The Wager Agreement

1
To settle a bet, I went undercover as an intern at my husband Vincent’s company.
On the first day, a woman waved a marriage certificate at the front desk, sneering, “I’m the real Mrs. Aronsohn! Why are you slouching? Keep your head down till Vincent gets here!”
She even insulted the cafeteria food and threatened to replace it with a Michelin chef.
A scared colleague pulled me back. “That’s Isabelle Ferrari—Vincent’s idol. He proposed 99 times before she said yes. Cross her, and you’ll disappear.”
I almost laughed. I called my brother: “Bring Vincent down here with divorce papers. In five minutes, I want him on his knees begging me.”
It was my first day as an intern.
I was standing by the reception desk, about to head to HR to report for duty, when a woman in a designer power suit stormed in. She slammed a crimson document folder onto the marble countertop.
“New intern? No wonder you have no manners!” she snapped, her eyes locking onto me. “Are you trying to hide your face behind that stack of files, or do you just find me offensive to look at? Put them down! Stand up straight, hands by your sides!”
Following the intern handbook to the letter, I lowered my head slightly. “Good morning. How may I help you?” I asked, my voice flat.
That simple greeting was like a spark to a fuse. She stalked over to me, her voice shrilling. “What is wrong with this place? Does HR hire blind people now?”
She tapped my intern ID badge. “Look at this certificate. Now look at your pathetic little badge. What part of that equation makes you think you have the right to speak to me? Address me as Mrs. Aronsohn!”
The girl interning with me went pale. She tugged frantically at my sleeve and rushed to bow her head. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Aronsohn! She’s new, she doesn’t know the rules. Please, don’t be angry!”
Isabelle let out a contemptuous snort, rolled her eyes, and strode directly into Vincent’s private office.
The other intern hurried to my side, whispering, “Her name is Isabelle Ferrari. She’s Vincent’s old flame, the one he cherishes most. Don't ever cross her. All she has to do is whisper in his ear at night, and we won’t even make it past our probation period.”
I was taken aback. There was only one copy of Vincent Aronsohn’s marriage certificate. And it was supposed to be resting quietly in the safe in our apartment.
Why would he allow this woman, this Isabelle, to parade a fake certificate around his company and act like she owned the place?
I pushed the question down. For now, my priority was to complete my internship and observe Vincent’s management skills. This was also the perfect opportunity to see just how far he would let this self-proclaimed Mrs. Aronsohn go.
The moment the lunch break began, Isabelle buzzed the administrative department’s internal line. I picked it up. Her piercing voice crackled through the receiver.
“I need a hand-ground coffee. Jamaican Blue Mountain. Water at exactly 185 degrees. Bring it to my office. Now.”
I went to the break room immediately, but hand-grinding the company’s premium beans took time. I was delayed by five minutes.
Just five minutes. It was enough for her to fly into a rage.
When I rushed to her with the coffee, she swatted it out of my hand. “Is everyone in your department dead? Look at the clock! You are five minutes past the optimal drinking window! Do you have any idea how much the flavor profile degrades with that temperature drop?”
The hot liquid splashed across the back of my hand, a searing wave of heat.
“If my mood is ruined because of this, can you bear the responsibility?” she shrieked.
Every head in the administrative office turned to stare at me. Isabelle might have been dressed impeccably, her makeup flawless, but her vicious, cutting tone made everyone in the room flinch.
I struggled to maintain my composure. “Ms. Ferrari, I apologize. Hand-grinding coffee takes time.”
She snatched the cup from my other hand and, without a flicker of hesitation, flung the rest of the scorching coffee at me.
“With your clumsy, fumbling hands, I have no idea how you even got a job at the Aronsohn Corporation,” she spat. “I bet you pulled some rather unsavory favors, didn't you?”
Her voice dripped with venom. “You disgusting thing. Pack your bags. You’re fired.”
My nails dug into my palms, the sting of the burn mixing with a surge of white-hot anger. Just as I was about to retaliate, the department head rushed over, physically shielding me.
“I’m so sorry, Ms. Ferrari! She’s new, I apologize on her behalf! Please, don’t upset yourself. It’s not worth risking your health over such a trivial matter!”
As she spoke, she gripped my arm, her voice a desperate hiss in my ear. “Bite your tongue! Don’t do anything rash! Think about who she is! Our entire department’s year-end bonuses will be gone! She’s not worth it! Let me handle this!”
Seeing the supervisor grovel, Isabelle’s twisted features finally relaxed into a smug satisfaction. She languidly pulled a wet wipe from her purse to clean her fingers. “Hmph. At least the supervisor has some sense.”
Her tone was dripping with arrogance. “Come on. I’m taking you all to inspect the cafeteria.”
Inspect the cafeteria? What right did an outsider have to inspect the company’s internal facilities?
“Ms. Ferrari, the company has strict regulations for the cafeteria. Non-employees are not permitted entry…” I began, unable to stop myself.

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