Contracts and Consequence

Dmitri Ashe owns the building, half the city, and — as of this morning — a fiancée. Me. It's a contract. Six weeks, a ring, an ironclad no-touching clause, and a partnership I've been owed for four years. I drafted it myself. I should have known better. He doesn't touch me in public, but he watches. He reroutes my car without asking. He calls me his in front of men who should know better. Then I find the clause his uncle buried forty years ago, the one that would save every employee in the company — and I use it without warning him. He's angry. He's also the only man in the room who's ever been proud of me for it. Some contracts expire. This one doesn't.