Chapter 4
1125 Words
The Interview That Wasn't
ARIA COLE
The boutique was exactly what I expected from a place that existed inside Cross Tower.
Everything was white. Not cream. Not ivory. White. The kind of white that required constant maintenance and confidence. The woman who greeted me was the human equivalent of the space — pristine, ageless, with the specific energy of someone who worked in a place where people paid without looking at prices.
I handed her the black card.
"I need a blouse," I said. "Professional. I have about fifteen minutes."
She looked at me the way the receptionist had looked at me the first day — that two-second assessment. But something in my voice must have registered as actual need because her expression shifted into something almost kind.
"Come with me," she said.
Ten minutes later I was in a white dressing room wearing a blouse that cost more than I'd made in an entire week at my previous job. It fit perfectly. The woman had somehow intuited my size without asking and had presented me with exactly three options and I had chosen the middle one because it was the least conspicuous.
Invisible in expensive fabrics.
I was getting good at that.
I returned to the forty-seventh floor at eight fifty-two.
Maya was at her desk now — she looked up when I emerged from the elevator and something flickered across her face that might have been surprising and might have been something else. Assessment. Calculation.
"He wants to see you," she said.
"Now?"
"Now."
I walked to his office. I knocked. He said come in without looking up from whatever was on his screen. I came in.
"The blouse," he said, still not looking.
"It was very expensive."
"It fits better." Now he looked at me. For approximately two seconds. Then back to his screen. "Sit down, Miss Cole. We need to discuss the contract."
I sat.
He turned to face me, swiveling his chair with the kind of controlled motion that suggested he never did anything without intention. His eyes were the same dark color they'd been yesterday — no warmer in the morning light. If anything, worse. Better lit. More readable. Which meant more danger.
"You signed page eight," he said.
"I did."
"You didn't read page nine."
There it was. The thing I'd been not thinking about since yesterday.
"No," I said. "I didn't."
"Why not?"
I considered lying. I was good at lying — had become fluent in it over a decade of survival. But something about the way he was looking at me suggested that lying would not land well and that honesty, while uncomfortable, might at least be respected.
"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.
He looked at me like I had just handed him something valuable and he was deciding whether to keep it or throw it back.
"Page nine," he said, "outlines the terms of employment beyond the administrative role."
"What kind of terms?"
He picked up a copy of the contract from his desk and turned to page nine and set it in front of me.
I read it.
I read it twice.
I read it a third time because the first two times seemed like they might have been hallucinations produced by a mind that was finally giving up under stress.
"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."
The room was very quiet.
I set the contract down. I picked it up. Set it down again. I stood. Sit back down. My internal monologue had become a series of punctuation marks.
"You're serious," I said.
"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."
He said it with the specific tone of someone stating facts rather than insults, which somehow made it worse.
"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.
"I decline," I said.
He didn't react. Just looked at me with that unreadable expression and said, "The door is behind you."
I walked to the door. I put my hand on the handle. I stood there for a moment that was probably five seconds and felt like five minutes.
Outside the building, I had twelve dollars. I had Lena's couch. I had a borrowed blouse that cost more than my weekly rent used to. I had the specific skill of surviving on nothing.
I also had nothing.
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."
I sat back down.
"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."
I stood. I walked to the door. Put my hand on the handle.
"Miss Cole."
I turned.
He was looking at me with that same expression, and underneath it something else — something I couldn't read but felt like looking at the surface of deep water and knowing there was significant pressure underneath.
"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 the end of business. Either way, the answer I get by five o'clock determines what happens next."
He said it like he was offering me something. Like this was somehow generous.
I left his office without responding.
I worked for eight hours without touching the contract.
- Writer
