"No, you can't."
He looks so serious when he says it, like he truly has no intention of ever letting me go.
It unsettles me in some way but I don't let it show on my face.
"I won't, alright." I let out a small laugh. "I'd be a beggar in the streets with the compensation you'll demand if I breach the contract. Besides, I don't leave debts unpaid. I won't run away, Mr. President, I promise you."
His eyes narrow, as if something in my answer rubs him the wrong way.
"What? You're not convinced?" I ask.
"Stop addressing me as Mr. President. That's not how you call your husband."
Oh. Right.
I bite my lower lip, my gaze flicking briefly to his chest before I force myself to look at his face again, smiling.
He watches me closely, too closely, his eyes drifting to my mouth, or maybe to my smile.
"What should I call you, then? We should have an endearment," I suggest brightly. "Honey? Darling? Sweetheart?"
