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.
