from
buying the dresses, so…I let it go.
◾◾◾◾
Not only did he buy the dresses—he insisted on accessories to
match. Thankfully, handcuffs were not included…though gloves and
purses were.
When I got home, it finally hit me: I had just let my boss buy me
two dresses—plus accessories.
That…made me uneasy.
I looked over the receipts and decided I would pay him back. It
was the only way to ease my conscience.
After putting everything away, I called Hannah and spilled
everything.
“Oooh!” she squealed.
“Oh, stop that!” I said.
She laughed.
“Tine, that man has the hots for you. How can you not notice?”
she said.
Her words made me pause. Then I responded.
“Let’s say you’re right. He’s my boss. Business and
pleasure don’t mix.”
“Well, it seems like he disagrees,” Hannah said.
I groaned, rubbing my face.
“Seriously, what is he thinking?” I muttered.
“He’s probably thinking about when he’ll see you in one of
those dresses,” she teased with a giggle.
“Good grief,” I said under my breath.
“Tine, just breathe. Relax. See where things go,” she said.
“I would…if I didn’t work for him,” I replied.
“Tine, have you ever considered that this might be a sign? That
maybe you should just take a chance—and not worry so much about
what might happen?” she suggested.
I fell silent, thinking it over.
“Give him a chance, Tine,” Hannah said gently.
IV
The entire workweek went well—nothing disastrous, no
awkwardness, no uneasiness. Just a productive stretch of finishing
tasks, reminding Ian of appointments, and nothing out of the
ordinary.
Now it’s Friday, and I fully intend to stick to my usual
routine: pizza, a soda, and a few movies.
I’ve just stepped into my apartment when my phone rings.
Hannah.
I answer. “Hello?”
“Tine, I know you love your Friday routine—pizza, soda, and
movies—but tonight, you’re not doing that,” she says.
I raise an eyebrow as I close and lock the door. “And why not?”
“Because you’re coming out with Mark and me to Valenthorn.”
“Valenthorn? You’re joking,” I reply, my surprise
unmistakable.
“Nope! Valenthorn. Eight p.m. Mark and I will pick you up at
six-thirty. And no—you are not talking your way out of it. You need
to have some fun,” she says in that unmistakably bossy tone she
slips into when she’s determined.
God help me…I agreed.
◾◾◾◾
Valenthorn is housed in a two-story building—a typical
nightclub.
There’s a massive, light-up dance floor, neon lights
everywhere, velvet couches, and lounge chairs. A staircase leads to
the second floor, where more tables and seating overlook the action
below.
Mark is dressed in a red blazer over a black button-down shirt,
with black trousers and shoes. Hannah is wearing a dress so short I’m
mildly shocked she left the house in it.
As for me, I’m wearing the red, strapless, stretchy satin dress
Ian bought me, paired with fingerless opera-length gloves and black
block heels.
The music is good—a mix of ’80s, ’90s, early 2000s, and
current hits, with the occasional ’70s disco track thrown in.
I watch as Mark and Hannah dance to MacArthur Park.
I start snickering. Even though I understand the meaning behind
the lyrics—thanks to a bit of curiosity-driven research—the song
still comes across as bizarre. And that’s saying something,
considering I usually enjoy things that are a little off the wall.
Then one of my favorite songs starts—Break My Heart by
Dua Lipa.
Hannah motions for me to join her on the dance floor, and I do.
We dance and sing along while Mark heads back to the table,
watching us with an amused smile.
For a moment, I let go of my usual reservations and simply…have
fun.
I notice Hannah watching me, smiling. She’s happy to see me
enjoying myself.
When the song ends, we’re both laughing.
“Excuse me—may I have the next dance?”
I turn—and my eyes widen.
My boss. Ian Bevon.
He’s standing right in front of me, dressed in a white
button-down shirt, black pants, and shoes—no blazer, which is
surprising.
“So…do I get a dance?” he asks.
“Uh…”
Right then, Don’t You Want Me by The Human League starts
playing.
Ian immediately starts singing and dancing around me.
I just stand there, hands on my hips, trying—and failing—not
to smile. The moment he hits the chorus, I burst into laughter.
He takes my hand and pulls me closer.
Up close, I finally notice just how blue his eyes are. They
almost seem to shine—partly because of the lighting, but also
because he’s clearly in a good mood.
“I never pegged you as someone who’d come to a place like
this,” I say.
“Really? Well, now you’ve learned something new about me,”
he replies with a smile.
“Dance with me,” he adds.
And this time…I give in.
We dance together for the rest of the song.
When it ends, I start heading back to the table where Hannah and
Mark are sitting, but Ian gently catches my hand. I turn to face him.
“Yes?”
“Let me join you and your friends. Please, Martine,” he says
softly.
There’s something in his voice—and in his eyes—that makes
it clear he genuinely wants to stay.
“…Alright,” I say.
He takes my hand and kisses it.
Then he quickly heads back to the group he’d been sitting with,
grabs his jacket, and returns to me.
“Isn’t it a bit rude to leave your company?” I ask,
gesturing toward the group, who now look less than pleased.
He shrugs. “They’ll get over it. Besides, they’re not my
friends—just acquaintances.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“Shall we join your friends?” he asks, offering his arm.
“Sure,” I reply, slipping my arm through his as we walk back
together.
◾◾◾◾
Ian
got along wonderfully with Mark and Hannah. The surprising part was
how quickly he and Mark began acting like old friends. They talked
about everything—cars, sports, travel—you name it.
Hannah
and I exchanged looks. She was giggling, while I sat there, visibly
surprised.
Just
then, Ian slipped an arm around me, pulling me close.
“Mark,
wouldn’t you agree that women are like precious
gemstones—beautifully radiant?” Ian said, looking at me.
I
glanced at Mark, who was smiling, while Hannah struggled to hold back
her laughter.
“Yes,
they are,” Mark said, turning to Hannah with an adoring look. “My
lovely Hannah Sapphire.”
Hannah
raised an eyebrow. “Hannah Sapphire?” she repeated. “You
usually call me something else…though it’s probably best not to
repeat that.” She shot me a glance as she smirked.
I
shook my head. “I don’t even want to know. Knowing you two, it’s
probably something kinky.”
Mark
and Hannah burst into laughter.
“And
speaking of something kinky…you never did let me buy you those
handcuffs,” Ian added casually.
I
turned to him, eyes widening in shock. My reaction sent Mark and
Hannah into another round of laughter.
“No,
you didn’t,” I said, raising an eyebrow.
Ian
smiled. “Actually, I did.”
I
looked back at Mark and Hannah—they were still laughing, Hannah
leaning into Mark as he covered his face.
Turning
back to Ian, I couldn’t help the small smirk tugging at my lips.
“Well,
thank you for making their night,” I said dryly.
Ian
chuckled. “My pleasure.”
Just
then, a tall, supermodel-thin blonde in an obviously expensive dress
approached our table.
“Ian,
we’re heading to Magnum. Would you like to join us?” she asked in
a faintly condescending tone.
“Actually,
no,” he replied. “I’m quite enjoying myself with my wife and
our friends.”
I
nearly reacted to that—but, for some reason, I didn’t.
The
blonde looked at me, then back at Ian.
“You
never mentioned you were married,” she said.
“You
didn’t ask,” he replied smoothly.
She
studied us—her gaze flicking between us, clearly unconvinced. But
with his arm around me and no sign of me pulling away, she finally
turned and left.
Once
she was gone, I looked at Ian. He smiled.
“My
love, don’t worry about her. She’s like cheap champagne—the
packaging is nice, but the contents are underwhelming.”
Hannah
and Mark burst into laughter again, while I stared at Ian, stunned.
“Well,
aren’t you charming,” I said, my tone matching my expression.
“Darling,
I believe I’ve heard you say similar things—especially about a
client of mine not too long ago. Your exact words were, ‘He dresses
nicely, but his attitude is total junkyard trash,’” Ian said with
a grin.
I
crossed my arms as Hannah laughed even harder.
“I
don’t recall mentioning that to you,” I replied.
“No,
you were on the phone with someone…likely Hannah,” he said, his
smile turning mischievous.
I
considered asking why he’d been listening—but decided against it.
Instead,
I asked, “Why did you tell that supermodel wannabe that I’m your
wife?”
Ian
chuckled softly.
“There
it is—that adorably sharp wit of yours,” he said. “And I told
her you’re my wife…because you are.”
That
brought the table to silence.
V
“I am not his wife,” I said.
Hannah and I were in the ladies’ room, and I was fuming.
“We know,” she said calmly, “but clearly something has
convinced him to address you that way.”
I took a few deep breaths, trying to settle myself. As I thought
about what she said, something clicked.
“I think I know what it is,” I said.
“Explain,” she replied.
I held up my hand, showing the gold ring.
“One day, he noticed it and complimented it. I thanked him and
told him that ever since I bought it, people have assumed I’m
married. I even told him about the men who’ve approached me because
of it.”
“So you think that’s the reason?” Hannah asked.
“What else could it be? I also told him that sometimes I
‘confirm’ I’m married just to keep certain men away. It
works…occasionally.”
“Or,” Hannah said with a small smile, “it could be
something else.”
“Like what?”
“Like maybe…he likes the idea.”
I rolled my eyes as we left the ladies’ room.
◾◾◾◾
I got home around midnight, grateful to finally be back.
I changed into my pink-and-white striped nightgown, washed off my
makeup, and slipped into bed. After turning off the lamp, I began
drifting off to sleep—
Knock. Knock.
“What in the hell…?” I muttered, dragging myself out of
bed. I slipped on my robe and headed for the door.
I checked the peephole—and groaned.
It was the same blonde from the club.
Keeping the chain on, I cracked the door open.
“How did you find out where I live?” I asked.
“I followed you and your friends,” she said. “You’re not
his wife.”
Her tone was serious—but I was in no mood to deal with a woman
like her.
“Here’s an idea,” I said flatly. “Why don’t you ask him
why he said that? Because if I recall correctly, he’s the one who
told you I was his wife—not me.”
She glared at me, anger flashing in her eyes. Beneath it, I could
see something else—confusion, maybe even insecurity.
“As I said, go ask him,” I repeated.
“I’m asking you, you piece of nothing!” she snapped.
“And as I told you—he’s the one who said it,” I shot
back. “Now, if you can’t go ask him why he called me his wife,
then maybe part of you believes it—or you wouldn’t be here.”
“Because it’s not true!” she insisted.
“Fine. Then go talk to him,” I said sharply.
She huffed. “I don’t know where he lives. He wouldn’t tell
me.”
“And how is that my problem?” I asked, my patience gone.
“You don’t even care about him,” she whined.
“Listen here, you snotty wench,” I said, my voice rising,
“you show up at my door at midnight, complaining about a man whose
address you don’t even have. That tells me you either just met him
or—as he said—you’re just an acquaintance. Haul your designer
dress wearing, crappy attitude having rear end get away from my door,
or I will call the police. And you can explain why you showed up
here, knowing nothing about me, other than the fact that you’re
upset because you want my boss and think I’m in your way.”
Her eyes widened.
“He’s your boss?” she asked.
I realized my flub—but oh well, it didn’t matter at this
point.
“Get away from my door,” I said, slamming it shut. “And I’m
not kidding about calling the police.”
I went back to my bedroom, but curiosity got the better of me.
From my window, I watched as she got into her car. She pulled out her
phone, clearly agitated—gesturing, fuming—before finally starting
the engine and speeding out of the parking lot.
I sighed, irritated, and walked back to my bed.
Then I grabbed my phone and sent Ian a message:
Just to let you know. The snotty blonde who walked over the
table tonight. The heifer showed up at my apartment. She had followed
Mark, Hannah and me. She was pissed that you told her that I am your
wife and she did not believe you. I told her to talk to you and she
told me that she didn’t have your address and that you wouldn’t
tell her. Whatever her interests is in you, that’s between you and
her. If she ever comes knocking at my door again. I will call the
police, have her arrested for trespassing and you will be looking for
a new assistant. You don’t pay me enough to deal with snotty sluts
off hours who have the hots for you.
After sending the message, I turned off my notifications.
I was not in the mood for anything else.
◾◾◾◾
The rest of the weekend was quiet—not a single text from Ian.
I told Hannah what had happened, and she was completely floored.
She and Mark ended up taking me out to dinner at one of my favorite
casual spots—probably their way of making up for the nonsense I
dealt with on Friday night.
When I walked into the office on Monday morning, everything was
quiet.
I checked the voicemail and found a message:
Miss Leon, I’m in Europe at the moment and won’t be back
until Saturday. Please take the rest of the week off and enjoy
yourself. Also, you need not worry about Greta Benson. I’ve spoken
with the person who was attempting to set me up with her. I’ve made
it clear that their matchmaking services were neither needed nor
appreciated—and that they should not assume otherwise in the
future.
There were no other messages.
Something about Ian’s voice lingered with me. There was a mix
of sadness, disappointment…even a hint of irritation.
I locked up the office and headed home. On my way out, I texted
him to let him know I’d received his message.
When I got home, my phone chimed.
It was Ian.
Good to know you received my message. I’m sorry about Greta.
That said, in the future, I would appreciate it if you handled
certain situations with a bit more tact. Don’t get me wrong—I
understand the anger behind your message. However, I would prefer
that when you’re irritated with me, you don’t throw your knives
in my direction. As much as I find your sharp wit amusing at times,
it can be disheartening—especially when it’s aimed at me.
I love you, Martine.
I stared at the screen and sighed.
Thinking back to the message I sent him Friday night…yes, I
might have been a bit harsh. Yet has been done cannot be undone.
Then it hit me.
Wait…did he just say I love you?
VI
All week, I thought about what Ian had said to me. It completely
threw me off.
And yet…when I really thought about it, everything started to
make sense.
The way he’d asked me which color Ferrari I liked. The house he
wanted to show me. Singing to me in the café. Buying me those
dresses—and trying to buy the handcuffs…oh boy. Dancing with me
at Valenthorn. The number of times he casually, confidently referred
to me as his wife.
But…why me?
What is so special about me that he would take an interest?
I’m not rich. I know very little about his business beyond what
he’s told me. I’m far from a head-turning glamour girl. I’m
reserved most of the time. Despite secretly admiring finer things, I
don’t own anything particularly expensive or fashionable.
And, as he himself pointed out—I have a sharp tongue.
Most of the time, I keep it in check. But moments like that
Friday night with the blonde—or when he overheard me describing his
client as having a “junkyard trash” attitude—those are the
times that side of me slips out.
What’s interesting is that he’s always found it amusing.
Until now.
This was the first time I’d really thrown one of those “knives”
at him.
And thinking back…all those times he irritated me with his
strange, non-work-related requests—those weren’t random.
They were excuses.
Excuses to spend time with me.
It’s Friday.
I decide to start my usual routine early. At 4:30 p.m., I preheat
the oven, turn on the TV, and scroll through my streaming app to pick
out movies for the evening. My cola is already in the fridge, getting
perfectly cold.
Then—there’s a knock at the door.
I check the peephole. A delivery man.
I open the door. “Yes?”
“Delivery for Martine Leon,” he says.
“That’s me.”
He’s wearing a jacket with Marceline’s stitched across
it.
“A pizza, specially prepared for you—compliments of Ian
Bevon,” he says, handing me the box.
I take it, surprised. “Thank you.”
After closing the door, I carry the box into the kitchen and open
it.
A freshly made pizza—mozzarella, pepperoni, mushrooms, and
Italian sausage. Ready to go straight into the oven.
Since it’s already preheated, I slide it in.
Another knock at the door.
I check the peephole again—another delivery.
I open the door. “Yes?”
“Delivery for Martine Leon,” he says. His jacket reads Noble
Decanter.
“That’s me.”
“This is for you.” He hands me a box—heavier this time.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, ma’am,” he says before leaving.
I lock the door and carry the box to the dining table. Opening
it, I find three bottles—one red, one white, and a bottle of
sparkling wine, all nestled in a Styrofoam container with chilled gel
packs.
“Ian Bevon…what are you up to?” I murmur.
I place the bottles in the fridge and wait for the pizza to
finish baking.
Reaching into my cabinet, I pull out the only wine glass I own.
And then, out of nowhere, a song from one of the Bond movies
starts playing in my head.
I smirk, grab my phone, and search for it. When it starts
playing, I can’t help but imagine Ian listening to the same
song…thinking about me.
That thought makes me smile.
“I just bet you do…have a license to kill,” I say softly.
◾◾◾◾
The pizza finishes baking, and I slice it up. I pour the
sparkling wine into my glass, place a slice on a plate, and settle
onto the couch.
I turn on the TV, open my streaming app, and scroll through my
options.
Then my phone chimes.
It’s Ian.
Try watching The Maltese Falcon, then Gilda—and maybe a spy
thriller.
I smile and text him back:
The Maltese Falcon isn’t on the service I’m using, but
Gilda is. I’ll pick a spy thriller from the list. And thank you for
the pizza and wine.
He replies almost immediately:
You’re welcome. I want you to know—anything you need or
want, I’ll give it to you. Just ask.
Just ask, huh?
I consider asking him exactly what he means by that…
…but decide not to.
VII
Monday morning, I walk into the office—only to find an older
woman sitting at my desk. I stop, confused.
“Excuse me,” I say politely.
She looks up at me. “Yes, welcome to Bevon Investments. How may
I help you?”
“Uh…you’re sitting in my chair,” I reply.
She frowns, puzzled. Just then, Ian’s office doors open, and he
steps out.
“Delores, thank you. I’ll take it from here,” he says.
“Oh! This must be the wife,” she says with a warm smile.
I turn to Ian and give him a look. Unsurprisingly, he’s
smiling—mischievously.
“Darling, come into my office. I’ll explain,” he says,
ushering me inside and closing the door behind us.
“What in the hell is going on?” I demand.
“Martine, my love—my darling, my fiery diamond,” he begins.
“I hired Delores to take your place.”
I raise an eyebrow and toss my purse onto the chair in front of
his desk, hands settling firmly on my hips.
He just keeps smiling.
“Before you start throwing knives, let me explain,” he says.
I cross my arms. “Start talking.”
He grins. “You are incredibly sexy when you’re serious.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I mutter.
He chuckles, then straightens.
“Martine, I didn’t fire you. I simply brought in someone else
to do your job.”
“That is firing me,” I point out.
“Darling,” he says smoothly, “I thought you were going to
let me explain.”
I sigh. “Go on.”
He steps closer, gently uncrosses my arms, and pulls me into his.
“Martine, I adore you,” he says softly. “Every time I look
at you, I forget myself. Everything about you—your quirks, your
fire, your patience with me, even when I know I drive you mad. Yes,
I’ve noticed. There’s so much about you I want to know…to love.
I find myself lying awake at night, thinking about you. Imagining you
beside me. Taking you all over the world…pampering you, spoiling
you—and yes, even arguing with you.”
That last part makes me smile.
“I love seeing you smile,” he adds.
My smile widens.
“Martine, what I’m about to say may sound insane,” he
continues. “But love makes people do insane things—like telling
the world you’re my wife from the moment you walked through that
door.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Explain that.”
“Martine Leon…let me be your husband—for real. I don’t
care if most of what we know about each other comes from work. In the
two years you’ve been with me, we’ve learned more than enough to
begin something real. And I want more.”
I study him—his voice, his eyes. He’s sincere.
I sigh. “I might drive you crazy.”
He smirks. “Considering I’ve already driven you to the brink
of insanity, I think I can handle it.”
I laugh. “You say that now.”
“Martine, I followed you into a shop that sells handcuffs,”
he says.
I snicker at the memory.
“I stood there while you modeled a black leather corset dress.
I have no idea what thoughts were going through your mind—but I’m
willing to take the risk,” he adds.
I smile at him.
“Well, I’ve been patient with your shenanigans for two years.
And I’ll admit—you’re handsome, charming, intelligent, kind…
and persistently annoying. So…why not go all in?”
He takes my hands and kisses them.
“You have my word—we’ll be happy,” he says. “With a few
heated debates along the way.”
I laugh. “And I promise not to throw knives at you. But I can’t
promise I won’t be a little sharp sometimes.”
“Just don’t cut too deep,” he replies.
“Deal.”
◾◾◾◾
I did something I never imagined I would do.
I eloped.
A simple courthouse wedding. Hannah and Mark were there as
witnesses. Afterward, we had lunch at Lavender Garden Club—lovely
place, though a bit too snotty for my liking, and I said as much.
Ian just laughed.
Later, he finally showed me the house he’d been talking about—a
beautiful one-story, four-bedroom home by the lake.
“So…this is our home?” I asked.
“Yes. Just say the word,” he said, looking at me with quiet
adoration.
I smiled. “Alright. Put in the offer.”
Epilogue
We’re all moved into our new home.
It’s nighttime, and Ian and I are curled up on the couch, cozy
and content. Red wine and pizza from Marceline’s sit on the coffee
table as we watch an old movie—Cat People, the 1942 version.
As we talk, Ian leans in and presses a soft kiss to my neck,
sending a pleasant shiver through me.
“You know,” he murmurs, “we never actually consummated our
marriage properly.”
He’s right. Between the whirlwind of eloping and everything
that followed, we never truly paused for that moment.
I glance at him, a teasing smile on my lips.
“Well…I did go back to that shop,” I say. “Picked up
something you once suggested.”
He raises an eyebrow, intrigued.
“Well then, darling…what are we waiting for?”
We finish our pizza and wine, turn off the movie, and head to the
bedroom—laughter, curiosity, and something deeper guiding us both.
Later, wrapped in quiet warmth, I rest my head against his chest
as he holds me close.
And we drifted off into a blissful slumber.
