The Billion Dollar Love Affair

Chapter Two

Trident Headquarters is something out of a sci-fi movie, laid out like a spaceship hundreds of years ahead of its time. Every surface beams my flushed reflection back to me as my heels clack across the white, marble floors which could serve to be an obnoxious sound if it wasn’t lost in the orchestra of everybody else’s heels.

Everybody in this building is put together so perfectly, as though they were custom built to intimidate me from the moment I walked in. Men stride past with rigid collars and cufflinks, eyes ahead as though they all have somewhere urgent to be. The womens’ hair swishes around their shoulders because they’ve probably emerged straight from a L’oreal advert, and I’m sure each one of these people knows they’re important.

I try to mimic their confidence as I suck in a breath, turning my sluggish walk into a feminine stride while I fiddle with the belt cinching my waist inwards. Hindsight is beautiful because perhaps I could have worn this smart ensemble to Genevive’s wedding, but I also wore it to our cousin’s christening and a house party, and Genevive doesn’t forget.

Oddly, the listing for this job - which was difficult to get hold of - only called for women, which might show shades of sexism if repercussions existed for anybody inside this building. Google lists Calvin Westfield as a billionaire, and I’m not naive enough to pretend that billionaires don’t control the direction this planet rotates. If Calvin Westfield wants a woman at his beck-and-call, then Calvin Westfield will have one. Life doesn’t work the same when your wallet is heavy.

“Personal assistant job?” a pretty young blonde asks me, glancing up meekly from the opposite side of the elevator. I nod, sending her a small smile as she tucks her glossy hair behind her ear.

“Bit of a long shot,” I laugh quietly, “Not really sure I’m qualified.”

“Don’t worry,” she reassures me as we begin the steady rise to the top floor, “Experience isn’t everything. I blagged my way to a job at a law firm last year, didn’t know a bloody thing.”

“You’re leaving that for this?” I ask, tugging awkwardly at my blazer. She shrugs, showing off her pearly whites.

“Men like Calvin Westfield rule the world. Who wouldn’t like a chance to work underneath him?”

She wiggles her eyebrows and I can’t help but chuckle, shaking off the nausea building inside my stomach. Every second I’m inside this building, the stakes seem to raise and I try to forget I’m a terrible fit for this job. I’m not sure how to make lifelong barmaid sound impressive to a company of this calibre and so I’m sweating now, sinking into a huge, orange seat next to a gaggle of intimidating women.

“Hi,” a redhead hisses and I try to grin, but it comes off as more of a grimace and I think I’ve scared her. The minutes pass like hours and the first painstaking hour passes like a century, long enough that the sweat begins to bead on every inch of my skin and that’s it, I’m done. My knees are bent and I’m up, eyes on the exit, when the door is pushed open and a small, mousy woman chirps my name, gesturing me into the room. I could sprint for the elevator which has pinged open enticingly, but I don’t. Instead, I swallow down my blind fear and close my eyes, pretending to be confident. Qualified. Prepared.

The first thing I notice as I enter the grand room is the breathtaking skyline. London is spread out in all its evening glory, lights dancing across the night sky as we stand so far above it, looking down from the clouds. The second is the huge fireplace, flickering a warm glow across the room which might be considered cold and clinical otherwise. And the third is Calvin Westfield.

I know it’s him straight away, even though there are two men sat behind a huge, oak desk. My breath is stolen from my lungs, because I’ve seen pictures, but the man in the flesh is truly something to behold. He exudes confidence from every pore, leaning forward in his seat as his eyes lock onto mine curiously.

“Miss Brookidge?” the man next to Calvin greets me, but my gaze is trained firmly on the man next to him. I can see how tall he is even from his seat, and if the way his suit clings to his skin is anything to go by, he’s chiselled like the very last of the Greek gods. A thin line of very deliberate stubble lines his jaw, and his dark, chocolate eyes beckon me closer.

“Good evening,” I try to keep my smile steady, but Calvin’s eyes don’t leave mine for even a moment as I seat myself opposite the men, warring the nerves away. The gentleman next to Calvin is almost as handsome, but his eyes are a bright blue and his hair isn’t quite as long or dark. He’s slicked it back impeccably whereas Calvin has opted for more of an organised mess, which sums my life up to a t.

“Miss Brookidge,” not-Calvin smiles warmly, glancing down at a piece of paper before him, “My name is Will, I’m Calvin’s brother.”

The puzzle pieces slot together as their likeness begins to make sense, but now with two of the most handsome men I’ve possibly ever seen training their gaze on me, I feel as though I might fall out of my body. Calvin is leaning back in his seat as though he doesn’t need to be here, but his eyes burn holes in me and I feel as though I may be alight.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you both.” My voice is strong, confident. I’m a barmaid, but I’m an actress each night as well. I play a role for tips and tonight, I’ll play a girl more confident than myself. Neither of the men says a word as they glance down at what I presume is my CV, and the feeling of the room trying to crush me grows overwhelming. The man before me is a billionaire, owner of the very ground my twenty-pound heels are balanced on. Everything about him screams power and I feel so submissive and small in this tiny chair opposite him. His eyes dart up to meet mine for just a moment, and it sends me reeling. His face is carved, jaw strong and eyes full of confidence. He looks at me as though he knows me, and I look at the ground because I hardly know myself.

“You’ve been a barmaid for a long time,” Will says thoughtfully at the same time my heart sinks, “Why have you stuck at that for so long?”

Because life kicked me in the balls and I’ve been chained there ever since. “Because I believe I make it a better place,” I say simply, trying to ignore Calvin’s steely gaze trained upon me, “I’m figuring out where I want to go in life, and I never move onto something new until I feel like I’ve improved where I’ve been. I’ve made that difference now, and I’m ready to move up.”

Will raises an eyebrow, visibly impressed, but Calvin’s face gives nothing away. He simply observes, watching every movement as I twitch in my seat or reach to tap nervously on my knee, halting as soon as I watch his gaze follow my trembling fingers. “And your salary?” Will asks, continuing as he watches me hesitate, “At the pub you work at?”

I don’t know if it’s legal to ask my salary, but there are thirty women outside who will gladly hand theirs over, and so strong-armed, I tell the truth through gritted teeth. “Nineteen thousand. Roughly.”

Will grimaces and I think it will be the most humiliating part of the interview, right up until the moment he scribbles the number down and asks his follow up question: “So do you have somebody you live with to help with day-to-day expenses? A boyfriend? Girlfriend?”

Will doesn’t look to be the rude type, and he has the good sense to refuse to meet my eyes as he asks the bizarre question. My fists clench in my lap - and of course, that’s what Calvin is looking at - but a huge picture on the wall of the New York skyline steadies my erratic breathing. I need the money.

“It’s just me,” I smile thinly, “I’m pretty self-sufficient. No boyfriend.”

I have absolutely no idea what Will could be scribbling on his pad, but he scribbles nonetheless. Calvin folds his arms over with measured disinterest, and to this second, he still hasn’t said a word. Braving another glance, I realise that I don’t think I’ve ever seen hands quite so big and it’s disarming, just for a moment.

“Miss Brookidge, have you ever dabbled with drugs or engaged in any illegal activity, such as exchanging s*x for money?” Will asks, and that’s it, I’ve lost all sense of reason. The New York skyline mocks me from Calvin Westfield’s wall and I think perhaps that might be what these men are doing here. Mocking me. My fingernails dig so hard into my palms that I feel a droplet of blood trickling towards my sensible trousers, and I decide then and there that I’m not better than many things, but I’m better than this.

“You might be rich and important,” my chair makes a jarring screech as I stand, and Calvin Westfield is human, because he visibly jumps, “But you are a couple of absolute arses and I’ll take working in a bar over this soul-sucking hellhole any day.”

It should be my moment, but I feel nothing other than a red-hot cocktail of embarrassment and anger as I stride from the room, halted only by the low, sensual rumble of a voice I haven’t heard before.

“Miss Brookidge,” Calvin Westfield says very deliberately, sending an immediate shiver down my spine. Self-respect fails me as I turn to look at this man, more curious than anything. He moves languidly around the desk, hand held out to halt me, as though his gravity alone is holding me in position. He’s so much taller than me, so much broader. “I have to apologise for the intrusive questions,” he says, “We’re very thorough-”

“No, you’re very rude,” I snap, and I’m not sure I care anymore. Fury bubbles inside of me because these train tickets were expensive, this night was endless and ultimately, it was pointless. I’m out of pocket because a couple of rich pretty boys wanted to play with the stupid, underqualified barmaid.

“Perhaps,” Calvin says, a hint of a smirk gracing his lips, “And you’re very feisty.”

“I’m very gone,” I finish, turning on my heel and walking towards the door, “And this room looks like a morgue, try adding a touch of colour.”

I’m petty, taking one last look at the men before I stride out, slamming the door to a sea of shocked, pretty faces still waiting outside. The last thing I see before I stride from the room is Will laughing from his seat and Calvin a picture of shock, lips upturned at the corners and eyebrows raised into his hair. Their fun is my misery and so I fall apart on the train home, sinking into my seat and wondering why I let myself believe that today, I could change the course of my life.

An old woman asks if I’m okay and I lie with a smiling yes, watching the world go by in a messy blur of green and disappointment.

I’m alright, I’ll be alright. I always am.