Chapter Four: The Uniform
1157 Words
She’d barely slept after accepting Mark’s offer. Her mind was loaded, thinking of Sarah’s warnings. What if this was a mistake? What if Mark expected things she wasn’t willing to give? What if she was trading one kind of trap for another?
Florence stood in the lobby. She was wearing her "best" navy dress, which she bought two years ago.
The elevator ride to the fourth floor. It was silent and smooth. When the doors opened, the receptionist, Jennifer, didn't even ask for her name.
"Mr. Westwood is expecting you, Miss Clinton. Right this way."
Mark’s office was larger than Florence’s entire apartment. He stood behind a desk that looked like it cost more than her mother’s life.
“Miss Clinton to see you, Mr. Westwood.”
“Thank you, Jennifer. Let her in.”
Florence stepped into Mark’s office, and the doors closed behind her.
"Florence. You came."
"I didn't have much of a choice, did I?" she asked, her voice steadier than she felt. "Sixty thousand dollars buys a lot of punctuality."
Mark gestured to a leather chair. "I want to be clear about the 'job,' Florence. My life is a series of performances. I’m tired of being the 'lonely widower' everyone tries to fix. I need a companion. Someone real. Someone who isn't trying to pitch me a startup or marry my bank account."
"And you’re paying ten thousand a month for that?"
"I’m paying for the truth," Mark said. "Fifteen hours a week.” Travel included. Everything else is your own time. You can stay in my guest suite in Tribeca or keep your place in Brooklyn. It’s your call."
"And if I want to leave?"
"You walk out the door. No debt, no questions." He leaned forward. "Tonight is a gallery opening in Chelsea. A trial run. But first, you need a uniform."
Three hours later, A stylist named Caroline was throwing dresses at Florence like she was a mannequin. Mark sat outside the fitting room, barely looking at his phone, his eyes tracking the curtain every time she stepped out.
She settled on a midnight blue dress with beading. When she walked out, Mark didn't say anything for a long moment.
"Incredible," he whispered.
"It’s too expensive, Mark."
"It’s a work expense," he said, standing up. "We’ll take it. And the black silk. And the gray wool. Everything she liked, Caroline. Send it to the penthouse."
The gallery in Chelsea was a shark tank in designer clothes. Florence walked in on Mark’s arm, her heart hammering against her ribs.
"Mark Westwood!" A blonde woman in a red dress that looked like a bloodstain approached them. "I haven't seen you since the funeral."
"Veronica," Mark said, his voice turning to ice. "This is Florence Clinton."
Veronica’s eyes raked over Florence, settling on her shoes. "Clinton?" I don't think I know that name. What does your family do?”
"My mother was a waitress," Florence said, her chin lifting.
The silence that followed was deafening. Veronica’s smile curdled. "How... quaint. Mark, I didn't know you were doing charity work these days."
Mark’s hand tightened on Florence’s waist. "Florence is the most interesting person in this room, Veronica. Which I realize isn't a high bar."
He led her away, but the damage was done. Florence felt the eyes of the room on her, mocking, curious, and cold.
"I want to go," she whispered.
"Me too," Mark said.
Mark was quiet for a moment, twirling pasta on his fork. “Can I tell you something? Something I haven’t told anyone else.”
“Of course.”
“I’m so lonely sometimes I can barely stand it,” Mark said, his voice low. “I have everything money can buy, but I have no one who actually knows me. No one who cares about me for who I am, not for what I have. When Victoria died, she took the last real connection I had with her. Everyone else wants something from me.”
Florence reached across the table and took his hand. “I don’t want anything from you.”
“You already have ten thousand dollars a month.”
“You know what I mean.”
Mark looked at their joined hands, then up at Florence’s face. “Yes. I do.”
"Give it time," she joked, but her heart wasn't in it. She was staring at him. And that was the most dangerous thing of all.
They finished dinner and walked along the quiet streets of the Village, talking about everything and nothing. Florence felt like she was seeing Mark as a person for the first time, not as the intimidating billionaire but as someone just as lost and lonely as she was.
When they finally got back to the penthouse, it was almost midnight. Florence was exhausted but happy in a way she hadn’t been in a long time.
“Thank you for tonight,” she said as they stood in the hallway between their rooms. “For everything.”
“Thank you,” Mark said. “For giving this a chance. For being real with me.”
He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering for just a moment. Florence’s breath caught. For one heartbeat, she thought he might kiss her.
But he stepped back.
“Good night, Florence.”
“Good night, Mark.”
She waited until Mark's bedroom door closed down the hall.
Florence went to her room and changed out of the beautiful dress, hanging it carefully in the closet. She lay in the impossibly comfortable bed and stared at the ceiling, her mind replaying every moment of the evening.
Sarah had been right. Florence could feel herself starting to care about him, beginning to see him as more than just her employer. Starting to imagine what it might be like if this were real.
But it wasn’t real. It was a job—a transaction. I was being paid to be his companion, nothing more.
Florence needed to remember that. Required to keep her heart protected, her boundaries clear.
******
Her fingers caught on a slight edge. She picked it up. Inside was a small, velvet-lined box. She opened it with the ancient key.
There were no jewels inside—only a digital recorder and a stack of medical reports signed by Dr. Phillips Matthew.
She hit 'play' on the recorder.
A woman’s voice, thin, terrified, and shaking, filled the room:
"He’s not helping me. He’s erasing me. If you’re hearing this, Mark isn't the hero. He’s the one who paid the doctor to say I was delusional. Florence, if you’re his new 'companion,' run. He doesn't want a friend. He wants a witness who won't talk."
“Florence was shocked.”
Then she realized falling for Mark Westwood would be the biggest mistake she could make.
Even as she thought it, Florence knew it might already be too late.
- Writer
