The Villain (Boston Belles, #2)(20)

“Elaborate,” he demanded.

“We can’t marry. We don’t love each other.” I tilted my chin up defiantly. “And yes, I know love is so very working class.”

“Middle class,” he corrected. “The happy, dumb medium is comfortable enough not to care, and stupid enough not to aim higher. Working and upper classes always take financial matters into consideration. May I remind you the last time you married for love,” he said the word as you would say herpes, “it ended with a massive debt, a runaway husband, and death threats? Love is overrated, not to mention fickle. It comes and goes. You can’t build a foundation on it. Mutual interests and alliance are a different story.”

But here was the really pathetic part—I didn’t want to marry him precisely because a part of me did love him.

Putting my happiness in his hands was the dumbest idea I’d ever have.

No matter how much I tried to ignore it, Kill was my first real crush. My first obsession. My unfulfilled wish. He would always hold a piece of my heart, and I didn’t want to think of all the ways he was going to abuse it if we were together.

Plus, marrying Boston’s most notorious villain was a bad idea, and I was pretty sure I’d filled my quota of asshole husbands for this century.

“Look, how about a compromise?” I smiled brightly. “I can date you. Be your girlfriend. Hang on your arm and take a good picture. We’ll have a little arrangement.”

He stared at me with open amusement.

“You think your company is worth a hundred thousand dollars?”

“You’re offering me a hundred grand to become your live-in escort and bear your children. Plural. If I were a surrogate, I’d get that same amount of money for one baby,” I burst out.

“Go be a surrogate.” He shrugged.

“It’s a long procedure. I don’t have enough time.”

“You don’t seem to have enough brain, either.” He tapped my temple, frowning as if wondering how much was inside that head of mine. “Take my offer. It’s your only way out.”

I pushed him away.

“You’re a bastard.”

He smiled impatiently. “You knew that when you offered yourself to me very willingly all those years ago.”

He remembered.

He remembered, and for some reason, that completely defused me.

Auntie Tilda, what the hell have you done?

“Look.” I shook my head, trying to think straight. “How about we start dating and I—”

“No,” he cut me off dryly. “Marriage or nothing.”

“You don’t even like me!”

Cillian glanced at that chunky watch of his, losing patience.

“What does liking you have to do with marrying you?”

“Everything! It has everything to do with it! How do you expect us to get along?”

“I don’t,” he said flatly. “You’ll have your house. I’ll have mine. You will be stunningly rich, live on Billionaires’ Row, and become one of New England’s most envied socialites. You’ll be far enough away from me to do whatever the hell you’d like. I am sensible, fair, and realistic. As long as you give me heirs, give me exclusivity throughout our child-producing years, and stay out of tabloids, you shouldn’t see much of me beyond the first few years of our marriage. But no divorce,” he warned, raising a finger. “It’s tacky, bad for business, and shows you’re a quitter. I’m no quitter.”

I wanted to burst. With laughter or tears, I wasn’t sure.

This is not what I asked for, Auntie, I inwardly screamed. You missed the best part of my having him.

“You realize I’m a person and not an air fryer, right?” I parked a hand over my hip, losing patience myself. “Because to me it sounds a lot like you’re trying to buy me.”

“That’s because I am.” He looked at me as though I was crazy. Like I was the one with the problem. “People who vilify money have one thing in common—they don’t have it. You have a chance to change your fate, Persephone. Don’t mess it up.”

“Sorry if I sound ungrateful, but your proposition sounds like a very sad existence to me. I want to be loved. To be cherished. To grow old with the man I choose and who chooses me.”

Even after what happened with Paxton, and even though I still had strong feelings toward Cillian, I believed in fairy tales. I simply accepted mine was written eccentrically with too much foreword and scenes I was happy to cut.

He produced a pair of leather gloves from his breast pocket, slapping them over his muscular thigh before sliding his big hands into them.

“You can have all those things in time, just not with me. Find yourself a lover. Lead a quiet life with him—provided he signs all the necessary paperwork. You’ll do you; I’ll do me. What I do, in case you have any lingering romantic ideas about us, includes an insatiable amount of high-end escorts and questionable sexual practices.”

The only thing keeping me standing upright at this point was the thought this was probably a hallucination, due to the fact I hadn’t been sleeping or eating well recently.

Carbs. I need carbs.

“You want me to cheat on you?” I rubbed at my forehead.

“After you give me legitimate children, you can do whatever you want.”