My key was stuck in the lock—another daily battle with my apartment's stellar security system. After some creative jiggling and a few choice words, I finally stumbled inside.
The contrast between my cramped one-bedroom and Alexander's penthouse hit me like a slap. His shower was probably bigger than my entire bathroom. Hell, his walk-in closet could house a small family.
I kicked off my heels, watching one bounce off the wall and land behind my sad excuse for a couch. Whatever. Future Madison's problem.
The whole girlfriend-for-hire thing felt suspiciously like glorified prostitution with extra steps. What was next - a contract specifying how many times I had to fake orgasms per week? Required lingerie categories? A minimum quota of "Oh Alexander, you're so amazing" declarations?
Hazel
