Ann

 

 

 

I thought that he would accompany me home, but Jared had other plans. He just escorted me down to the car and instructed the driver to take me home, leaving me with a quick "I'll see you tonight" and a kiss on the cheek that caught me off guard.

I signed the papers and agreed to play the roles he asked of me for at least a year, but I'm still not entirely sure what exactly this job is asking of me. In fact, I feel a little tricked with what has happened between us so far. He lures me in with that incredibly mind-robbing orgasm just to humiliate me a few days later after I've signed the contract.

I spend the entire drive gazing out the window of the limousine, pondering about the odd turn my life has taken within such a short time. I don't regret it. I don't regret anything, not even dumb mistakes like that hook-up with co-working neighbor Brandon. It's a waste of time to torment oneself with things from the past, things we can no longer change. Besides, don't they say that every mistake helps you grow? If this entire endeavor is one huge mistake, just imagine how much I’m going to learn from it!

This doesn't feel like a mistake yet, though.  Jared fascinates me. I know I can't fall for him, though, not for real. He has made it very clear that it’s not part of the deal, and it never will be.

And I'm fine with that.

Our arrangement is strictly professional. And sensual. Very fucking sensual.

The way my heart speeds up every time I think about him and the things he has done to me is very different than the butterflies I’ve felt with other men. I don't have to protect my heart from him because there's nothing to protect me from. This is not about love, it’s just about lust. Raw, carnal lust.

Well, that and the money... I tend to push that aspect aside, even though it was the reason I first became interested in this deal to begin with. However, I only get paid if I see this through. I have to commit to this for at least twelve months, with the option for a possible extension, before there's a single cent deposited into my bank account. Until then, he’s provided me with my own credit card and limited access to his money for clothing and personal luxuries. It's hard for me to be comfortable with that, though, because I can't help but feel that somehow it’s going against everything that women have fought to achieve.

Then again, isn't this about a woman's right to choose? If this is what I choose to do to get ahead, what's so wrong about it?

I'm young - though rather sexually inexperienced - smart, and not bad to look at. There's nothing wrong with what I'm doing. On the contrary, a modern woman should explore her sexuality! Isn't that what feminists chant in marches and protests?

Oh, listen to me.

I laugh to myself, and the driver casts a quick look in the rear view mirror. It's funny how I still wage pretend arguments with my father in my head, manifesting his judgmental ideas of how his daughter - or any woman, for that matter - should live her life. In a way, this deal I’ve struck comes closer to his ideals than what true modern feminists aspire to. A woman who lives and breathes to make the man at her side look better, totally dependent on him and his money. If I'd cook and clean for Jared, I'd make the perfect housewife.

The car pulls into the familiar driveway, and I thank the driver - whose name I still don't know - when I get out of the car. Our eyes meet for a split second and he nods quietly, leaving me to wonder what he might know and think about all of this. Jared said that his closest staff is in the know about this arrangement. Does this include his driver? And why do I even care?

Because I've always cared what other people think about me, at least to some degree. I hate this trait about myself because I consider it a weakness, but it's hard to let go of it.

I’m greeted by the usual magnificent view and haunting silence when I walk through the door of the penthouse. The ping sound of the elevator resonates through the hall-like living room as the doors close noisily behind me, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

I'm not used to this. I've never had an apartment to myself, not even for a few hours. I moved right from my student dorm, which I shared with two other girls, into a flat shared with four other people. As far as I can remember, there has never been a time when all four of them were out of the house for longer than just a few minutes. I've always had people around me, all the time. I did have my own tiny room in the flat I lived in for the past year, but privacy was non-existent outside of my eighty square foot cave. My roommates didn't even ask where I was going when I told them that I was moving out. All they cared about was the rent I'm obligated to pay until they find someone to sublet. Jared didn't bat an eye when I told him about it, and stated that he'd pay for it, without even asking the amount. I don't know how rich he is exactly, but it's pretty obvious that my rent is little more than peanuts to him.

The same situation applies for the desk I was renting at the co-working space. I'm trapped in a one-year contract that won't end for another three months. All of my stuff is still there, and as long as it's still there, as long as I still have a place out in the normal world - quite literally - I feel reassured that I'm still me. I had to leave everything behind when I agreed to become Jared's "partner," as he likes to call it, but keeping that desk space means that there are still traces out there to remind me of who I was before this.

"You're silly."

The echo of my voice cuts through the weird silence like a knife, even though it was a whisper. Yes, I am silly. I’m still the same person I was just a few days ago. I’m being melodramatic to think otherwise.

I roam over to the kitchen and immediately notice that it has been stocked with food. There was nothing but whiskey and coffee here this morning before Jared and I left for his office, but now there’s a bowl of fresh fruit, filled to the brim in the middle of the kitchen island. I gasp in awe when I open the giant fridge and find it filled with vegetables, meat, eggs, and cheese. Someone has also stocked the cabinets with spices, rice, and pasta.

I furrow my eyebrows. Does this mean that he expects me to cook for him after all?

I head over to the entryway where I left my handbag with my new phone. Jared gave it to me the day I signed the contract, and so far, he's the only person I've communicated with.

"Do you expect me to cook for you?" I type the text angrily, sending it before I can change my mind.

His reply follows within less than a minute.

"No, but I expect you to eat."

I roll my eyes, and luckily he can't see it this time. Why does he agitate me so much? I feel on edge and don't know what to do with myself. My stomach is growling, and though the obvious choice would be to take advantage of all those options in the kitchen, I can't eat when I'm so unraveled and flustered. I am tense and full of questions, and numerous thoughts and contemplations about my current situation roll through my head. I may be hungry, starving even, but my appetite is hidden somewhere behind the turmoil churning inside me.

I take a deep breath and walk up to the giant window in the living room, taking in the view of the city while I try to sort my thoughts. But it doesn't work this way – it never has. I've never been a person who can just sit and think. I always need an outlet, to be able to visualize what's going on inside my head.

I need to write.

I haven't written a word since I signed the contract, and now that I think about it, I’m not sure why. Writing has always been more than just a job for me. It has been an outlet for anything occupying my thoughts, good or bad. It's no surprise I’m in such an emotional turmoil; I need to let it out on paper.

A smile spreads across my face. I’m going to write. He never said I couldn't, he just said I couldn’t share it or publish it. And I've never had a better place and opportunity to write than I do right now, in a beautiful and empty penthouse, with an amazing view to spark the creative flow.