“What if I refuse?”
“Then I’m afraid I’m going to get much less accommodating than I have been.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning you will remain unemployable in this city. And any city you attempt to flee to. I’ll put a lock and chain on the door of every kitchen in the country.”
She shakes her head, trying to find an argument that’ll get her out of the corner I’ve backed her into. She clearly comes up blank because she just looks angrier and angrier.
“Three months,” I say again with a grim sense of finality. “I brought the contract with me.”
“I didn’t think you were the kind of guy who gave a shit what some piddly little contract says.”
“I’m not. It’s for you, of course. To keep you in line. I’ll do whatever I want regardless.”
She scowls. “Gonna ditch me as soon as you get bored?”
I shrug. “Maybe.”
I let that sink in for a moment, waiting—no, fuck, hoping—that it will get a rise out of her. Her cheeks are flushed, her breath coming quick.
“I’m not the type of woman you just get bored of and cast aside,” she says, pride flaring in her eyes.
“Then why did your fiancé start fucking your best friend?”
The air between us stills. It feels like we’re in a vacuum. Silence churns.
Then Jessa flinches.
For a moment, I think she might do something really bold. Slap me, maybe. But the sparkle at the corner of her eye catches my attention. It’s not fury I see.
It’s tears.
I can feel the contract folded up in the pocket of the jacket I’m wearing. Ripping it up suddenly seems like a good idea. I didn’t think the sight of Jessa crying would matter.
But fuck me, it does. It matters more than I ever thought possible.