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“You do have a budget. I expect no less than half a million dollars to be spent every month.”
“What? How do you expect me to spend half a million dollars every month? That’s six million dollars a year! I’ve never even seen a hundred thousand in the flesh. I save butter containers to use for my leftovers!”
I watch her.
Something in her seems to connect the dots. Clearing her throat, she adjusts her position. “I’m starting to see where I’m less than a concern…”
“Mm, yeah.” I push the papers toward her and tap the pen against them. “It really is good to put money into the kinds of places you want to support, pumpkin. It helps the economy. And not having extra wedding-related purchases to confirm frees up my time. No longer needing to send funds to the exec card does, too. Financially securing you against me is just one of the many pros to this move. It’s important to me that you have that stability as you transition into truly considering having me as your partner.”
She drinks down a deep breath and scowls. “Ugh.” Snatching the pen, she calls to the driver, “Stop the tractor. I don’t want my signature to be bumpy.”
Sitting in the middle of an overgrown field on bales of hay, I watch Marcella sign herself into my world. The sunset rays caress the black ink as she finishes every initial and date before passing the sheets to Margo.
My heart rate picks up when she releases a breath, clenches her hands against her thighs, stretches her fingers, clenches them again. She whispers a curse, laser-focused on Margo as the woman signs, dates, and stamps the appropriate locations.
Margo briefly relays how my bank will set Marcella up with a username and password before issuing new cards for her while my poor girlfriend has a tiny, almost imperceptible breakdown. The only way I can tell she’s having a breakdown is because she’s started smiling and nodding politely.
Throughout the ride back to drop Margo off near her car with the paperwork so she can begin processing it, Marcella remains quiet—blank.
Once the tractor is taking us back out into the field beneath the twilight, she whispers, “I’m…rich.” She clutches a hand to her chest. “How do you live with the weight of this responsibility?”
“You get used to it.”
“I may require a lobotomy for that.” Starkly horrified, she turns her face toward me. “And guess what? I can now afford it.”
“Realizing I’m powerless to stop you is an odd sensation. I wonder if physical apprehension might be sufficient.”
A deep, villainous laugh starts deep in her chest. She steeples her fingers together, tapping them in tandem. “I must use this power for evil.” She stops herself, drops her hands, and corrects the mischief in her expression. Fixing me with a glare, she says, “See? I’m already going insane. What have you done?”
It takes everything in me to keep my laughter in check. “Could you describe what you mean by evil? Please? I am painfully curious.”
“I don’t have to tell you nothing. I can quit my job, find your island, and begin construction of my hobbit home. This is it.” Her gaze drifts heavenward, and her brown eyes glitter in the stardust. “I’ve completed the main storyline. I’ve unlocked Ginger Island. I have the funds to repair the boat in the back of Willy’s shop. I’ll buy the supplies from Robin directly. I don’t even have to gather them.”
“I hardly have a clue what you’re saying.”
She flaps a hand at me. “Stardew Valley. You’re still too early game to understand. And we really should remedy that.” She gasps, again, eyes so wide I’m worried she’ll hurt herself. “Once I have a card, I should take you out.”
My face heats. “What?”
“On a date. To celebrate my richness. Stealing the bill when the waiter hands it to you sounds very fun.”
My lips part.
She arches a brow. “What? Did you think I meant I was hiring an assassin?” All blood rushes from her cheeks. “I can afford an assassin.” She grasps aimlessly at the hem of my long-sleeve shirt. “I…think I need to lie down.”
Without warning, her head hits my lap, and I choke on my heart when it lodges itself in my throat.
Vaguely unfocused, Marcella stares at the sky. Distantly breathy, she whispers, “Finn?”
I speak around the beat in my esophagus. “Yes?”
“Do you know any good assassins?”
“Why do you need to know?”
“Why wasn’t that answer a no?”
Oops. Right. “No, sorry. I don’t know any assassins. I can’t say I’ve ever ordered a hit on anyone.”
