Free Breaking All the Rules by Cynthia Sax

toe. “Yes, I’ve resubmitted the expense reports.” I cross my arms. There must be a way to terminate our contract.
    Miss Yen is known for negotiating contracts. That’s how she landed her dragon lady nickname. She draws blood at the bargaining table.
    “I made a mistake and signed a contract I shouldn’t have signed,” I swallow my pride and confess to my boss. “What do I do?”
    She presses her lips together. “What is this contract for?”
    “It’s for . . . ummm . . .” Hot sex. Multiple orgasms. Hand jobs in the shredding room. “Services.”
    Miss Yen narrows her eyes. “If these services aren’t legal the contract isn’t worth the paper it is written on. Pursuing any breach of contract issues will likely result in charges being laid for all parties involved.”
    I chew on my bottom lip. Nate is a smart guy. He knows that. “Then why would you draft a contract you couldn’t enforce?”
    “This is something illegal.” Miss Yen rubs her hands over her face. “Of course it is. Why would I expect anything else?” She gazes upward for a couple of seconds, as though seeking divine guidance from the ceiling tiles. “Some parties draft contracts to set expectations. There are no surprises with a contract. Everything is in writing.”
    This sounds plausible. Nate doesn’t like surprises and he’s always yammering about expectations. “But if they can’t enforce the contract what good is it?” I ask.
    “They’re trusting the other party to uphold the contract.”
    He’s trusting me to uphold the contract. All hope I have of wiggling out of this deal vanishes. I can’t break Nate’s trust, can’t betray him. “Thank you, Miss Yen. I’ll speak with Nate.” I stand and smooth down my torn skirt. “Eventually.”
    “He prefers to be called Mr. Lawford,” my boss advises. “And get a new suit, Green.”
    “Clothing is the least of my worries,” I mutter as I return to my desk. My phone is ringing. I glance at the screen. It’s Nate’s number. I turn the ringer off and clip my phone to my skirt. I’ll talk to him, but not now. I have to think about what I will say, about how we can save our relationship. We can’t continue to fight, not for the entire month.
    The wall of shredding behind me has grown, the cardboard boxes blocking the windows. I grab one box and heft it to the shredding room. The shredding has to be done and it’s brain-dead work. I can think about my issues with Nate while I labor.
    The machine growls as I feed it pieces of paper. I shred all of the files, flatten the box, add the cardboard to the stack, and retrieve another box.
    My phone buzzes and Nate’s number displays on the small screen. I admire his persistence and ignore his call, not yet ready to talk to him, having no solution for our relationship mess.
    I stuff a thick file into the shredder. There might not be a solution. Nate and I might be doomed. The machine jams, grinding to a stop. I yank on the papers, peel them apart, feed them separately, my mood somber.
    My phone’s screen flashes red. Someone has accessed my apartment, breaking my electronic locks. I rush to my desk, type in my surveillance address, and examine the video feed on the larger monitor.
    A huge rough-looking man is frantically pulling on the alarm wires. Three men stand behind him, waving their gloved hands, their mouths moving. I zoom in with the camera lens. Lawford Relocation Services is written across their navy-blue shirts in white block letters.
    Lawford Relocation Services is one of the many companies owned by Nate’s dad, a prominent LA real-estate developer and tough-as-nails billionaire. Nate isn’t waiting for my keys or my security codes. I suck air through my front teeth. He’s moving me now.
    I can’t truly be angry with him. He said he’d move me today, and he isn’t the type of man to wait for anyone’s permission. I remotely disarm the alarms and the men stop ripping at the wires.
    Should I go home and