Beneath The Gold.

Chapter 4.

Title: Beneath the gold.

CHAPTER 4.

“The interview that wasn't”

Pov; Aria Cole…

A small shop, just like any other tucked into Cross Tower - no surprises there.

White filled every corner. Not off-white. Nothing soft. Just sharp, clean white. The sort you have to fight for daily, like it might fade if you blink too hard. She stood there, the one who met me at the door, matching the room exactly. Polished. Timeless. Her presence hummed with quiet power, the way only those do when money changes hands but never gets questioned.

Out came the black card into her hands.

"I need a blouse," I said. "Professional. I have about fifteen minutes."

Her eyes met mine like they did when I walked in that first morning - a quick glance, barely longer than a breath. Yet perhaps the sound of my words carried more weight than expected, since her face softened, just slightly, into what might have been care.

"Come with me," she said.

A short time after, inside a bright room, I stood adjusting a shirt priced higher than seven days of work used to pay. It sat right on my frame. She’d guessed my measurements without a word, laid out just three pieces, so I picked the second - quieter than the others, easier to wear without drawing eyes.

Hidden beneath costly cloth.

That skill started coming easier each time I tried.

Back on the forty-seventh by eight fifty-two. Arrived just before nine. Floor number hadn’t changed since morning. Clock said it was time again.

Now seated at her desk, Maya lifted her eyes as I stepped off the elevator. A look passed over her face - maybe surprise, maybe not. Hard to tell. Quiet judgment lingered behind her stare. Numbers ran through her mind, unseen.

"He wants to see you," she said.

"Now?"

"Now."

Inside the door frame, I stood after walking to his office. A knock followed. Without glancing away from the screen, he told me to enter. In I went.

The shirt,” he added, eyes elsewhere.

"It was very expensive."

That one works more smoothly. His eyes met mine - just for a moment, maybe two full ticks of silence - then dropped again to the glowing panel. Take your seat, Miss Cole. There’s something about the agreement we ought to go over

I sat.

Facing me now, he spun the chair slow, like every move was planned before it happened. Dark eyes again today - unchanged by sunlight streaming through the window. Not softer with dawn. Sharper maybe. Clearer shadows under the lids. Easier to see what hides there. That makes it riskier.

"You signed page eight," he said.

"I did."

"You didn't read page nine."

Out of nowhere, the thought appeared. What I hadn’t let myself notice a day ago suddenly stood clear.

"No," I said. "I didn't."

"Why not?"

Truth felt risky. Years of stretching facts had made deception second nature, almost automatic. Still, his gaze held a quiet challenge - not hostile, but aware. Fabrications might slip by others, yet here they’d likely crumble. Plain speech sat uneasy in my mouth, foreign like stale bread. Yet respect could wait on candor, even if comfort fled.

"Because the number on page one was already more than I expected and I was afraid if I kept reading I would find a reason to say no and I couldn't afford to say no."

Silence.

His eyes held mine, as if I’d passed over a gift he wasn’t sure he wanted. A pause hung there, thin and quiet, while he weighed holding on against letting go.

"Page nine," he said, "outlines the terms of employment beyond the administrative role."

"What kind of terms?"

From the clutter on his desk, he pulled one version of the agreement, flipped through until reaching page nine, then placed it down where I could see. The paper landed with a soft tap, open at the section meant for review.

I read it.

Twice I went through it.

Three readings were needed. The initial pair felt unreal, as if my tired brain had started inventing things just to cope.

"This is a joke," I said.

"It's not."

"This is a contract for me to - you want me to - "

"Have s****l relations with me on a daily basis in exchange for employment, housing, and the salary you signed for," he finished. "Yes."

Silence filled the space between walls. Stillness hung where sound should have been.

The paper touched the table. Then my fingers lifted it once more. Back onto the surface it went. Up on my feet I rose. Down again into the chair. Words inside me turned into nothing but dots, pauses, stops.

“You mean it,” I told him.

"Completely."

"You're asking me to sign a contract to be your - what? Mistress? s*x worker? What exactly is the job title here?"

"Personal assistant," he said. "The position entails standard administrative duties during business hours and contracted intimacy during non-business hours. One year term."

"And if I refuse?"

"You leave. You keep the blouse because it's already been charged. You walk out of this building and continue your previous employment trajectory, which from your file appears to be declining."

Facts came out of his mouth, not jabs - yet that flat delivery stung more. The way he spoke turned truth into something heavier than anger ever could.

"That's not a choice," I said. "That's coercion."

"That's a business transaction. You need money. I need - " He paused, selecting his words. "A arrangement. I've outlined the terms. You can accept or decline."

I stood up.

"No thanks," I told them.

Nothing showed on his face. His eyes stayed fixed on mine, blank. Then came the words, quiet but clear: “You know where the exit is.”

Footsteps carried me forward until my fingers touched metal. The knob waited under my palm without hurry. Time stretched thin - what passed in seconds dragged like slow breaths across skin.

Twelve bucks in my pocket when I stepped out. Lena’s couch waited, unpaid for but mine anyway. A blouse on loan - price tag higher than last month’s rent. Getting by with zero was something I knew how to do.

Nothing was mine either.

I turned back.

"I have questions," I said.

"I assumed you would."

"Is this legal?"

"Completely. You're an independent contractor providing a service in exchange for compensation. The contract is airtight."

"How many times?"

"Daily. Non-negotiable."

"For how long?"

"One year. The contract term is explicit."

"And after?"

"You're free to leave."

Sitting back down again was what I did.

"I need to think," I said.

"You have until five o'clock today."

"That's not enough time."

"It's the time you have." He turned back to his screen like the conversation was already over. "You can think on the clock. Maya will show you your station. There's work. Productivity is appreciated."

On my feet now. Over toward the doorway I moved. The knob met my fingers next.

"Miss Cole."

I turned.

His eyes held mine, fixed in that familiar way, yet behind it lingered a shift - unseen, like staring across still water and sensing weight beneath without seeing what lies below.

"I don't do this casually," he said. "I don't do this with multiple people simultaneously. If you accept, you'll be the only one. If you decline, I'll replace you by end of business. Either way, the answer I get by five o'clock determines what happens next."

That comment came out like a gift handed across the table. As if what he meant carried weight, deserved thanks.

Out the door I walked, silence trailing behind me.

Eight hours passed while I stayed clear of the agreement.