Falling for the wrong memory

Blythe POV

I almost didn’t come.

Actually, I walked past the building four good times before deciding that I had nothing to lose by walking through the imposing glass doors of the Brent Empire.

The doorman looks at me like I am a fly on the wall, one that needs to be pushed away. And how can I blame him when everyone around looks like they have a dress code of grey and black, while there's me, in my washed jeans, black tank top, and white Converse?

I approach the receptionist, but she doesn't even bat an eyelid, staring at a logbook in front of her.

“Blythe Brown,” I murmur, irritation working its way around me. I have always been ignored for as long as I can remember. So, why is this one getting on my nerves?

"Mr. Brent is expecting you," she says in a clipped tone, still not looking up at me. "Top floor." She gestures towards the elevator with a finger, and I narrow my eyes in her direction before heading that way.

The ride to the top floor is the most silent I have been in quite a while. I have gotten so used to the loud music in the club that anything else sounds really strange.

A sudden ding brings me to my destination, just as the numbers stop trickling. The minute I step out into the hallway, I begin to question my choices all over again.

“Really, Blythe? What job could he have for you? Personal Dancer? Stripper?” I ask myself, standing there in the huge space, not knowing where to go.

Everything looks pristine. So pristine that I look like dirt. This place doesn't belong on earth, with gleaming marble floors and glass walls that make me forget the reality of my life for three seconds.

I can see the whole of Los Angeles from this point, the high-rise buildings, the traffic that seems to be underneath this building, and the lines of cars pulling up outside.

I don’t know where to turn to. There are no doors in view, just one endless grand space.

And then, I hear him from one end of the room. “You came.”

I stop, my head jerking all around, searching. But I don’t see him until I take one more step forward, the rest of the space coming into view.

This is his office. Damn!

He is leaning back in his chair, with the same unreadable expression from last night. And he doesn't have the same boring grey suit on as half the people in his company. His is dark, with a black linen shirt, sleeves rolled up, and missing a tie.

"I thought about not coming." I stay put in the same spot, more from the fear of fulfilling my strange, dark desire of letting my fingers graze his forearm than courtesy.

The ghost of a smile appears on his lips. “So, why are you here?”

“You can be compelling,” I murmur, shrugging.

The smile grows a tad wider. “Come closer, Blythe. I don’t bite.”

“I didn’t give you my name.” Despite myself, I cross the space, planting myself in the leather chair at the other end of the imposing desk.

“All it took was one phone call.”

Of course. He is Mateo Brent.

“You said you had a job for me.” The more I stay silent, the more time I have to spend in this unbelievably huge office. And with how my eyes can’t seem to stop staring at the spot where a tie would have rested, his first two buttons popped open, I’m guessing I need to be out soon.

“Aren’t you supposed to ask what kind of job it is first?”

“You met me dancing.”

He smirks. “You are a good dancer, Blythe, but I didn’t invite you over for your arching skills.”

A blush rises to both sides of my cheeks, but he ignores it, sliding a heavy brown folder over to me.

I glance down and flip the first page open. It has my picture.

“Are you always this thorough with every single person you invite to your office?” I cannot stop the question from spilling out of my lips.

He angles his head. “Read.”

It is a contract, with the legal description written in the first few pages. What kind of job begins with this much legal paperwork? He doesn’t look like a drug pedlar, does he?

My eyes skim over the header of the fourth page, and I blink.

Surrogacy Agreement.

I push the folder back to him, but his huge hands halt my actions midway. “Maybe you should go through every detail before you decide whether to take it or not.”

“You want me to carry your child,” I say slowly, as if trying to understand it myself. “I haven’t even…I am just…”

He flips the folder to the last page before pushing it back to me. One million dollars, tax-free.

“Mr. Brent…”

"I've done my research. You are healthy, smart, and private.” He pauses, his eyes regarding me intently. “Desperate.”

He isn’t wrong, but still, I flinch.

“Why me? Women practically throw themselves at you every single day.”

“I thought you didn’t know who I was last night.”

"You're not the only one who can carry out research."

He looks at me again, like he is seeing me for the first time. Something plays underneath his gaze. Something I cannot recognize.

“You’re right. I could have chosen anyone, but I didn’t.”

"You sound so sure that I would agree to this." My throat feels parched, and it feels like someone has turned up the temperature in the room.

“You agreed to this the moment you walked through that door,” he says quietly. “Now, you’re just trying to convince yourself that it is worth it.”

I hate that he can read me easily. Those figures. They would change my life.

This agreement is to last for only nine months, right?

I flip back to the page I stopped on. My stomach twists in knots, and my eyes widen when I read the terms of the contract.

I am blushing furiously again, scanning the words, and then back to the fact of the man sitting in front of me.

“What is this?”