She, the Kingdom (She #1)(5)

I placed the box from work on the table, my gaze settling on the contents inside. I unpacked a few framed photos of Josh and Hannah, a few of their drawings, some lotion, a customized mouse pad of Josh holding Hannah for the first time in the hospital—a Christmas gift from the people in my department—and a plaque I’d won a few months before that read: Employee of the Year.

I contemplated throwing it in the trash when the phone rang. It was Mom, likely hoping to catch me on my lunch break.

“Hi, Mom,” I said, working to keep my voice even.

“Hi, baby. What’s for lunch?”

“Uh… a sandwich.” I hedged, unable to remember what I’d been picking at when Max Kingston fetched me from my job to inform me life was about to get harder. Bastard.

“Must not be a very good one. You don’t sound too excited.”

“It’s not an exciting sandwich, no,” I breathed out. I felt myself begin to panic. Every second I spent on the phone put me closer to breaking down and worrying them both to death.

“Your brother called. Kids are good. Sara is good.”

“Good… that’s good.”

“Daddy’s getting the beginning of a cold. We’re going to church Sunday if he’s over it. Want to come? I know you’ve been lonely without the kids there.”

My stomach sank. She had no idea that her words were salt in the wound. “Mom?” I closed my eyes, feeling tears threaten to spill. “I’m sorry, I’m going to have to go. Kiss Dad for me.”

“I will. Love you.”

“Love you, too.” I hung up and put my phone face down on the table, feeling myself spiral. I took a deep breath, and then choked on the sob building in my throat. Before I could fully submerge myself in self-pity, someone knocked on the door.

I wiped my face, and padded across the dining room in my bare feet, stopping at the small patch of linoleum, with squares of varying sizes and varying shades of orange that served as a tiny foyer surrounded by brown shag carpet. The knob squeaked as I twisted the door open. The look on my face must have been hysterical, because Mr. Maxwell Kingston was standing at my door, chuckling at the sight of me.

Not knowing what else to do, I slammed the door in his face. I turned, a bit in shock, only to pause when he knocked again. Anger boiled inside me, and I yanked open the door. “What?” I sniffed, wiping my nose with the top of my wrist. “What else could you possibly have to say to me?”

He stuffed one hand into his pants pocket, the other holding a file. He was without his gray suit jacket. He strolled past me, his crisp white shirt rolled to his elbows and his vest keeping him from looking too casual. He glanced around my house, clearly making notes in his head about the different items his eyes settled upon.

I walked into the living room, where he’d paused. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to make you an offer.”

I blinked. “My job?”

“No,” he said, making a face like he smelled something foul. “Something much more lucrative.”

“Lucrative,” I repeated.

He noticed my interest and smiled, two dimples forming, one on each cheek. He almost appeared to be a non-monstrous human being when he smiled—even a beautiful one, in the way that Satan was beautiful.

After turning three-hundred sixty-five degrees, he stopped to face me, flicking the file in his hand. “May I sit?”

I eyed him for a moment. “Sure.”

He pulled the pen clipped on the file and clicked the top with his thumb. I was certain the pen cost more than my car. He licked his thumb and grabbed a sheet of paper from the file and handed it to me. “The NDA.”

In large black letters, beneath the official Kingston letterhead, was three words: Non-Disclosure Agreement.

“I’m offering you double what you were making at the hospital, Ms. Clarke. May I call you Morgan?”

“No,” I said simply.

He turned his head to the side with a smile. “Fair enough. But you can call me Max.”

I eyed him before scanning over the NDA. It contained mostly legal jargon, but nothing that raised a red flag.

“That’s all I can tell you until you sign the NDA.”

“Double what I was making at the hospital,” I said. “That doesn’t make sense. You were determined to relieve me of my job, even going against Sandra’s recommendation to keep me at half pay.”

“Because you’re an exemplary employee, Ms. Clarke. You deserve more than half pay. You deserve more than what the hospital was paying you. Twice more, and I’m willing to pay it.”

“To do what?”

He nodded toward the paper in my hand. “Sign the non-disclosure agreement, and we’ll talk about the details.”

“Is it anything illegal?”

“No.”

“Immoral?”

“Ms. Clarke,” Max smirked. “You’re intelligent enough to know morals are subjective.”

“Does signing the NDA obligate me to say yes?”

“Of course not. You simply can’t speak of our discussion or my offer to anyone else. Ever.”

I watched him for a moment, waiting for him to show some sign that he was about to dupe me, or for him to burst into laughter and say just kidding.