Ethan had a savings account that he was disciplined about and a college fund for Lily that he put $50 into every month because 50 was what he could manage. He thought about the number 500,000 and what it would mean. It would mean Lily’s college was guaranteed. It would mean he could buy the truck outright instead of leasing it.
It would mean that when the furnace broke in February and it would break again, it always did. He wouldn’t have to choose between fixing it and making rent. It would mean he could stop doing the math in his head every night. After Lily was asleep, he sat in the kitchen with a glass of water and her crayon drawing on the refrigerator in front of him. Family.
He picked up his phone and stared at the number on the card for a long time. Then he called it. I have conditions, he said when she picked up. A beat of silence. All right. Lily comes first always. If anything about this arrangement puts her in a difficult position emotionally or practically, I pull out. We’d need a clause for that. Agreed.
She’s told the truth that you and I are friends, that you’re someone I’m spending time with. We don’t I don’t want to build her a fiction that’s going to collapse on her. That’s sensible, Victoria said, and honestly preferable. A child who knows there are rules is less of a liability than one who’s been misled. He wasn’t sure how he felt about Lily being described as a potential liability, but he let it go. I keep working, he said.
The company doesn’t stop. I’m not going to be a kept man. I have no interest in keeping you. You’d be expected at certain events, maybe two or three per month, weekends occasionally. We’d agree on the schedule. Where do we live? A pause. I have a house in Princeton. Four bedrooms, enough space.
You want us to move in with you for appearances? Yes. It would need to look like an actual marriage. Two people living in separate houses doesn’t accomplish that. He rubbed his face. That’s a big ask. I know. Lily’s at a school. She has a routine. Mrs. Caruso, Princeton has schools. We can find her something equivalent or better.
I’ll cover the enrollment and any associated costs. you’ll cover. He said it flatly. Yes. No apology in her voice, but something careful. I’m aware that sounds dismissive of what you’ve built. I’m not dismissing it. I’m saying the logistics are solvable and I’ll handle the costs. You’re very efficient, he said. Yes. She agreed.
Is that a problem? I don’t know yet. She was quiet for a moment. Then Mr. Walker. Ethan, I want to be very clear about something. I’m not asking you to give up who you are. I’m not buying you. This is a contract between two adults who are getting something they need from each other. When it’s over, you go back to your life with more resources than you had.
Nothing about who you are has to change. He looked at the drawing again. Can I meet with you tomorrow? He said in person. I want to look you in the eye when we go over the contract. Of course. where he thought about this. Not her office, too much on her territory. Not his house, too personal. There’s a diner on Route 22, Milbrook.
Annie’s. You know how to find it? Another pause, slightly longer. He wondered if Victoria Sterling had ever been to a diner on Route 22. I’ll find it, she said. 9:00. I’ll be there. She was there at 5 minutes to 9, sitting in a corner booth with a cup of coffee she’d ordered but not touched. Wearing a blazer and dark pants that somehow looked out of place and also completely natural at the same time, like someone who had learned how to be comfortable anywhere or was working at it.
Ethan slid into the booth across from her and put his hands on the table. “You brought a lawyer,” he said. “It wasn’t a question. There was a man in a gray suit two tables over watching them with the careful non-expression of someone pretending not to watch. Habit, Victoria said.
He won’t come to the table unless you want him to. I don’t. Then he won’t. The waitress came. Ethan ordered coffee and eggs. Victoria ordered nothing additional, then seemed to reconsider and asked for toast. When the waitress left, Victoria pulled a folder from her bag and set it on the table. draft contract.
Gerald prepared it. All the terms we discussed, plus a few additional protections for both parties. Can I read it before you explain it? She pushed it across. Of course, he read. It took 20 minutes. She drank her coffee and ate her toast and didn’t rush him. The contract was thorough. Payment structure, timeline, clauses covering his withdrawal conditions, a non-disclosure agreement that ran both directions.
She couldn’t speak about the arrangement and neither could he. There was a clause about Lily specifically worded carefully to ensure her routine disruption was minimized. There was a provision that the marriage would be civily registered but that no religious ceremony was required. At the bottom was a section he read twice.
Emotional non-entanglement clause. He said standard. She said for arrangements like this. Have you done arrangements like this before? No, but my lawyers have seen cases where agreements like this become complicated by unexpected feelings. The clause is a reminder that the purpose of the arrangement is transactional. He looked at it.
Both parties agree to maintain professional emotional distance for the duration of the contract period. That’s a strange thing to sign, he said. Yes. She met his eyes. It is. He looked back at the contract. It’s also probably uninforcable. Legally, yes, but it clarifies intent. He set the folder down. Here’s my question, the real one.
