a proposal, of sorts. ✔️

two

"Absolutely not. Is this a jest? Are there fairies hidden to tell the tale of how you hoodwinked me?" He rises from his seat and approaches the bar cart. I assumed it was for decorative purposes due to its unflinching use of gold and foul-tasting alcohol, but his actions flowed with such practice I had to admit my fallacy.

"I wish it were." His hand clasps around the bottle of plum liquor just as mine wraps around the emerald pendant of my necklace.

A bitter laugh and a soft pour. "Well, you have my answer then. No."

"I would beg of you to reconsider. I have more to say. At the very least, hear me out." I shouldn't have done this. I should have let my pride win.

"And why should I even consider this proposal? We've spent the last twenty years at opposite ends of society's battlefield and now you expect me to assent to the worst thing that can ever happen to a man?" He finishes his raging with a large sip of the candy red liquid in his cup.

"This is not an endeavor to limit your freedom. In fact, I'd say it would improve upon it."

"You have until the end of my drink to explain your intentions." He ends his condition with another sip. Only half of the glass he had poured for himself remains. My makeshift hourglass was already running out.

"My lawyer has made it clear that the only way to unlock the trust gifted to me by my parent's death is to marry by the time I am 26."

"And that's in two weeks," he supplies.

"Correct. I was hoping for an alternative, but it seems that my parents made sure to fill in every legal loophole. And I need the money for business ventures."

"I am your only option?" Another sip, smaller this time.

"No. Not by far. But you are the only one I trust enough to marry."

"You trust me?" A raised eyebrow, propped up in disbelief.

"I trust your greed." I worry for a moment that my response is too cruel.

"Ah."

Fuck. Wounding his ego definitely wouldn't do me any favors. I rush into an explanation. "If we were to marry, you'd be able to forsake your parents' household for my own. And of course, I would be willing to fund your lifestyle, within reason."

"If I say no?"

"Then I will be having a similar conversation with Mr. Clemons tomorrow afternoon." His jaw sets at that, and I can tell I've captured him.

"All right then. Let's get married."

"Are you certain?" I don't know why I ask — doubt? My own reluctance?

"Yes. I couldn't have you becoming Mrs. Seryn Clemons, now could I?" I don't delude myself by thinking the jealousy is fueled by anything other than my hefty trust. "What a hideous sounding name that would be."

"I'll meet you at the courthouse tomorrow at three in the afternoon." I gather myself off of the couch I had begun to dread as he takes the rest of his drink in his mouth. As I cross past him to the parlor door, I can't help but whisper a parting gift. "Although Mrs. Seryn Clemons sounds quite horrifying, I doubt even Mrs. Seryn Davenport could hold a candle to Miss. Seryn Foxe."

I exit the room as he finishes the drink, and leave him choking for words — the manner in which I like to leave all my men as I depart from their company.