COST
1448 Words
ANDREA'S POV
My mouth opened, but no sound came out. Five thousand dollars. That was more money than I had seen in my bank account in my entire life.
I did the math instantly in my head. If I sold my laptop, my meager collection of art supplies, and skipped rent for four months, I still wouldn’t even have half of that amount. The panic that had been simmering in my chest boiled over, making my knees feel like water.
"I... I can work it off," I stammered, knowing how ridiculous that sounded even as the words left my lips. "I can ask Marcus to deduct it from my paychecks. I don’t have that kind of money right now, sir, but I am good for it. I promise."
Maxwell stared at me but his expression didn't change. He looked at my cheap shoes, the fraying hem of my uniform skirt, and then back to my terrified eyes.
"At your current hourly wage, Andrea," he said, saying my name like he was tasting it, "it would take you approximately six months of full-time work to pay for the jacket alone. That doesn’t include the shirt or the dry cleaning."
I felt the blood drain from my face. I was going to be sick.
"Mr. Harrington," Marcus interjected, stepping forward again, clearly eager to regain control of the situation. "Please, let me handle this. Security is on their way. We can have her escorted out and I will personally ensure she is billed for the damages."
Maxwell turned his head slowly to look at Marcus. The movement was predatory and ruthless"I didn't ask for security. And I certainly didn't ask for your input."
He turned back to me. "Come with me."
It wasn't a request because he turned on his heel and walked toward the exit of the VIP section, the crowd parting for him like how Moses parted the Red Sea.
I stood frozen for a second contemplating whether to go or not
"Go!" Marcus hissed at me, shoving my shoulder. "Before I change my mind and call the police."
I stumbled forward, dropping the serving napkin on a table and hurrying to catch up with Maxwell. I had no idea where he was taking me, but the alternative was Marcus and the police, so I kept my head down and followed the trail of expensive cologne and champagne scent he left behind.
We didn't go to the lobby but instead, he led me to a private elevator guarded by a large man in a suit who nodded once at Maxwell and swiped a key card. The doors slid open, and Maxwell stepped inside. He held the door open with one hand, waiting.
I stepped inside, pressing my back against the mirrored wall, trying to take up as little space as possible. The doors closed, sealing us in silence. The elevator shot upward so smoothly I barely felt it move.
"You're shaking," Maxwell observed. He wasn't looking at me; he was watching the floor numbers climb higher.
"I'm terrified," I admitted, my voice barely a whisper because come on, I was too tired to lie. "I can't afford a lawsuit, Mr. Harrington. My mother is sick. I'm a student. I barely made rent this month. Please, if you just let me go, I swear I'll disappear. You'll never see me again."
The elevator chimed and the doors opened directly into a penthouse suite.
It was massive. The living area was larger than my entire apartment building.
Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased the city skyline, but the room felt cold. Everything was black leather, chrome, and sharp angles. It didn't even look like a home but looked like an underground room I always see in movies
Maxwell walked to a wet bar in the corner. He peeled off his soaked jacket and tossed it carelessly onto a pristine white sofa. The sight of the expensive fabric hitting the furniture made me wince. He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves, revealing thick forearms corded with muscle.
"Drink?" he asked, pouring himself a glass of water.
"No. Thank you." I stood by the elevator, clutching my hands together. "Sir, please. Can I just go?"
He took a long sip of water, then turned to lean against the bar, crossing his arms over his chest. The wet shirt clung to his skin, making the definition of his chest visible. I quickly looked away, staring at a modern art sculpture on the coffee table.
"You aren't a clumsy person, Andrea," he said.
I looked up, confused. "Excuse me?"
"I saw what happened," he said calmly. "That old fool, intensely telling his boring war stories, elbowed you. You tried to correct your balance, but your heel caught the carpet. It wasn't negligence since you were trying hard to maintain a balance and it seems physics didn't help"
I blinked. "You... you saw that?"
"I see everything," he said. "It's my job to notice details others miss."
"Then why did you ask me how I plan to pay for it?" I asked, a spark of indignation flaring up through my fear.
"Because I wanted to see how you would react under pressure," he replied simply. He walked toward me, closing the distance until he was standing just two feet away. "Most people would have blamed the man who hit them. Or they would have cried. You didn't do either. You immediately tried to solve the problem, even though the solution was impossible."
He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a checkbook.
My heart skipped a beat. Was he writing me a bill?
"I have a problem, Andrea," Maxwell said, tapping the checkbook against his palm. "A much bigger problem than a stained shirt. My grandfather is threatening to hand over control of my company to my cousin if I don't settle down. He has arranged a marriage for me with a woman named Isabella. She is vain, superficial, and power-hungry. If I marry her, my life will be a living hell."
I stayed silent, unsure where this was going.
"I need a distraction," he continued. "I need a woman who is the exact opposite of what my grandfather wants. Someone who looks like trouble. Someone who has no connections to his world. I need a fiancée who will make him so horrified that he begs me to call off the wedding."
He looked me up and down, his gaze lingering on my messy ponytail and the stain on my apron.
"You," he said.
"Me?" I let out a dry, nervous laugh. "Sir, I'm a waitress. I have paint under my fingernails and I take the bus to work. I'm not a fiancée material."
"Exactly," Maxwell said. "You are perfect and ridiculously messy. Not to mention you being realistic. If I bring you to dinner next week, my grandfather will have a stroke."
He walked over to a desk, grabbed a pen, and scribbled something on the check. He ripped it out and held it up.
"I don't want you to pay for the suit," he said. "I want to hire you."
I looked at the check. The number was written in sharp, jagged handwriting.
Fifty thousand dollars.
The room spun because hell, that was enough to pay off my tuition. It was enough to get my mother the surgery she needed next month instead of waiting on the public list for two years. It was freedom.
"This is a joke," I whispered.
"No joke," Maxwell said, his voice dropping to that low, commanding tone again. "I need a fake fiancée for three months. You live here. You attend events with me. You pretend to be madly in love with me, and you annoy my grandfather by simply existing. In return, you get this check today, and another one for the same amount when the contract ends."
He took a step closer. I could smell the champagne on him, sweet and sharp.
"So, Andrea Rostova," he said, holding the check out to me. "Do you want to go back to washing dishes and drowning in debt? Or do you want to play a game with me?"
I looked at his eyes and gosh, they weren't cold anymore but looked challenging.
My hand reached out before my brain could stop it. My fingers brushed against the cool paper of the check and I thought of my mother coughing in her sleep. I thought of the eviction notice I had hidden in the kitchen drawer.
I took the check.
"I'll do it," I said.
Maxwell’s lips curved into a small, dangerous smile.
"Good," he said. "Then take off that ridiculous apron. We have work to do.”
- Writer
