Chapter Two: The Offer
888 Words
"Miss Voss. That was quick."
Montgomery's voice came through the phone, unsurprised. Like he'd known I'd call back within the hour.
"I have conditions," I said, watching yellow cabs fight for position on Fifth Avenue.
"I'm listening."
"I want two million upfront, not one. And I want it in writing that I can walk away at any time if he turns out to be dangerous or abusive."
"Those terms are acceptable. Anything else?"
I closed my eyes. "When do I meet him?"
"Tonight. Eight o'clock. I'll text you the address."
"Tonight?"
"As I said, Miss Voss—the deadline is firm. Mr. Ashford's birthday is in six weeks. Every day counts."
"What should I wear? What should I say? What—"
"Be yourself, Miss Voss. That's what he's paying for. Authenticity." A pause. "Well, authentic performance of a relationship, at least."
"That's an oxymoron."
"Welcome to Mr. Ashford's world. The address will arrive shortly. Don't be late."
He hung up before I could ask anything else.
I stood on the sidewalk, people streaming past me like I was a stone in a river. My phone buzzed. The address appeared: a building on the Upper East Side I'd walked past a hundred times without really seeing.
I had six hours.
Six hours to prepare for a meeting that would change my entire life.
Six hours to figure out how to pretend to love a stranger.
I went home first. My apartment in Brooklyn felt smaller than ever, like I was already outgrowing it. Mrs. Kim from downstairs was cooking something that smelled like garlic and ginger, and the radiator was making its usual clanging sound.
David was waiting outside my door.
"Don't," I said before he could speak.
"Don't what?"
"Don't ask me questions I can't answer yet."
He followed me inside anyway. "Elena, I've known you for seven years. I know when you're about to do something stupid."
"It's not stupid. It's practical."
"Practical how? What kind of job requires you to meet someone at eight PM in a penthouse on the Upper East Side?"
I froze. "How do you know where I'm going?"
"You left your phone on your desk this morning. I saw the address when it came through." He crossed his arms. "So I'll ask again: what kind of job?"
"I can't tell you."
"Can't or won't?"
"Both." I grabbed clothes from my closet, trying to find something appropriate. Everything I owned suddenly looked shabby, worn. "I signed an NDA, David. A real one. The kind with lawyers and penalties."
"Jesus Christ, Elena." He sat on my bed. "Is this illegal?"
"No."
"Is it dangerous?"
"I don't think so."
"You don't think so?"
I turned to face him. "I'm broke, David. We're broke. The business is three months behind on rent. I sold my grandmother's ring. I'm drowning, and someone just threw me a rope. Maybe it's attached to an anchor, I don't know. But I'm grabbing it anyway."
"How much are they paying you?"
I hesitated.
"Elena. How much?"
"Enough to pay off every debt. Enough to save the business. Enough to breathe again."
He stared at me. "What do you have to do for this money?"
"I have to pretend. That's all. Just... pretend."
"Pretend what?"
"I can't tell you."
"f**k the NDA, Elena. I'm your best friend. Tell me what you're walking into."
I wanted to. God, I wanted to. But the contract had been clear: Violation of this NDA will result in immediate termination of the arrangement, return of all compensation, and legal action for damages not to exceed ten million dollars.
"I can't," I whispered. "I'm sorry, David. But I promise you—I'll be safe. And if I'm not, you'll be the first person I call."
He stood, grabbed his jacket. "You're going to do this no matter what I say, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"Then at least promise me something."
"What?"
"Promise me you'll keep your phone on. Promise me you'll check in. Promise me that if this goes sideways, you'll let me help you."
"I promise."
He pulled me into a hug. "I swear to God, Elena, if you end up dead in a ditch somewhere, I'm going to kill you."
I laughed despite everything. "That doesn't make sense."
"Nothing about this makes sense." He pulled back, looking at me seriously. "But I trust you. Even when you're being an i***t, I trust you."
After he left, I showered and changed three times before settling on black pants and a silk blouse that had been my mother's. I looked professional. Competent. Like someone who made million-dollar decisions every day.
The reflection didn't believe me.
At 7:45, I stood outside the building Montgomery had directed me to. Limestone facade, uniformed doorman, the kind of quiet wealth that didn't need to announce itself.
"Elena Voss," I told the doorman. "For Damien Ashford."
His face remained professionally neutral, but something flickered in his eyes. Recognition, maybe. Or pity.
"Penthouse. Mr. Ashford is expecting you."
The elevator was all mirrors and brass. I watched my reflection multiply into infinity—a thousand versions of Elena Voss, all making the same terrible decision.
The elevator opened directly into the penthouse.
No hallway. No door. Just straight into a living space that was bigger than my entire apartment building.
And there he was.
- Writer
