Terms and Temptations

"If I had known I'd be sitting across from the mother of a billionaire being offered money to seduce her son, I' would have polished that d*mn résumé and stayed in bed."

She doesn't blink when she says it. Not once.

I'm sitting in a glass walled office, my palms sweating, wondering if I'm part of some twisted job interview prank or if I am about to fail an interview.

FIVE HOURS EARLIER...

It's a sunny Monday morning, and I called in sick from the office because Today I am going to the largest marketing agency in New York City: Regal Nexus Media.

I barely slept through. I constantly got up to ensure my credentials were right where I had left them. I have always wanted to be part of a big firm and once I heard they were hiring I did not hesitate to turn in a properly polished resume. It holds so much prestige that you couldn't think of that agency without thinking of money- glass floors, tailored suits, sleek offices, and people who look like walking magazine covers.

I have on my best suit, my best heels, my hair tied in the tightest bun, but here I am sitting at the reception for over an hour waiting for the receptionist to attend to me.

I stand up after about thirty minutes when I notice she has just attended to someone who just walked in not long ago. I take angry strides to her desk, and I catch a glimpse of her hurriedly sliding a piece of paper into her desk drawer as I approach. Looks like my resume.

"Oh, Miss Camila, sorry to have kept you waiting. I have been forced to inform you that the position is no longer available."

"What?" My voice wavers with disbelief. "Then why keep me waiting all this time? You knew from the minute I walked in that I wasn't getting the job. So why?"

She tilts her head, still smiling. "We only hire qualified candidates here. Ciao."

Bitch. I mutter under my breath as I walk toward the exit, suddenly sweating despite the blasting air conditioners. My throat tightens. I keep my steps steady, refusing to cry. Not here. Not in front of her.

"Excuse me," a deep voice calls out.

I turn around to see a hefty man in a black suit, walking towards me.

"I am not really in a good mood right now as you can see sir," I say in frustration.

"Madame, would you like to have a word with me, if you don't mind"

"Madame?? Who is Madame?"

I follow the direction of his gaze.

Across the company hall, I spot her.. a woman who carries herself with quiet elegance. Everything about her, from her perfectly tailored outfit to the way she's holding her designer bag, speaks of wealth and class. She didn't need to say much; her presence alone demanded attention. There was grace in her every movement, a calm confidence in her eyes. She is the kind of woman who has seen the world, raised a billionaire, and still carries herself like royalty without trying too hard, she is looking at me.

Skeptical at first I look down at my outfit, not sure if I should approach her, I suddenly feel small standing in that hall. I swallow and follow behind him.

"Hello dear" I couldn't help but notice you from across. You look quite stunning".

Me? Stunning? . "Thank you," I said avoiding eye contact.

"I am Isabella Montclair," she says with an outstretched arm, " my son owns this fine establishment," she says looking around. "May I have a word?"

My eyes enlarge in shock, son?

"I am Camila Duarte," I say reaching out to take the handshake. "I would be glad too"

"Follow me then"

We reach the tenth floor. I find out later that the man who stopped me earlier is a bodyguard. The office we enter is massive flooded with natural light, cool, elegant, and filled with the kind of furniture I have only seen in magazines.

She dismisses the bodyguard with a nod and gestures for me to sit. The chair is impossibly soft.

"Would you like tea?"

"No, thank you," I say getting more uncomfortable with each passing unit and wanting to hear what she has to say, and just leave.

"Okay, that's fine, time is of the essence so I would just get straight to the point. I couldn't help but overhear your little exchange with the receptionist and I could see you were really upset... meaning this job position really means a lot to you, am I right?"

"Yes," I nod my head in affirmation unsure of where this is going.

"I am sure you would also be looking for a position like that in such a fine establishment so you could boost your finances?" she arches a brow. She looks too calm.

"Yes," I nod again.

She studies me for a moment, her eyes calm but unreadable. She taps a manicured nail against the armrest of her chair, as if weighing her words carefully.

"You remind me of someone," she finally says.

I shift uncomfortably in my seat. "Oh?"

She nods, without shifting her gaze. "A girl I once knew. Ambitious. Smart. Hungry for something bigger." A pause.

"But the world is not kind to girls like us, is it?"

I say nothing.

She leans forward in her seat. "I have a proposal for you"

The air in the room thickens. I shift in my seat, my gaze still fixed on her.

She reaches for a framed photo on the table in front of her and turns it toward me. A man late twenties, sharp jawline, piercing eyes, every bit as expensive-looking as this office.

"My son," she says.

I glance back at her, unsure.

"What about him?"

She tilts her head, and her face is completely expressionless.

"I want you to make him fall in love with you, no strings attached, and in return, while you are at it I would offer you any position here. With very wholesome pay, when it's done, you get a five-thousand-dollar check to disappear from his life, poof" she says that with a snap of her finger.

A nervous laugh escapes me. "You're joking."

Her eyes don't waver. "I'm not."

I stand up slowly, smoothing my skirt. "Oh well, madame, " I say it with the same accent as the bodyguard

"I am afraid you picked the wrong lady. Sorry to have wasted your time, you wouldn't be hearing a word of this outside, may I?"

"Wait" she makes to stand up, hurriedly but gracefully. "Take this, you have enough time to think about it, you wouldn't want it to be too long anyway, time is money"

I stare at the business card she's holding out to me and take it with shaky hands.

"May I?"

She directs her hands towards the door in approval

I walk out, my steps quicker than before, my head held high but inside, my thoughts are spiraling.

As soon as I step into the cool air outside, I exhale sharply, gripping the card tighter than I realize.

What the hell just happened?

I glance down at the white card, the name Isabella Montclair boldly written in gold, her number printed neatly beneath it. The temptation to rip it in half is strong, but my fingers refuse to obey.

I hail a cab and head home, grateful to put this madness behind me.

So I thought.