Chapter 8: She Doesn't Back Down!
950 Words
The next day.
Sunlight streamed through Susan's window as she peacefully slept. The door slammed loudly, jolting her awake. There he was, right in front of her, standing at the edge of the bed like a solid statue: Franco Rossi, dressed in a sleek olive green designer suit, exuding a seductive woody and citrusy fragrance.
"Can he ever look bad?" Susan wondered in her mind. While he was flawless, she was a mess with tangled hair and strands falling on her face.
"Sign this," he ordered in a deep voice, tossing a folder onto the bed.
Susan rubbed her eyes, blinked, grabbed the folder, and nearly fainted from shock. It was a promissory note, a hefty one for a large sum of money.
"Five million dollars?" she babbled, "That's triple, no, more like quintuple the lawyer fees and my father's bail. I refuse to sign."
"Fine, then your father stays in prison," Franco replied.
"Okay," Susan responded, crossing her arms, "then find another substitute girlfriend, go hire someone else."
Franco clenched his fist, leaned forward, his face close to Susan's. He looked at her intimidatingly.
"Don't play with me, girl," he muttered.
"Don't play with me either. I won't sign a promissory note for such a large debt. How am I supposed to pay you? With my services?" she questioned, her voice breaking. "I repeat, I'm not a p********e, I'm not for sale."
Franco snorted, rolled his eyes.
"I can't afford to make a contract for a substitute girlfriend. That paper could end up in the wrong hands, and if I don't have you sign a guarantee, you might not keep your word."
Susan remained silent and thoughtful.
"I told you we both need each other. It would be fair if you also signed a promissory note for the same value. We both have a lot to lose, and the future of our families is at stake," she said, looking at him attentively, "ask your lawyer to draft another promissory note in which you owe me, and I'll sign yours."
Franco growled; that girl turned out to be very intelligent and much more skilled in business than any executive in his company.
"Fine, we'll sign the promissory notes this afternoon."
Susan smiled inwardly.
"Touché!" she exclaimed in her mind.
"Get dressed; we have to go get your father," he ordered. "Margaret will come up in a few minutes; answer all her questions."
Susan didn't understand what questions he was referring to. She nodded, waited for him to leave, and rushed to secure the bedroom door. She got into the shower to bathe, and after about thirty minutes, the doorbell rang. She came out wearing a navy blue linen dress—a straight cut, knee-length skirt, sleeveless, V-neckline—and black high heel sandals.
"Good morning, Miss Susan," said Margaret, placing some food containers on the dining table. "I brought you breakfast. Since we don't know your preferences, I dared to get you fruit, toast, and coffee."
"Thank you; that's fine. I'm starving," Susan said, approaching the table. She uncovered the containers, inhaled the exquisite aroma of the coffee, and sighed, enjoying its fragrance. Then she began to eat and watched as Franco's assistant took out her iPad.
"Miss Susan, I need you to answer the following questions honestly: What is your favorite food? What sport do you practice? What flowers do you prefer? Do you like chocolates?"
"Stop!" Susan exclaimed, wiping her lips with a napkin. "What is all this interrogation for?" she asked, frowning.
Margaret moved her lips from side to side.
"I need to know all your preferences to send you gifts on behalf of my boss and order the food you like when he organizes his dinners."
"What? Doesn't Franco Rossi take care of those details with his girlfriend? Are you doing it for him?" Susan questioned, standing up, walking through the living room, shaking her head. "I can't believe it!"
"My boss doesn't have time for those things; he's a very busy man," Margaret replied.
Susan gasped, snorted, ran her hands through her hair, indignant.
"And did his former girlfriend know about this?"
"I am not authorized to talk about my boss's private life."
Susan rolled her eyes, huffed in exasperation.
"Go and tell your boss that I won't answer any of these questions, that if he wants to know my preferences, he should learn to get to know me and do it himself."
Margaret blinked and felt a shiver.
"He will be angry."
"I don't care; I'm not afraid of him. That conceited, insensitive, unthoughtful Franco Rossi needs to learn a lesson. Women are not objects; we are human beings!" she shouted.
Margaret didn't say anything. She left the suite, shaking her head, and went down to the offices, taking advantage of her boss being alone.
"Sir, she... the girl didn't want to answer."
Franco pounded his desk with his fist.
"Why?"
"She says if you want to know her personal tastes, you should do it yourself."
"Has she gone mad? Who does she think she is to give me orders?"
"Well... she's the first woman who doesn't yield to your whims. That's a point in her favor—well, not just one point, but thousands of points," he said sincerely.
Franco looked at his boss with deep seriousness.
"What are you insinuating?"
"Nothing bad, but if Miss Sarah left you, it was precisely because she got tired of you not caring about her anymore, although she also accepted your conditions. But Susan doesn't. They're alike in that way," he said and then left.
Franco growled, closed his eyes, and fell into thought.
"She doesn't yield!"
"Susan Miller, you will pay for this," he whispered.
- Writer
