Jameson Fox

By: Nina Levine

He works his jaw but doesn’t respond to what I said. Instead, he presses the button for the elevator and waits silently.

I go back to checking my emails.

When the elevator arrives, he motions for me to enter first and then follows me in.

We ride down to his waiting Mercedes in silence. Five minutes later, I’m sitting next to him in the back of the car. As the driver pulls out into traffic, Jameson and I both scroll our phones, continuing the routine we’ve developed while together over the last few months.

Bill Johnson wants Jameson to grow old knowing the love of a woman. He has prostate cancer and changed his will six months ago to stipulate that unless Jameson was married for at least a year, he would not inherit Bill’s company. I don’t know the intricacies of their relationship, but my research enlightened me to the fact that Jameson began working for Bill at the age of twenty. Bill taught him everything he knew about business, and at twenty-five, Jameson spread his wings and started his own property development company. Since then, he’s spent nine years branching out and building an empire of luxury brands. Hotels, retail, and real estate, including my fashion company that he stole from me.

Well, stole might be a slight exaggeration, but he swooped in during a difficult time in my life and launched a hostile takeover when I was least expecting it, so in my opinion, stole is the right word for what he did.

The only reason I agreed to this marriage was to get that company back. I might not need it anymore, thanks to the new company I built after he took Chatoyer, but I can be a sentimental bitch at times, and I want my first baby back.

If Jameson and I stay married for a year, he gets Bill’s company and I get mine.

And so long as we continue this routine we’ve got of barely conversing while together, we’ll make that year.

“Fuck,” he mutters beside me, drawing my attention from my phone.

Glancing around at the traffic before looking at him, I frown. “What?”

His phone is to his ear and whoever he’s called has answered before he can reply to me. “We need to go over this report,” he barks into the phone, leaving no doubt that he’s displeased with the report.

As he listens to the reply, his eyes meet mine.

“Tonight,” he says, still with the bite to his tone. “I arrive in Rome at six p.m. our time. I’ll call you when I’m at the hotel. Make sure you’ve got all the information for me. We don’t have time to fuck around on this.”

His eyes drop to my throat as he listens to the person for another few moments before ending the call.

His eyes linger on my body.

It’s enough to spark a sensation I don’t want sparked.

“I hope your late-night work won’t interfere with our tour tomorrow. I’m not a fan of tired Jameson,” I say. The time difference between New York and Rome means he’ll be making that call after midnight Rome time. God knows how late he’ll stay up working. In my experience with him these past months, he tends to exhibit even greater asshole ways when he’s tired. And since we’re spending the entire day tomorrow touring Rome, a city I’ve visited numerous times for work but have barely explored, I could do without asshole Jameson by my side.

He finally brings his gaze back to mine. “So you’re aware, our trip to Amalfi has been postponed to Friday.”

“I love how you just ignore half the things I say to you. It’s not rude at all.”

“There was nothing to respond to in what you said.”

I could actually smash my phone into his face.

Like, the images rolling through my mind right now involve me going through the motions of lifting my hand with my phone in it and making him hurt.

“I honestly have no clue how you get people to like you,” I say.

“I’ll forward you this email with the updated details of our Amalfi tour.”

“Yeah, you do that,” I mutter with a shake of my head before giving my attention back to my phone.

He taps away on his phone for a few moments before saying, “Is this how our entire week is going to go?”

My head snaps up. “That depends on whether you continue ignoring my questions.”

“You didn’t ask me a question, Adeline. You made a statement regarding your feelings.”

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