The Price of His Name.

Chapter Three: The Fundraiser

I got back to Vance & Co at 10:41 AM, and Tasha was still asleep on the couch with her laptop half closed on her chest. The bank alert was still open on my phone, $30,000.00, cleared, and the knot in my stomach had not loosened.

I set the black card Marcus gave me on my desk next to the photo of me and Mom, and it had no name, no number showing, just a matte finish that looked expensive. Dev walked in ten minutes later with coffee for all of us and stopped when he saw my face, and he didn’t ask, he just put the coffee down.

“Julian Cross paid the loan,” I said.

Tasha sat up fast and her laptop hit the floor.

“What?”

“I signed a contract. Six months, I play his girlfriend for cameras.”

Dev stared at the black card. “Maya, that’s illegal.”

I picked up the card and turned it over, and nothing was on the back, no bank name, no limit, just a possibility which felt worse than debt. Tasha picked her laptop up slowly and closed it, and she looked at me, trying to see if I was still me.

The room was quiet except for the car lot light blinking through our one window, and Dev didn’t speak, he just handed me the coffee he brought and sat down at his desk. I drank it cold, and it tasted of burnt metal and necessity.

“Are you good?” she asked.

“No,” I said.

“Do you want me to call a lawyer?”

“No, I read it, no s*x, no touch, no rules I can’t walk from, just photos.”

Tasha exhaled and rubbed her face. “Photos turn into stories, stories turn into people thinking they own you.”

My phone buzzed. Marcus. _Car will pick you up at 6:30. Dress code is black tie. The stylist will meet you at five.

I spent the next two hours pulling every article I could find on Cross Holdings fundraisers, and the photos were identical, women in gowns that cost more than my yearly lease, men in tuxedos with watches that could pay off my loan twice.

Everyone smiled, but their eyes were sharp, and they looked at people and counted flaws. I looked at my jeans and my clean shirt and the chip on my nail from fixing the print machine.

There was a knock at 4:58 PM.

“Miss Vance. Fitting,” said the woman in the charcoal pantsuit.

“Come in,” Tasha said, because I couldn’t.

“You're the stylist?” I asked.

“I’m Elena. Mr. Cross sends me when things need to look effortless.”

The dress was black, simple, and cut for a different body, and it slid over my hips and held my waist and left my shoulders bare. The fabric was heavy and cool, and it didn’t wrinkle when I moved. Elena zipped me up without asking, pinned my hair back with pins that didn’t pull, and handed me heels that were four inches of bad decisions.

She looked at me without expression, and when I turned to the mirror, I didn’t see Maya Vance who wrote dating profiles for five dollars. I saw a stranger bought for the night.

“Something wrong with it?” Elena asked.

“No, it’s just not mine.”

“It is for six months,” she said. “Mr. Cross values consistency.”

She handed me a small clutch. It had nothing inside.

Tasha stood in the doorway. “Don’t let him make you small.”

The car came at 6:30 sharp, a black sedan with tinted windows, and the driver opened the door without a word. I slid in, and the leather was cold against the back of my legs.

Cross Tower at night was worse than in the morning, and the lobby was full of people born in suits, and music floated down from somewhere high up, string music, slow and expensive. The front desk girl from this morning saw me and her face didn’t change this time, she just pointed to the lift. Marcus met me there.

“Penthouse level,” he said. “Mr. Cross is already upstairs.”

“I didn’t agree to a penthouse,” I said.

“You agreed to events. This is one.”

The lift doors opened to light and noise and glasses clinking. The room was all glass and white stone and gold details that hurt to look at. A hundred people stood in small groups, all of them holding crystals and conversation, and the city was spread out below us, sixty-two floors down. Julian was by the bar, talking to three men in tuxedos, and he turned when he saw me, and his eyes changed. He crossed the room, and the crowd parted for him without him asking. He didn’t walk, he moved, and the room adjusted for him.

“You’re on time,” he said.

“I signed a contract,” I said.

“Drink?” he asked, nodding toward the bar.

“No, I don’t drink on the job.”

His mouth moved as if he almost smiled, but he caught it, and he held out his arm, his sleeve crisp, his cufflink dark metal.

I took his arm, and his suit was warm under my hand. Flashes started before I could breathe, and a woman stepped in with a microphone. Julian’s grip on my arm tightened enough to warn me, and it wasn’t painful, it was a signal. The camera lens was a black eye pointed at my face, and the room watched. I lifted my chin.

“Julian Cross,” the woman said. “Is this her?”

He looked at me, then at the camera. “This is Maya Vance,” he said.

“And how long have you two been together?” the woman asked.

“Long enough,” he said, and his voice made it sound definite.

I was watching a man with silver hair starring from across the room, and he was watching me back, and he lifted his glass as if toasting me. Victor Sterling, he looked friendly, he looked dangerous. Julian’s voice was low, near my ear, and we moved through the room and people moved with us. Men shook Julian’s hand and looked at me as if I were a new acquisition, and women my age smiled with their mouths but not their eyes, and they cataloged the dress, the shoes, the absence of diamonds.

“Don’t look at him,” Julian said.

“I wasn’t,” I lied.

“You were. Don’t again.”

“Charlotte. You’ve met Maya. Good. Excuse us,” Julian said to the blonde woman who stepped too close.

He didn’t wait for her to reply, he just moved us away, his hand now at the small of my back, and it was the first time he’d touched me, and it wasn’t a touch, it was a steer, a claim. I hated that I noticed how solid he felt, and I hated that my body registered it as safe. We stopped near the glass wall, and the city was all lit up, and for a moment it was quiet, no cameras, no Charlotte, no Victor, just the hum of the party behind us and the skyline in front of us.

“You okay?” he asked.

“No,” I said, because I was done lying tonight.

“Good,” he said. “Honest answers are rare up here.”

“Why did you pick me? You could buy anyone, a model, an actress.”

“Because they smile on command,” he said. “You don’t. When you smile, people will believe it’s real.”

Victor Sterling reached us, and his smile was wide and empty, and he held out his hand to me, his rings big, his grip certain to be too tight. I didn’t take it, and Julian’s hand at my back pressed once, a warning, or support. I couldn’t tell yet. The air changed when Victor stepped closer, and it got colder, even with a hundred people in the room. Julian didn’t move, he just watched Victor’s back, and his jaw was tight. Cameras were still flashing behind us.

“Julian. And this must be the famous Maya Vance,” Victor said.

“Mr. Sterling,” I said. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“All good, I hope,” he said.

“I only write the truth,” I said.

“Then we should talk sometime, Miss Vance. About truth, and about how much it costs.” He looked at Julian. “She’s different than I expected. I value different.”

He walked away, and the air got easier to breathe, and I laughed before I could stop it, short and sharp and real. A few people turned to look, and Julian looked down at me, and that not-cold thing was in his eyes again.

Cameras flashed, and tomorrow those photos would be everywhere.

“Julian Cross and his new girlfriend, Maya Vance, make their debut” The headline was already written, and I just didn’t know yet that Victor Sterling was already planning his own story.

“Rule one,” Julian said. “Never be alone with him.”

“Rule two?” I asked.

“You don’t take orders from me. Except the ones in the contract.”

For now, I stood in a dress I didn’t pay for, next to a man I didn’t trust, and I did the only thing I could do. I kept my back straight, and I didn’t let them make me small. Not yet.