SIGNED
1659 Words
ANDREA'S POV
The ink flowed onto the paper, dark and permanent. I stared at my own signature, feeling a strange mix of relief and nausea. Andrea Rostova.
It looked the same as it did on my art history term papers or my rent checks, but this time, that signature had just sold my freedom for the next ninety days.
"Excellent," Leo said, snatching the papers away the moment I lifted the pen. He moved with the nervous energy of a squirrel, quickly organizing the documents into two neat piles. "One copy for our records, one for you. Although, per the confidentiality agreement in Section 4B, I advise you to keep your copy in a safe. If this leaks to the press, the penalty fees alone would bankrupt a small country."
"I don't have a safe," I said, my voice sounding hollow in the massive room. "I have a shoebox under my bed."
Leo paused, looking at me with genuine pity. "Right. Well. Perhaps we can arrange something secure for you."
Maxwell hadn't moved from the bar. He was watching the transaction with that same unreadable expression. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the check he had written earlier. He walked over and placed it on the glass table in front of me.
"As promised," Maxwell said. "Fifty thousand dollars. The second installment will be paid upon the successful completion of the contract on July 15th."
I reached out and took the check. My fingers brushed the cool paper. It felt terrifyingly light for something that carried so much weight.
I folded it carefully and tucked it into the pocket of my skirt, pressing my hand against the fabric to make sure it was real.
"Thank you," I whispered.
"Don't thank me," Maxwell said, turning his back to pour another glass of water. "You’re providing a service. Leo, you can go. I’ll see you at the office at eight."
"Yes, sir. Goodnight, sir. Goodnight, Miss Rostova." Leo gave a stiff bow and practically ran to the elevator. The doors slid shut, leaving us alone in the silence of the penthouse.
The silence was heavy. I sat on the edge of the white sofa, afraid to lean back. I looked at Maxwell and he looked slightly exhausted.
The confident, predatory energy he had in the ballroom was fading, replaced by the slump of his shoulders as he leaned against the counter. He rubbed his temples with his thumb and forefinger.
Then, a sound tore through the quiet room.
Gurgle-RUMBLE.
My stomach gave a long, protesting growl that echoed off the high ceilings. It was the sound of a hollow cave collapsing.
I froze, my face burning with heat. I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me whole. I wrapped my arms around my waist, trying to muffle the noise, but it was too late.
Maxwell stopped rubbing his temples. He lowered his hand and looked at me. His eyes traveled to my stomach, then back to my face.
"When was the last time you ate?" he asked.
"Breakfast," I admitted, staring at the floor. "I had a shift at the library before the gala. I didn't have time for lunch."
Maxwell sighed. It wasn't an annoyed sigh, just a tired one. He picked up a tablet from the counter and tapped the screen a few times.
"Chicken or beef?" he asked.
"What?"
"I'm ordering food," he said without looking up. "The hotel kitchen runs twenty-four hours. Do you prefer chicken or beef?"
"Chicken," I said quickly. "Please."
"Any allergies?"
"No."
He tapped the screen again and set it down. "It will be up in twenty minutes. You can use the bathroom down the hall to wash your face while we wait. You look..." He paused, searching for a polite word and failing. "...like you've been through a war."
I stood up, my legs feeling shaky. "I feel like I have."
I found the bathroom down the corridor. It was larger than my entire kitchen, all marble and gold fixtures. I washed my hands with soap that smelled like sandalwood and money.
I splashed cold water on my face, scrubbing away the sweat and the few specks of dried champagne that were still sticky on my neck. I looked at myself in the mirror. My eyes were red-rimmed, my skin was pale, and my hair was a disaster.
I tried to smooth down the frizz, but it was hopeless. I looked exactly like what I was: a tired, broke student wearing a stained waitress uniform.
When I came back out, a room service cart was already waiting. Maxwell had set two plates on the coffee table. He was sitting on the floor, actually on the floor leaning his back against the sofa, with his long legs stretched out under the table. He had removed his tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt.
"Sit," he said, gesturing to the spot on the floor next to him. "I don't like eating at the dining table. It's too long."
I hesitated, then sat down on the plush rug. He handed me a fork.
The plate was piled high with a club sandwich and thick-cut fries. It smelled like heaven. I didn't wait for him to start. I picked up a fry and ate it, closing my eyes as the salt and grease hit my tongue.
"Go slow," Maxwell warned, taking a bite of his own sandwich. "If you eat too fast on an empty stomach, you'll get sick."
"I'm fine," I mumbled around a mouthful of sandwich.
We ate in silence for a few minutes. It was bizarre because come on, I was sitting on the floor of a multi-million dollar penthouse, eating fries with the man who owned half the city, and the only sound was the clinking of silverware and the hum of the refrigerator.
"So," Maxwell said after swallowing a bite. "You're an art student. What kind of art?"
"Painting," I said, wiping my mouth with a linen napkin. "Mostly oils. Some charcoal."
"Is that profitable?"
"Rarely," I said honest. "But I'm good at it. I have a few pieces in a small gallery downtown. They haven't sold yet, but the owner thinks they have potential."
"Why art?" he asked. "Why not business? Or law? Something that pays the bills?"
I looked at him. "Because art makes sense to me. The world is chaotic and loud. When I paint, I can organize it. I can make things beautiful, even if they aren't in real life."
Maxwell stopped chewing. He looked at me with that intense, calculating gaze again. "Control," he murmured. "You like control."
"I suppose," I said. "Don't you?"
"I live for it," he admitted. He put his sandwich down, his appetite seemingly gone. "Which is why tomorrow is going to be difficult."
I finished the last of my fries and dusted the crumbs off my skirt. The food had revived me. I felt a little more human, a little less like a frightened animal. I checked the cheap plastic watch on my wrist. It was 12:30 AM.
"Speaking of tomorrow," I said, grabbing my purse. "I should get going. The buses stop running at one, and I need to get home to pack a bag if I'm going to move in here. I also need to feed my cat, Barnaby. My roommate is away for the weekend, so…"
"You aren't going anywhere," Maxwell said.
He didn't shout, but his voice had that steel edge to it again.
I stopped halfway to standing up. "Excuse me? I have to pack. I have classes tomorrow. I have a life, Maxwell. I can't just sleep here in my uniform."
"Leo is already sending a team to your apartment," Maxwell said calmly, picking up his water glass. "They will pack your things. They will feed your cat. They will bring everything here within the hour."
"You sent people to my house?" I stared at him, horror rising in my throat. "You can't just break into my apartment!"
"I have a key," he said. "You gave it to Leo when you handed over your purse for the security check in the elevator. You really should pay more attention to details, Andrea."
"That is invasion of privacy!" I snapped. "I didn't agree to that!"
"You agreed to be my fiancée," Maxwell said, standing up and towering over me. "Fiancées do not live in crumbling apartments in the bad part of town. They live here. And we don't have time for you to take a bus home and drag a suitcase back across the city."
"Why?" I demanded, frustration bubbling over. "What is the rush? You said the contract starts now, but surely I can have one night to…."
"My grandfather," Maxwell cut me off. He walked to the window and looked out at the dark city. "He isn't just a disappointed old man, Andrea. He is a shark. When I hung up the phone, he didn't go to sleep. He started digging. He is currently looking for every piece of dirt he can find on you."
He turned back to face me, his face grim.
"He will be here at 7:00 AM sharp for breakfast," Maxwell said. "He wants to meet the woman who stole my heart. If you aren't here, in my bed, looking like you belong in this world, he will know I lied. And if he knows I lied, the deal is off, and you owe me fifty thousand dollars."
I felt the blood drain from my face. "Seven... in the morning?"
"Six hours," Maxwell said, checking his Rolex. "You need a shower, you need sleep, and you need to learn the backstory of how we met and fell in love before the sun comes up."
He walked toward the hallway, unbuttoning his shirt completely.
"Welcome to the family, Andrea," he threw over his shoulder. "Try to get some rest. You're going to need it.”
- Writer
