8
Violet
Felix’s green eyes blink in disbelief. He stops wiping up chocolate sauce from the table and raises a perfectly waxed eyebrow.
“So… what you’re telling me, is that you’re engaged?”
I nod, still not able to wrap my own head around the ridiculousness of it all. “Technically, I guess.”
“To the scary dude that saved you from getting mugged?”
“Yeah.”
“To the same scary dude that beats people up for a living?”
“Well, when you say it like that—”
“Jesus, Violet,” he shakes his head and drops the cloth on the table in frustration. “I know I make some precarious decisions sometimes, but really? Did you really not learn anything from marrying Johnny?”
“It’s not a real marriage, Felix.” I feel myself fluster in embarrassment. I must be really stupid if even Felix is judging me. “It just gets these loan sharks off of my back once and for all.”
He turns on his heel and sashays back into the kitchen with a new-found attitude. Still seeking reassurance that I’m not a total idiot, I follow him through the swing doors. “And besides, it’s only for a year. And I’ll only live with him for three months. I won’t even have to see him, what with school and the two jobs I work. What’s marriage, anyway? A signature on a piece of paper. It’s not like I have any money for him to take when we divorce, either.”
“It’s not just a signature on a piece of paper, it’s a legal document! You’ll take his last name — wait, do you even know what it is?”
My silence makes it obvious that I don’t. And then it dawns on me: I don’t know his first name, either. The business card he gave me just said ‘Atlas.’ That can’t be his name. Can it?
“You’re so dumb, Vi. It’s ‘cause he’s hot, isn’t it?”
“No!” I fluster once more, and the open flames on the cookers definitely aren’t helping. “Yes, he’s incredibly good-looking. But again, I’m not really marrying him. He’ll settle my debts and even pay to do up my apartment. Why is it any different from you fleecing your ancient sugar daddies for a few bucks every month?”
Felix rolls his eyes and glances at the clock. “I guess you’re right. Just be careful, okay? I don’t want you to get wrapped up in this seedy underworld again. Why can’t you just find a nice man, like an accountant or something, to marry?”
His mischievous grin is back as he takes off his apron.
I throw my arms around him before he leaves for the evening.
“I promise, I’ll stay safe.”
And even though I can’t actually promise that, I have a strange feeling churning in the pit of my stomach. Of course, all my instincts should tell me that this is a stupid idea, and that no amount of money is worth marrying a goddamn stranger.
But at the same time, I feel a sense of… peace. I feel calm. I know he won’t hurt me. And I know that he won’t let anyone else hurt me either.
I glance up at the clock myself. Two hours left until I clock out, and twelve hours until I have to head to his office.
It’s a strange situation to be in, sure. But as I head back into the dining area with my customer-service smile plastered on my face, I can feel the butterflies dancing around in my stomach. They’re as excited as I am to see him again.
9
Violet
I glance down at the business card and back up at the number on the busted garage door in front of me.
My heart sinks. I’m definitely in the right place. I pull my jacket tighter around me, not only because the early morning breeze hasn’t been warmed up by the sun yet, but because it almost serves as a layer of protection against whatever I’m about to face.
I take a deep breath and tentatively knock on the door. I kind of expect a loan sharks office to look like this. A seedy storage lot down a back alley.
But not his. With his perfectly groomed beard and bespoke suits, he doesn’t look like he’d be part of this world at all.
I’m just about to knock again, convinced that nobody heard my feeble rap, when the door rolls up, creaking as it goes.
My heart begins to race. I’m slightly reassured when I’m greeted by a perfectly normal woman, around my age, dressed in an all-black suit complete with the type of heels that clack loudly when you walk.
“Hi!” She beams, her shiny brown waves falling around her shoulders as she shakes my clammy hand. “I’m Lisa. I’m guessing you’re Violet?”
I nod, and she motions for me to step inside.
Even though it’s not particularly bright outside, I have to blink a good few times before my eyes adjust to the darkness within the storage lot.
It’s dingy, with low ceilings and nothing but concrete floors and walls.
Lisa must have felt my hesitation. “The office is further back,” she laughs, leading the way through to a small door right at the back.
Once we get through that, I’m shocked to see a brightly lit waiting area, complete with high-ceilings, plush white sofas, shaggy carpets and expensive-looking paintings adorning the varnished walls. The contrast to the dingy room before it makes my eyes hurt.
I feel like I’ve stepped straight out of a crack den and into a very expensive interior designer’s waiting room.
“Yeah,” Lisa says, as if she’s reading my mind again. “Everyone has the same reaction.”
She points to one of the overstuffed armchairs, one I’m pretty sure I’ve seen on the glossy pages of Architectural Digest at the doctor’s office.
“Take a seat, Atlas is just on a call. Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?”
Atlas. So that must be his name.
I shake my head and she clip-clops down a long hallway into the unknown.
There’s a million thoughts running through my head as I gaze around the museum-like room, none of them fully-formed or even close to making sense.
“He’s ready to see you now.” Lisa’s back just seconds after she left.
My mouth suddenly feels dry as I stand up on my wobbly legs and follow her down the hallway. I’m also feeling incredibly under-dressed in my jeans and T-shirt. I was so paranoid this morning about looking too dressed up, but now I’m in this fancy office walking behind this beautifully groomed woman, I’m kicking myself for not even putting on a lick of mascara, and maybe swapping my Converse for a pair of smart boots.
The corridor is lined with several white doors, behind them unknown rooms where god-knows-what happens. Right at the end is a larger door, painted slate gray.
And I know instantly that it’s going to be Atlas’s office.
Lisa raps on the door, yet doesn’t pause for even a second before swinging it open.
“Your 9 am, is here,” she says, pushing me over the threshold and shutting the door behind me just as quickly.
I blink a couple of times. It’s a lot darker in here, thanks to the onyx marble floors that give off a hypnotic sparkle. The deep gray walls are dotted with the occasional abstract artwork, and I wonder if they have any meaning to him, or if they were simply the choice of the expensive interior designer.