MEETING HIM
1409 Words
ANDREA'S POV
The first thing I registered was the silence because my apartment back in the city was never silent. There were always sirens, the hum of the refrigerator, or the thumping bass from the neighbor’s stereo. But this... this was absolute, heavy stillness.
I stretched my legs, my toes brushing against sheets that felt like spun silk. I buried my face in the pillow, inhaling a scent that was crisp and expensive, sandalwood and rain.
Maxwell.
My eyes snapped open and the memories of last night crashed into me like a wave. The gala, champagne, meeting the CEO, the check and the contract.
I sat up abruptly, clutching the oversized white dress shirt to my chest. The room was soaked in soft morning light filtering through the sheer curtains. It was beautiful, but it felt like a cage. I looked at the digital clock on the bedside table.
6:15 AM.
"Oh no, oh f**k" I whispered, scrambling out of bed. "Oh no, no, no."
Maxwell had said seven. I had forty-five minutes to turn myself from a hungover-looking student into the future Mrs. Harrington.
I ran to the bathroom, shedding the shirt and jumping into the shower. The water pressure was incredible, pummeling the tension out of my shoulders, but I didn't let myself enjoy it. I scrubbed my skin pink, washed my hair in record time, and stepped out, wrapping myself in a towel that was fluffier than my winter coat.
A sharp knock on the bedroom door made me jump.
"Miss Rostova?" It was a man’s voice, muffled by the wood. "It’s Leo. I have the... items."
"Come in!" I called out, clutching the towel tight.
The door opened, and Leo bustled in, pushing a rolling garment rack that looked like it had been stolen from a fashion shoot. He looked even more stressed than he had last night. His tie was askew, and he was holding a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and a garment bag in the other.
"Good morning," Leo said breathlessly. "We don't have much time. Mr. Harrington is already up. He’s in the study reviewing the backstory notes. He wants you ready in twenty minutes."
He parked the rack in the center of the room. It was filled with clothes in neutral tones, creams, beiges, soft pastels. Very 'old money.'
"Did you pack my things?" I asked, looking past the expensive clothes for my own battered suitcase.
"Yes, your boxes are in the guest closet," Leo said, waving a hand dismissively. "But you can't wear any of that. Not for Edward. We need to project 'elegance' and 'artistic soul' without screaming 'rebellion.' Mr. Harrington selected these options personally."
I walked over to the rack and reached out and touched a soft cashmere sweater dress in a pale oatmeal color. It looked cozy but incredibly chic.
"This one," I said.
"Excellent choice," Leo said, looking relieved. "Pair it with the brown leather boots. Minimal jewelry. We want you to look like you woke up beautiful, not like you tried too hard."
Leo retreated to the hallway to let me change. I pulled on the dress. It fit perfectly, hugging my curves without being tight, falling to just above my knees. I pulled on the boots, quickly dried my hair so it fell in loose waves, and applied the bare minimum of makeup, just some mascara and lip balm.
I looked in the full-length mirror. The woman staring back at me looked like Andrea Rostova, but a polished, upgraded version. She looked like someone who belonged in a penthouse.
I took a deep breath. "You can do this. It's just acting. It's just a play."
I walked out of the bedroom and into the massive living area.
Maxwell was standing by the kitchen island, reading a newspaper on a tablet. He was dressed in a dark gray sweater and black trousers, looking effortlessly handsome and intimidating. He looked up as I entered.
He didn't smile and neither did he speak, not that I expected him to compliment me or something. He just watched me walk across the room. His gaze started at my boots and traveled slowly up to my face. It was a clinical assessment, like he was checking a car for scratches, but it still made my skin prickle.
"Well?" I asked, stopping a few feet away from him. "Do I pass?"
Maxwell set the tablet down as he walked around the island and came to stand in front of me. He was close enough that I could smell coffee and mint on his breath.
"Turn around," he commanded.
I gritted my teeth but obeyed, doing a slow spin. When I faced him again, he reached out. I flinched, but he just grabbed a lock of hair that had fallen into my eyes and tucked it behind my ear. His fingers lingered on my jaw for a split second.
"You look..." He paused, his thumb brushing my skin. "Believable."
"High praise," I said dryly.
"Edward hates excessive jewelry," he said, ignoring my sarcasm. "And he hates bright colors. You chose well."
"Leo said you chose the clothes."
"I did," Maxwell admitted. "I just wanted to see if you had the sense to pick the right one."
He stepped back, breaking the contact. I missed the warmth of his hand instantly, which annoyed me, like b***h, he wasn't my type.
"Okay," Maxwell said, checking his watch. "6:58. He’s in the elevator. Do you remember the story?"
"Central Park," I recited. "Three months ago. I was sketching. The wind took my paper. You picked it up. I played hard to get. We fell in love over coffee and arguments about modern art."
"Good," Maxwell said. "And why do you love me?"
I blinked since we hadn't rehearsed that part. "Because... you're rich?"
Maxwell glared at me. "Do not say that. You love me because I challenge you. Because I see the world differently. Make something up, Andrea, but make it sound sincere."
Ding.
The elevator chime echoed through the penthouse like a gunshot.
My heart slammed against my ribs. I instinctively took a step back, but Maxwell’s hand shot out and gripped my waist. He pulled me into his side, his arm heavy and possessive around me.
"Relax," he hissed in my ear. "You are safe. I am the shield. You just smile and hold my hand."
"I'm going to throw up," I whispered.
"Swallow it," he ordered.
The heavy steel doors slid open with a soft hiss.
For a second, the elevator seemed empty. Then, a cane with a silver handle tapped against the marble floor. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Edward Harrington stepped out.
He was exactly as the magazines described him, only terrifyingly real. He was in his late seventies, wearing a three-piece suit that looked like armor. He had a shock of white hair and a face carved from granite.
His eyes were the same shade of gray as Maxwell’s, but where Maxwell’s were stormy, Edward’s were like ice. Cold, sharp, and lifeless.
He didn't look at Maxwell but rather, he looked straight at me.
He walked into the room, his cane clicking rhythmically. He stopped five feet away from us. The silence stretched out, agonizing and long. Maxwell’s grip on my waist tightened, his fingers digging into my hip bone.
Edward squinted at me. He looked at my boots. He looked at my hair. He looked at Maxwell’s hand on my waist.
Then, he let out a short, dry huff of air that might have been a laugh or a cough.
"So," Edward rasped, his voice sounding like sandpaper on stone. "This is the creature that managed to distract you from your duty."
"Grandfather," Maxwell said, his voice smooth and respectful. "I'd like you to meet Andrea."
Edward ignored Maxwell completely and took a step closer to me, invading my personal space. He smelled of old tobacco and judgment. He leaned in, peering at my face with unsettling intensity.
"You have paint under your fingernail on your left hand," Edward observed, pointing with the tip of his cane.
I froze because I thought I had scrubbed it all off. Gosh what type of CCTV camera was he?
Edward looked up at my eyes, a cruel little smile twisting his thin lips.
"Sloppy," he said. "If you can't even clean your hands properly for a meeting with me, girl, how do you expect to handle the Harrington empire?”
- Writer
