Episode2_the_conditions
1089 Words
A week later, April was seated on the floor of her small apartment, deep in thoughts and thinking about the proposal, her arms folded and laptop open on an old wooden table. Her tiny studio space was filled with sticky paintbrushes soaking in a plastic cup. There were lots of unfinished canvases. It was a cold day and the only source of warmth was the old heater in the corner of her room.
The contract glowed on her screen, sharp with its corporate polish.
She read it again—slowly this time. Every clause, every consequence.
Clause 3.1: Public appearances required twice weekly.
Clause 4.0: Physical affection for the media encouraged, but not required.
Clause 5.2: No emotional entanglement. No s****l relationship.
April scoffed. "Because hearts can be negotiated, right?"
The smell of drying acrylic clung to the air. Her phone buzzed beside her.
KENZIE: You vanished. Are you okay?
She didn’t answer.
She rose to her feet, trying hard to fight back the tears that are threatening to fall from her eyes, walking slowly to the window. Outside, New York was a frozen mosaic. She stared down at the streets below and wondered how many lives were being rewritten that very second. How many contracts were signed out of desperation, like hers. She wasn’t proud of it. But pride won't pay the rent.
Her gaze returned to the screen. To the man behind the offer.
Warren Whitmore. She’d Googled him obsessively since their meeting. Photos of him at gala events with his trademark emotionless face. Articles analysing his business strategies, his tech empire, his boardroom victories. Rumors of a broken engagement years ago. A brother who died mysteriously in Paris. A mother—still living, apparently—in a private estate upstate.
The man was multifaceted.
She rubbed her eyes. The pressure behind them pulsed. Her fingers were slightly cold as she reached for her phone.
Subject: RE: Engagement Contract Terms
Message: Let’s talk. I have conditions.
She hit send before she could stop herself.
The next day, she stepped into Warren’s office—thirty-fifth floor, Fifth Avenue. The air smelled like money and untouched ambition. Everything was polished to a sterile shine. Glass walls. Minimalist art. Silence.
The receptionist spoke to her politely before directing her to his office .
Warren looked up from his desk as she walked in, expression unreadable. His shirt was well ironed and rolled at the sleeves again. No tie. He looked like someone who didn’t need to try to be intimidating—it just radiated off him.
“You read it?” he asked.
“I have conditions,” she said, without sitting.
His lips quivered, amused. “Of course you do.”
She set her bag on the chair and leaned closer to him. “First, I want full creative control. I won’t be your arm candy. I wear what I want. I speak how I want. I don’t perform docility.”
Warren raised an eyebrow, folding his hands. “You think I want a doll?”
“I think you want obedience and submission.”
He stood slowly and walked around the desk, his fingers gently tapping it, stopping in front of her. She was scared, but she refused to flinch.
“Obedience doesn’t get attention,” he said. “You’ve already proven you know how to own a room. I don’t need quiet. I need convincing.”
“Convinving still means I speak my mind.”
He rolled his eyes. “Just don’t ruin my reputation in the process.”
She didn’t answer. Not yet.
“Fine,” he said. “You have creative control. What else?”
“I want half the payment upfront. I don’t trust this to not blow up in my face.”
“Done.”
April blinked. “It’s that easy?”
“You think I reached this level by dragging things out?”
“I think you’re used to being the Boss, getting people to do whatever you wish.”
His eyes didn’t flicker. “Most people say yes when they need money. You didn’t. You insulted me. You walked away. That’s why I chose you.”
She frowned. “That’s not exactly a compliment.”
“It’s not meant to be.”
A pause passed between them.
“You said six months,” she said. “What happens after six months?”
“We end it. Quietly. Mutually. No scandal.”
“And if I get attached?” she asked, half teasing.
He didn’t smile. “Don’t.”
April’s mouth tightened. “You’re cold.”
“I’m careful.”
“Same thing.”
Another pause.
“You don’t ask many personal questions,” she noted.
“I’m not interested in your past. I just need your performance.”
She stared at him for a moment, trying to find the man behind the mask. But all she saw was the same thing she’d seen in his pictures—control. Precision. Restraint.
Then she extended her hand. “Fine. We have a deal.”
He took her hand. Warm. Steady. Controlled.
A contract sealed in tension.
She turned to leave, but his voice stopped her. “Wait.”
April turned back.
Warren walked to his desk and handed her a sleek folder. “Your first event is in three days. A gala. Climate investment charity. You’ll need something formal.”
“I’ll wear what I have.”
He looked at her. “No. You won’t.”
She opened the folder. A card from an exclusive stylist. A black card.
“I’m not your project.”
“You’re my partner,” he corrected. “And in this world, optics matter. Make them believe.”
April stared at the card, then looked back at him.
“I’ll make them believe,” she said. “But don’t expect me to act like your doll.”
He smiled faintly. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
As she left the office, her fingers curled around the folder. Her phone buzzed again—Kenzie
KENZIE: April, please. Talk to me.
She stared at the message for a long time.
Then typed back: I’m fine. Just figuring things out.
It was the truth. In a way.
The elevator doors closed, and as she descended from the thirty-fifth floor back into the world she knew, she realized that she wasn’t just stepping into a contract.
She was stepping into a lie that might change he
r entire truth.
And she wasn’t sure if that terrified her—or thrilled her.
- Writer
