Page 31 of Say My Name

His answer comes without offense or hesitation. I glance down at my notes.

“My role at Rowe Holdings needs written protection. Compensation, promotion, discipline, and performance decisions move outside your authority. You recuse yourself completely and designate someone with enough independence to make those decisions without worrying about pleasing you.”

“Yes.”

“My title, reporting authority, and responsibilities stay intact. If I decide against conception at any point, or if the personal arrangement deteriorates later, there is no retaliation. Explicit or quiet.”

“Agreed.”

I look up. “You’re answering quickly.”

“I spent three days researching the risks before I spoke to you. I’m not hearing any condition I didn’t expect.”

“That should reassure me.”

“It doesn’t?”

“It does.” A faint chill runs down my arms despite the warmth of the office. “The amount of preparation is still unsettling.”

“I can live with that.”

Of course he can. He’s getting what he wants.

I turn the legal pad so I can read the next section. “We will share parental responsibility. I will not carry the entire daily load while you appear for holidays, birthdays, and photographs.”

He leans forward. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“I don’t believe you would. The agreement still needs to say it.”

He settles back a fraction. “Put it in.”

“We’ll need to address everything: custody, finances, childcare, education, medical decisions, even how and when we tell our families.”

“They will be.”

“Major parenting decisions require both of us. Emergency care is the obvious exception. You don’t get final authority because you’re accustomed to having it everywhere else.”

The corner of his mouth ticks up. “You think I’m going to run a household like a board meeting?”

“You once sent a calendar invitation for a conversation we were already having.”

“You kept trying to leave.”

“Because the conversation was over.”

“It ended at the scheduled time.”

I stare at him, letting the silence stretch. A small, sharp thrill of victory cuts through the tension. “This is exactly why the clause exists.”

His mouth shifts, but he lets the joke go. “No unilateral decisions. Understood.”

“The first attempt happens at the clinic.”

His hand stops on the arm of the chair, his fingers pressing into the leather. A flicker of disappointment crosses his face before it’s gone. “That’s what you want?”

“Yes.”

Clinical conception keeps the beginning medical and defined. It also keeps Dominic’s hands off me—the safest option, since my thoughts have already catalogued the shape of them.