Pulled Into The Billionaire's Redemption

Chapter 1 Anna POV: You Hate Women! "Prostitute or a finance analyst?" he asks. “Which one are you?” I turn to look at him, my face stings as if he just slapped me. “Excuse me?” How dare he talk to me like that. I toss the dry-erase pen on the conference table with a clack and cross my arms. "Are we having s*x," I ask, "or are you going to talk all night?" He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he looks at the whiteboard, his dark eyes narrowing at the solution I just scribbled under the problem. It’s a complex, multi-layered derivative pricing model that was left abandoned in a tangle of broken logic. "My analysts have toiled on that problem for days," he says. He turns an assessing gaze back to me. "You're either a prostitute or someone who shouldn't be on the street. Which are you?" I shake my head. "Mister, I don't understand your condescension seeing as you picked a hooker for the night. If you're such a good person, you'd be home with your wife right now instead of here in your office with a prostitute. So are we doing this or not?" "Get out!" he snaps. My lips drop open and my eyes go wide. "What?" "Get out!" The man steps closer and gestures toward the double glass doors. "This meeting is over! Get out!" "Meeting?" “Hm.” "Mister, I'm not one of your dull staff members who couldn't solve a simple financial equation!” I snap. “You can't just send me out as if I'm some, some, some—" "Slut?" My face goes on fire and my breath catches in my chest. "No, you didn't!" "Wasn't that the word you were looking for?" he asks, an eyebrow raised, unmoved by my outrage. I hiss, the sound sharp and ugly between my teeth. "Damn you, mister. Damn you straight to hell." I swing around, snatch my cheap faux-leather bag off a designer armchair. I pull on my stilettos, swearing internally as my toes jam into the narrow, suffocating pointed fronts. God, I hate these shoes so much. Beth made me wear them. Just like Beth talked me into prostitution for one night, swearing it was the only guaranteed way I could make my rent before the eviction notice turned into reality. Just try it once, she had said. Rich guys are lonely and harmless. Apparently, these are the types of men out here. No way. I am absolutely not doing this anymore. I turn around and walk out of the office, stepping into the cavernous, dimly lit hallway. The stilettos make loud, mocking clicks on the pale tiles, echoing off the glass walls like a countdown of my failures. I make it halfway to the elevators before the cold reality of my bank account catches up to my pride. I stop and turn around. "You know what?" I mutter to the empty corridor. "I'm not leaving until I get paid." I march right back into the big office. The man is standing exactly where I left him, staring intently at the whiteboard, his eyes tracing the clean, elegant lines of the mathematical solution I left behind. "I'm not leaving . . . Mr. Caine!" I announce. Surprised, he jerks his head toward me. His brow furrows. "How do you know my name?" "It says so right on the letterhead there," I say, pointing a trembling finger at the embossed stationery sitting on the corner of the table. He looks at the stack on the table, then shrugs indifferently. "That could belong to anyone." "Nope," I say, taking a step closer, my posture stiffening. "That can only belong to an asshole like you. I'm not leaving until I get paid." Caine scoffs, and shoves his hands into the pockets of his tailored trousers. "I'm not paying you s**t. We did nothing." "You did nothing," I fire back, and take a taunting step closer. "I did. I solved your dumb equation on the board. And I got thoroughly disrespected for it." I stand there, arms akimbo, my face taut and my lips trembling despite my best efforts to look fierce. Inside, I am absolutely terrified and desperately praying: God, please let him just pay me so I can go home. Caine looks me up and down. His face is red around the cheeks and jaw with irritation. The man I thought at first glance was exceedingly good-looking with that cruel jawline, dark hair, broad shoulders, now just looks at me with pure malevolence. "Alright," he says dryly. He reaches into his breast pocket, pulls out a brown leather wallet, and counts out a thick stack of bills. Then . . . he tosses them at my chest. "Now get out!" he says again. The bills flutter through the air, falling around me like confetti at a wedding celebration of someone I hate. The humiliation makes my head swim with hurt. First, I put on this ridiculous, suffocatingly tight gown that exposes most of my inner thighs and breasts. Then, I get picked up by a wealthy dude. And now, he throws money at me like I’m a cheap w***e. I drop to my knees, my breath catching as I start picking the money up off the floor, fighting with everything I have not to cry. As I reach for a stray bill, my stomach lets out a loud rumble and I pause. I hope he didn't hear that hungry rumble. I haven't eaten all day because I couldn't afford groceries. And looking at the luxury watch on his wrist, I know it is almost 10 p.m. "That should be enough to buy you food for a week," Caine says derisively from above me, "and to pay for therapy. You clearly need it." My hand freezes over a hundred-dollar bill. Slowly, I raise my head, glare up at him through the strands of hair falling into my face. "You know, men like you are only alive because it's against the law to kill them." "And women like you," he replies without missing a beat, "are the reason I hope I never have a daughter. Cheap slut." I stop again. There are just a couple more five-hundred-dollar bills remaining on the floor, but I am shaking so much with anger and frustration that my vision blurs. I blink back the hot tears, and snatch the last of the cash. By the time I stand up, I realize this rich dude just gave me three thousand dollars for doing absolutely nothing but math. But the weight of the paper in my hands doesn't gloss over the crushing shame I feel. I stuff the crumpled bills into my bag and look back at the board. On second thought . . . I march straight toward the whiteboard, raising my hand to wipe my solution away, determined to leave him in the dark. He lunges forward and catches my wrist. That’s when it happens. The moment his fingers lock around my arm, a strange, suffocating static fills the room. Maybe it’s the expensive, woody scent of his cologne, his booming, overly confident voice, or the sudden pressure of his grip. The fight goes completely out of me, and our eyes meet. It is a fierce, silent power tussle in those few seconds. Our bodies are only inches apart, the heat radiating between us. For a moment, it looks like his lips are about to crush on mine. A sudden urge to give in takes over me in that second. What was supposed to be a transactional s*x encounter an hour ago has degenerated into angst. "Lady," Caine hisses, his grip tightening just enough to warn me before he lets go. "You should leave now." I pull my hand back and tuck my bag tightly under my arm. "I hope I never see you ever again in my life!" I say with such bitterness my lips tremble. “And if we ever meet again, I hope you drop dead.” "Same here," Caine says, his voice cold as ice as he turns his back to me. “Angry b***h!” I turn and walk out of the office for the final time. In the hallway I stop and scream at his office: “You hate women!” I wait for a response but he says nothing. By the time the elevator doors slide open eight stories below in a lobby where a lone security guard is leaning back in his chair reading a comic book, I am sobbing softly. ‘Welfare,’ I muse, wiping a tear from my cheek as I push through the exit doors into the cool night air. ‘This is not the life I want. I'd rather get on welfare.’