Elena
My breath caught in my throat the moment I stepped into his office. All the words I had been reciting flew out of the window and for a moment, I was speechless.
Lost and speechless.
Cold air bit into my skin, and it wasn't just the air conditioning or the fact that the room was as cold as a morgue – it was the man sitting behind a sleek, black desk.
Evan Price.
His presence was as imposing as the floor to ceiling windows behind him. He did not look up immediately and when he finally did, his gaze was intense, sharp and devoid of any warmth. This same face was stamped across every financial magazine in the world, but that wasn't what made me recognize him right away.
I lowered my head. Did he recognize me too? We had met weeks ago in the hospital lobby. Then I wasn't standing in front of him as his new contract bride, I was standing in his way and he had – in many words – told me how foolish and retarded I was.
His gaze lingered a moment too long, my heart pounded as I waited for my face to register and then all hell break loose. His gaze swept over me, indifferent, maybe angry, nothing more.
Relief flooded through me so fast I felt light headed and may have swayed on my feet.
He did not recognize me. And if he did, he did not care.
Although Mr. Price didn't seem like the kind of man who would let a woman who put him in his place go just like that. After relief came the stinging realization that I was not special enough for him to remember me after just a few weeks.
I was a nobody.
"My grandfather could have better tastes in women." He muttered. The first words he said to me and it was an insult. "We'll move this conversation to the board room. Is that okay with you?"
I blinked, thrown off. "Excuse me?"
He did not bother to reply. He stood fluidly, with effortless grace and charisma which I envied.
He was tall – he had been tall that day too – not in the way that I had to tilt my chin slightly to maintain eye contact – I did have to tilt my chin slightly to maintain eye contact – but in a way that made every inch of his presence imposing and suffocating. He had the kind of height that made the room suddenly feel smaller when he moved through it.
"You are…" he looked me over. "Basic. I'd like to think you have a load of smartness to make up for that. I don't repeat myself twice but for the sake of today, I will. We will move this meeting to the boardroom. Now, come with me."
I should argue, I should tell him that I did not appreciate being spoken to in such a derogatory and demeaning tone but I said nothing. Mostly because Mr. Evan Price was too perfect from up close and I was too engrossed with checking him out to really pay any attention.
His black tailored, expensive, custom-made suit – which I was sure was worth my entire life – framed broad shoulders and athletic, powerful physique. The pure white dress shirt he wore underneath had a button undone, revealing a hint of muscles below his collarbone.
His dark hair was styled neatly and perfectly; every single strand of hair was in place except for the one rogue strand that fall across his forehead, kissing his brow. It made me want to reach out and tuck the hair behind his ears.
I slapped the thought away.
Then there were his eyes. Sharp, intense, cold.
When he looked at me, it felt as though he was stripping me down to the bones and then filed me away under 'Insignificant and unworthy'. My pride didn't like it.
My feet moved of their own accord, following him through the glass-lined corridor before my brain thought to catch up. My reflection stared back at me from the walls. I had come in here looking my best but compared to Mr. Price, I was an eye sore. An imperfection.
Damn it!
While my steps were unsure and unsteady, Mr. Price moved with the certainty and grace of a god. His long strides were unhurried, his hands tucked into his pockets as if he cared less about this situation and this was a normal day for him.
Maybe it was.
Everything about him was perfect.
His steps, his stiff posture. The way his jaw remained impossibly still, like he had perfected the act of showing no emotion. Even the faint shadow of stubble on his sharp cheekbones seemed intentional. Like that was the only imperfection he could allow, and no more.
Without warning, he stopped. My feet screeched to a halt, almost colliding into his straight, perfect back. I imagined him going home and discovering makeup on his suit. Would that snap him out of his perfect image?
What does he look like when he was angry? What does he look like when he smiled?
"Have a seat." He said, and at the same time, picked up a folder, sliding it to one of the empty chairs. I guess that was where he wanted me to sit.
"What is this?" I asked, meeting his gaze.
His lips tilted into what would have been a smirk but looked too foreign on his face.
"Rules." He drawled out. "If I am doing this thing with you, then they are rules you have to maintain. I like and enjoy my privacy and I won't let you and my grandfather ruin that for me."
He nodded at the folder. "Open it."
I exhaled slowly, pulling the folder towards myself and opened to the first page. There were about twenty rules – I glanced up at him. Really? Twenty rules? What kind of a man needed something as stupid as this?
I ignored the small voice in my head that replied, "Your husband."
Did he make this up between yesterday and today? I was curious to find out when – between the time his grandfather informed him of our contract marriage and the time I walked in here – he found the time to think and come up with something as corny as rules.
Twenty of them.
I rolled my eyes, focusing on the document in front of me. At the bottom, it read; Sign here if the terms and conditions are suitable for you. If not, was he going to end the marriage?
My eyes was immediately drawn to the last rule which read; You are not my wife, only an image of what she is supposed to be like. Never forget that.
The next two years was going to be a long time to live with Mr. Price. But it was the price I had to pay.