Chapter 2:Her Bread and Butter
1688 Words
Evie’s POV
The flash of the camera was cold, mechanical, and entirely different from the warmth of the library lamps I preferred.
"Chin down, Evie. Look like you just inherited a small country and you’re bored of it," the photographer barked.
I adjusted the strap of the designer gown—a rental I’d have to return by 5:00 PM sharp—and tilted my head. I didn't feel like a girl who had inherited a country. I felt like a girl who had exactly three hundred dollars in her savings account and a final tuition bill that looked like a phone number.
Being an orphan teaches you two things very quickly: how to be invisible and how to be exactly who people want you to be. In the foster system, I was the quiet, helpful child. In college, I was the scholarship-winning accounting prodigy. And in the high-end social circles of Salt City, I was whatever a lonely, insecure man needed me to be to impress his parents.
After the shoot wrapped, I climbed into the back of a cramped bus, pulling a thick hoodie over my modeling makeup. My phone buzzed in my pocket.
New Inquiry: URGENT.
Client: Leo V.
Duration: 14 Days (Christmas/Family Vacation).
Location: Vane Mountain Estate.
Budget: Negotiable (High).
I felt a sharp prickle of electricity go down my spine. Vane.
I knew that name. Everyone in the country knew that name. They were the architects of Salt City—wealthy, powerful, and notoriously cold. I’d seen the headlines about Julian Vane and the Sterling merger four years ago. But Leo? I remembered the videos. He was the "VibeCheck" prince. The one who spent his days filming his own reflection and his nights at clubs that cost more to enter than my entire childhood home.
I pulled out my "Client Ledger"—a specialized spreadsheet I’d built to track my business.
RULE #1: No s*x. Ever.
RULE #2: All PDA (kissing, hugging, hand-holding) is strictly for the benefit of the 'audience' and carries a 15% surcharge.
RULE #3: No personal details shared outside the 'Lore' we build for the contract.
RULE #4: Professionalism at all times. I am a consultant; you are the client.
I typed out a response with the practiced precision of a woman who had nothing to lose and everything to gain.
To: Leo V.
Regarding your inquiry: I have reviewed the dates. My daily rate for 'Elite Tier' social strategy is fixed, with a 50% deposit required upfront. If you are looking for a 'party girl' to film for your followers, please look elsewhere. If you are looking for a woman who can convince your parents you’ve finally developed a soul, I am available for a consultation tonight.
Regards,
E.
I hit send and leaned my head against the cold bus window. I had one semester left. One final push to get my degree and leave the "Professional Pretender" life behind forever. If I had to spend two weeks acting like I loved a chronically unserious billionaire brat to get there, so be it.
After all, I was an accountant. I knew how to balance the books. And Leo Vane looked like he was in a lot of debt—emotionally speaking.
My phone chimed almost instantly.
Leo V.:Can you meet at 9:00 PM? And do you mind if I film the entrance? It’s for the ‘story arc’.
I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt.
Evie:Rule #5: No filming me for social media without a signed Non-Disclosure and a Licensing Fee. See you at 9:00.
This was going to be a very long Christmas.
Evie’s POV
Time is the only currency you can’t earn back.
As an accounting major, I live by that rule. My life is a series of timed blocks: three hours for Advanced Audit, two hours for the library, and four hours for whatever modeling gig or "consultation" keeps my lights on. So, when Leo Vane’s "people"—which I’m fairly certain was just Leo using a slightly deeper voice on a different email address—requested a brunch meeting at The Ivory Room, I factored in every second.
The problem? My morning photoshoot ran late.
"Just one more shot of the cheekbones, Evie! Give me 'ice queen in a heatwave!'" the photographer had screamed.
By the time I escaped the studio, I had exactly twelve minutes to reach the restaurant. I didn't have time to scrub off the "Avant-Garde" makeup—heavy, graphic silver liner that winged out toward my temples and a deep, blood-red lip that made me look like I’d just stepped out of a high-fashion editorial. I looked like a bombshell who lived for drama, which was a far cry from the girl who usually lived in oversized hoodies and library cubicles.
I sprinted to my locker, threw on a white crop top, skinny jeans that hugged my legs, and my favorite pair of stiletto heels. I grabbed my long wool coat as I ran for the door. Salt City was biting today; the November air felt like it was trying to peel the skin off my bones, but the restaurant was only two blocks away.
I arrived at The Ivory Room exactly two minutes early. I was led to a corner table, tucked away from the prying eyes of the brunch crowd.
I waited.
Five minutes. I checked my phone.
Ten minutes. I reviewed my "Standard Engagement Contract" on my tablet.
Fifteen minutes. My blood started to simmer.
In my world, being fifteen minutes late wasn't a "fashionable" choice; it was a bill I couldn't pay. Every minute he wasted was a minute I wasn't studying for my finals or scouting for my next gig.
I pulled out my phone and tapped the screen impatiently, checking the time again. If he didn't show up in three minutes, I was leaving—and I was still charging him the consultation fee.
Leo’s POV
I was late. I knew I was late. But in my defense, my hair had decided to be difficult, and I’d spent twenty minutes trying to find the right shade of "Casual Billionaire" blue for my sweater.
I breezed into The Ivory Room, ignoring the maître d' who tried to take my coat. I didn't have time for etiquette; I had a business deal to close. I scanned the room, looking for "Margot’s Friend."
Margot had said she was a student. Smart. Professional. In my head, I’d pictured a girl in a beige cardigan with a thick stack of textbooks and maybe a look of permanent boredom.
I walked past the corner tables, my eyes darting around. I passed a girl sitting alone in the corner. I did a double-take, but kept moving. Whoa.
She was... incredible. Even from a distance, she looked like she’d stepped off a runway in Milan. The silver eye makeup was bold, daring, and made her eyes look like two sharpened flints. She was looking at her phone every thirty seconds, her jaw set in a line of pure, focused irritation.
Man, I wish she was my real girlfriend, I thought, a pang of genuine envy hitting me. If I walked into the mountain house with a woman like that, Julian would actually choke on his expensive scotch. My parents would think I’d finally achieved something legendary.
But a girl like that? She looked like she could run a Fortune 500 company before breakfast. She looked like she had a high IQ and a low tolerance for guys who filmed their lattes. She was way out of my league—the kind of girl who wouldn't even look at a "trust-fund pretty boy" unless he was handing her a legal summons.
I walked toward the back of the restaurant, then circled back toward the entrance, feeling like an i***t. I couldn't find this "Evie" anywhere.
"Great," I muttered. "I’m getting ghosted by a girl I was going to pay to like me. That’s a new low, even for the Vane family disappointment."
I pulled out my phone and dialed the number on the business card Margot gave me. I headed for the exit, figuring I’d call her from the sidewalk and see where she was.
Behind me, a phone started ringing. It was a sharp, upbeat Afrobeats track.
I stopped. The sound was coming from the corner table. The table with the silver-eyed bombshell.
I turned around slowly. She was holding her phone, staring at the screen, then she looked up—right at me. Her eyes narrowed. She didn't look impressed. She looked like she wanted to set me on fire.
"Leo Vane?" she asked. Her voice was cool, precise, and completely devoid of the fan-girl energy I was used to.
I blinked, my mouth hanging open slightly. "You’re... Evie?"
She didn't smile. She just tapped her watch. "You’re twenty-two minutes late, Mr. Vane. In my world, that’s a luxury tax."
I stood there for a second, my brain trying to reconcile the "Accounting Major" Margot described with the absolute goddess sitting in front of me. I pulled out the chair across from her, feeling a strange, unfamiliar flutter of nerves.
"Sorry," I managed, trying to find my smirk. "The hair took longer than expected. How about I pay you extra for the trouble? A 'Late Fee' bonus?"
Evie leaned forward, her silver eyeliner shimmering under the restaurant lights. "You better. My time is literally money, and right now, you’re in the red."
I leaned in, unable to help myself. "Well, consider the debt settled. I think we’re going to get along just fine, Evie."
She didn't lean back. She just opened a digital folder on her tablet. "Don't get ahead of yourself, Leo. This is a transaction, not a date. Now, let’s talk about the contract."
- Writer
