The Price of His Name.

Chapter Two. The Offer

I sit back down, and I open the banknote. Forty-eight hours. That’s what it says. Forty-eight hours before they start to take all I have.

I look at the photo on my desk. Me and Mom the day I signed the lease. She was sick then, but she smiled, and she said, “Don’t let them make you small.”

My phone rings again. A text this time. Same number I don’t know.

_Cross Tower. Tomorrow. 8 AM. Don’t be late. -M.H._

I don't sleep that night. I write. I wrote a sales page for a man who wanted more hype, less truth. I deleted it. I wrote it again, and at 4 AM I stared at the roof and thought of Mom’s hands, and how rich folks looked at her like she was not there.

I think of Julian Cross, who buys places and people, and who read my words and did not sue me.

I think of thirty thousand dollars.

When the sun comes up, I put on jeans and a clean shirt. No face paint. If Julian Cross wants to meet the girl who called him rash, then that’s who he’ll get.

I walk out of my room at 7:30 AM. Tasha is asleep on the couch with her laptop open, and I don’t wake her.

The Cross Tower is downtown. Sixty-two floors of glass and steel, and the front room smells like money, and the front desk girl looks at me.

“I’m here to see Julian Cross,” I said, and my voice did not shake.

“Name?” she said.

“Maya Vance,” I said.

Her face changed, and she picked up the phone and talked, and two men in suits took me to a lift.

The doors shut.

I went up.

The lift stopped at floor sixty-two, and the doors opened. The room was all glass and white stone, and it was cold. A man stood by the window with his back to me, and he was tall, and his suit cost more than my loan.

He did not turn when I walked in.

“Maya Vance,” he said. His voice was low, and it filled the room. “You write well.”

“I write truth,” I said.

He turned then, and his eyes were dark, and his face gave nothing. “Truth is rare. It’s also costly. Your piece on me cost my firm three deals.”

“Good,” I said.

He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “Sit,” he said.

I did not sit. “Why am I here?” I said.

“Because you’re about to lose your firm,” he said, and he pointed at a chair. “And because I have a deal for you.”

I crossed my arms. “I don’t make deals with men I call rash in print,” I said.

“You will with this one,” he said, and he slid a paper across the desk. “Thirty thousand dollars. Paid today. Your loan goes away. Your lease stays. Your name stays on the door.”

I looked at the paper, and my heart beat fast, but I kept my face still. “What do you want?” I said.

“Six months,” he said. “Six months of your time. You work for me, not just as a writer. As my guest at events, at dinners, at trips. You act like you’re with me. The press sees it. My board sees it. It fixes a lot for me.”

“So you want me to lie,” I said.

“I want you to play a part,” he said. “Same as you do for your clients. You sell words. Now sell a story. Our story.”

“And in six months?” I said.

“The deal ends. You walk away with your firm clean, and fifty thousand more. You never see me again,” he said.

I stared at him, and I thought of Mom, and the banknote, and Tasha asleep on the couch. “Why me?” I said.

“Because you’re not scared of me,” he said. “And because the world read your words and thought I was a monster. If the girl who called me a monster stands next to me and smiles, the world changes its mind.”

I picked up the paper. The terms were there, plain and clear. No s*x, no touch, no rules I can’t walk from. Just time, face, and words.

“Forty-eight hours,” I said. “That’s what the bank gave me.”

Julian Cross looked at his watch. “Now you have forty-seven,” he said. “Sign, and the money will hit your bank in ten minutes. Don’t sign, and I will buy this place at noon, and you’re out by five.”

The room was quiet, and I could hear my own breath.

I thought of Mom’s voice. "Don’t let them make you small."

I picked up the pen, but I did not sign.... yet. “I need to read it,” I said.

“Take your time,” he said. “You have five minutes. My next meeting starts at nine.”

I read carefully. It says, I would go to six events a month with him, and I would pose for photos, and I would not date other men in public, and I would not tell the press the deal was fake. He would pay my loan today, and pay me ten thousand each month, and fifty thousand at the end. If I broke the rules, I paid it all back.

“Who wrote this?” I said.

“My law team,” he said. “But I told them to keep it plain. I don’t like games.”

“That’s a lie,” I said. “You play games all day.”

His mouth moved, like he wanted to smile. “Only the ones I win,” he said.

I put the paper down. “What if I say no?” I said.

“Then you walk out of here, and by tonight your name comes off that door,” he said. “Mr. Patel signed the sale last night. I own the place now, and I can keep you as a renter, or I can clear it for new use. Your choice.”

“You planned this,” I said.

“I plan all things,” he said. “That’s why I win.”

I thought of Tasha, and Dev, and the three new writers I had just hired last month. If I lost the office, they lost jobs too. “I need to call my team,” I said.

“No calls,” he said. “Sign now, or the deal is gone. I won't wait.”

I looked at the clock on the wall. 8:52 AM. “You’re harsh,” I said.

“I’m fair,” he said. “I told you the terms. I told you the time. The rest is up to you.”

I picked up the pen again. My hand shook, but I made it stop. I signed my name, Maya Vance, at the line at the end.

He took the paper, and he did not smile. He just nodded once. “Marcus will send the wire,” he said. “Check your bank at ten.”

I stood up. “So now what,” I said.

“Now you go home,” he said. “Get a rest. Be back here at seven tonight in a black dress. We have a fundraiser. You’ll meet the board.”

“I don’t own a black dress,” I said.

“Then buy one,” he said. “Use the card Marcus will give you on the way out. It’s part of the deal.”

I walked to the door, and my legs felt weak, but I kept my back straight. At the door I stopped. “For the record,” I said, “I still think you’re rash.”

“Noted,” he said, and for the first time his eyes looked less cold. “See you at seven, Miss Vance.”

I rode the lift down, and the two men in suits did not speak. In the front room, Marcus Hale was there, and he gave me a black card with no name on it.

“Miss Vance,” he said. “The car is out front if you need it.”

“I’ll walk,” I said.

Outside, the sun was too bright, and the air was too loud. I pulled out my phone. One new text. Bank alert. Deposit: $30,000.00. From Cross Holdings.

My loan was gone.

I stood on the steps of Cross Tower, and I felt both sick and safe at once.

I started to walk, and I did not know yet that in nine hours I would wear a dress I did not pay for, and stand next to a man I did not trust, and smile for cameras that would call me his girl by morning.

But right then, I just put one foot in front of the other, and I went back to tell Tasha that our door was safe.

And that I had just sold six months of my life.