And behind an impossibly large black desk sits the man himself, watching me with a strange intensity.
“You made it,” he says bluntly. “Take a seat.”
It is only when I slip into the plush leather armchair opposite him that I notice another man, obscured by the dim lighting.
“Ms. Washington,” he says, leaning forward to shake my hand, and letting me get a better look at him. He’s old and thin, with slender glasses perched on his nose. “I’m Harold Van Der Wood, Donnacha’s lawyer.”
Okay, Donnacha. Atlas much be a nickname.
I take his hand, still very conscious of Donnacha’s eyes boring into the side of my face.
His lawyer? It all seems pretty real now, and I’m beginning to feel a little overwhelmed.
“Don’t worry,” Donnacha says, eyeing up my hands as they grip onto the sides of the chair. “I won’t keep you for long.”
I shrug, trying to look as nonchalant as possible.
“Nope, it’ll only take a second.” The lawyer pulls a large briefcase from by his feet and places it on the desk. He clicks it open and hands me a thick wedge of paper. “Just sign on the dotted line and that’s that.”
I squint down at the contract. It’s impossible to see anything in this lighting, and I’m very aware of the tension electrifying the air within the office. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Donnacha hand me a very fancy-looking pen.
“I have an appointment in 15,” he says, raising an eyebrow.
Yeah, I can take a hint.
“Well, I want to make sure I’m not signing my life away,” I snap back, trying my hardest to hold my nerve.
Although I don’t want to look even a fraction as flustered as I feel, I can’t take anything in. I flick through, rolling the cold pen between my thumb and finger, but I’m hyper-aware of being under Donnacha’s intense glare. This is what it must feel like to be an ant under a microscope.
After what feels like a few minutes, but is probably about thirty seconds, I give up my pretense and let my wrist flow freely as I scrawl my signature on the dotted line.
Before I can even put in the full stop, Donnacha’s hand reaches over and grabs the contract from me.
“Perfect,” he growls in the baritone voice of his. He slips it across the desk to the lawyer and scrapes back his chair. “10 Rosen Avenue. Penthouse. Come over this evening.”
“Pardon?” I ask, taken aback by his overwhelming stature as he slips on his jacket.
“Do you need me to send somebody to help you with your things?”
“I don’t understand — “
“What Mr. Bryne is trying to say,” the lawyer chimes in, clearly frustrated with his client’s inability to communicate like a normal human being, “is you will need to move into his residence as soon as possible. The immigration office are known to do sporadic checks, so we need to cover all grounds, just in case.”
I blink back at him. “Right. But when do we actually get married?”
Donnacha lets out a snort and slips on his aviators. “What do you think you just signed?”
“Wait — that was it?”
“Yeah, that was our wedding.” I can’t see his expression behind his reflective lenses, all I can see is my own shocked face staring back at me. “Pleasure doing business with you, Mrs. Bryne.”
Without another word, my new husband disappears through his office door, leaving me and his exasperated lawyer sitting in uncomfortable silence.
10
Atlas
“I said orchards,” I roll my eyes, trying not to shout at the timid girl clutching a large vase of lilies in my hallway. She can’t be older that eighteen, and I’m beginning to think the florist sent an intern. “I don’t have time for this shit.”
“I’m sorry sir, I-I’ll sort it right away.”
I turn on my heel to see Lianne, my head housekeeper, hurrying down the corridor towards me. “Don,” she says, her pale skin flustered from running up and down the spiral staircase all morning. “We’re just about tying things up. Should I go through the checklist with you once more, just to make sure there’s nothing we’ve missed?”
I glance at my Rolex. 3.15pm. “We’ve got less than three hours until she arrives, so I sure hope you haven’t missed anything.”
She’s at my heels with her notepad as I begin an inspection of the penthouse, starting from the roof terrace and working my way down to the cinema room.
“The chef has fully stocked the fridges and pantry with all fresh ingredients. The spare bedroom is repainted a neutral gray with soft white furnishings — “
I stop and turn to her. “Do you think that was the right choice? Is it too… boring?”
She shakes her head. “No. I think it looks clean and fresh. Like a five-star hotel.” While I mull this over, Lianne reads my expression. “She’ll like it, I promise.”
“Fine. Continue.”
“We’ve updated the cinema room with a wider choice of movies.”
“Girly movies?”
She tries to suppress the smirk on her face. “Yes, Donnacha. The Notebook, Mean Girls, Romy and Michelle…”
I cut her off with a quick hand gesture. “Fine. Continue.”
“I’ll have the flowers rectified immediately. I’ve also set up a standing order, so they’ll be delivered weekly — “
I cut her off with a sudden thought. “What about Violets?”
“What about them?”
“It’s her name. Violet. Change them all to Violets.” I watch her as she scribbles down my request. “Unless that’s cheesy? Is it cheesy?”
Lianne peers over her pad and meets my eyes. “Want to know my opinion?”
Lianne always has an opinion, and it’s normally one I don’t want to hear. But right now, I know I could use a little female advice. “Yes.”
“You’re overthinking it. You already have a beautiful home. She’ll love it just the way it is.”
I nod, before shrugging my shoulders. “Noted.”
The familiar sound of the front door opening and clumsy feet stomping down the hall hits me like music to my ears. “Still, change to Violets. That’ll be all.”
“Daddy,” Daisy calls from the bottom of the staircase.
“Daddy may be busy, sweetie—” I hear Coralie tell her in a hushed tone.
“No worries,” I interrupt as I sweep my baby girl up into a big bear hug. “I’ve taken the afternoon off.”
I watch Coralie as her eyes scan the house in bewilderment, taking in the painters, florists and the little old dude steam-cleaning the carpets. “Is… Ms. Violet moving into today, sir?”
I throw a sharp look in her direction, and she responds by clamping her hand over her mouth. But it’s too late.
“Daddy, who’s Ms. Violet?”
“I’m sorry,” Coralie mouths at me, backing out of the hallway before she gets fired.
“So, baby, we will have a new person living in the house for a few months, okay?”
Her big blue eyes stare up at me in confusion. “Like Coralie?!”