Innocence Tamed (The Institute: Shameful Arrangements #6)

Chapter 1

Audrey

I knew instantly, when I checked my email, that the worst day of my life had just begun.

The lingering odor of my meager dinner of pasta with garlic and olive oil had already turned my stomach slightly as I awoke in my tiny, shabby apartment in the suburbs of Paris.

The email with the subject ‘International Energy Partners Program Sunsetting’ finished the job, sending me into full nausea.

My heart sinking, I read the awful news.

Dear International Energy Partners Intern,

We write with what we’re sure will be distressing news. Due to the bipartisan budget agreement reached last night, all nonessential international programs have been suspended immediately. This includes the International Energy Partners Program.

Your stipend has been terminated as of today, and your visa sponsorship will expire in thirty days.

We regret any inconvenience this may cause.

Office of International Energy Cooperation,

Department of Energy

I read it three times, hoping the words would somehow rearrange themselves into something less catastrophic.

They didn’t. I sank onto my lumpy mattress, my legs suddenly too weak to hold me up.

The single window in my studio apartment let in a gray morning light that seemed to match my mood perfectly.

Thirty days.

After all my work, all my dreams, I had thirty days before I’d be illegal in France.

The walls of my tiny apartment seemed to close in around me.

I’d only been in Paris for two months. I’d barely gotten settled, had just started making progress on my research into behavioral interventions for energy efficiency.

“This can’t be happening,” I whispered to the empty room, my voice, in my own ears, thick with emotion.

I forced myself to get dressed, pulling on the one professional outfit I’d brought with me—a gray maxi skirt and blue blouse that had seemed so sophisticated back in Illinois. Now, after seeing the stylish Parisian women every day, it felt hopelessly provincial. But it was all I had.

The commute to my office was brutal—ninety minutes on three different trains, standing most of the way.

Metro Line 4 was particularly crowded this morning, pressing me against strangers in that uncomfortable Parisian intimacy I still hadn’t gotten used to.

A businessman’s briefcase dug into my hip while a woman’s perfume made my already unsettled stomach churn.

When I finally arrived at the International Energy Partners office, a sleek but modest space in the 8th arrondissement, I found my coworkers—all three of them—in similar states of shock.

“Audrey,” said Philippe, our French supervisor, his expression grim beneath his salt-and-pepper beard. “I’m afraid I have nothing to add beyond what you’ve already been told. The American side has pulled all funding without warning.”

“But… what about our work?” I asked, hating how small my voice sounded. “The behavioral intervention model is showing real promise. The data from the pilot program—”

“Is excellent,” he finished for me, his accent thickening with frustration. “But without funding, without sponsorship…” He spread his hands in that quintessentially French gesture of elegant helplessness.

“What about my visa?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

“We can provide a letter explaining the situation,” said Martine, the office administrator. Her normally warm eyes were sympathetic, but practical. “But without program sponsorship, your options are limited. You’ll need to find another position with visa sponsorship, or…”

“Or go home,” I finished.

“I’m afraid so,” Philippe confirmed.

I swallowed down the sob that threatened to rise as I understood that I would somehow have to pay my way back across the Atlantic, with money I didn’t have.

I walked out of the office in a daze, clutching the letter Martine had hastily printed for me like it was a lifeline rather than what it truly was—a formal documentation of disaster.

The bright Parisian day seemed to mock my misery.

Tourists strolled past, cameras clicking, while I stood frozen on the sidewalk, my entire future collapsing around me.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. Another email. Probably the official deportation notice, I thought bitterly. But when I pulled it out, the sender wasn’t a government agency.

Selecta Corporation.

I frowned. Everyone knew Selecta—the massive global conglomerate that seemed to have its sleek red logo on everything from energy infrastructure to pharmaceuticals. They had a European headquarters right here in Paris, their gleaming skyscraper dominating the skyline not far from where I stood.

The subject line made my breath catch: ‘Opportunity for Qualified Young Women: Selecta Arrangements Program.’

I opened it with shaking fingers.

Dear Ms. Campbell,

Our algorithms have identified you as a potential candidate for the prestigious Selecta Arrangements program. Based on your profile, education, and current circumstances (visa status: pending termination), we believe SA could provide you with the stability and advancement opportunities you seek.

The Selecta Arrangements program pairs promising young women with established business leaders who serve as sponsors and mentors. Benefits include:

· Immediate visa regularization

· Subsidized accommodations in central Paris

· Monthly stipend

· Networking with industry leaders

· Career advancement opportunities

Our preliminary assessment suggests you may also qualify for our substantial ‘First Intimacy’ bonus payment.

To learn more, please click below to access the full program description and application.

Regards,

The Selecta Arrangements Team

I stared at my phone, my pulse quickening. It seemed too perfect, too convenient. How did they even know about my situation so quickly? The email had arrived just minutes after my program’s termination became official.

But I couldn’t ignore a potential lifeline. With trembling fingers, I tapped the link.

The page that loaded made my eyes widen and my cheeks flush hot.

Images appeared of beautiful young women in elegant settings, always accompanied by older men in expensive suits.

The men’s hands were placed possessively on the women’s shoulders, waists, thighs.

One photo even showed a young woman kneeling beside a man’s chair, her head resting against his knee while he stroked her hair.

I scrolled further, my blush deepening as I read phrases like ‘complete obedience expected,’ ‘physical discipline as necessary,’ and ‘intimate availability.’ When I reached a section titled ‘Intimacy Requirements’ with explicit details about what would be expected of ‘SA Associates’ by their ‘SA Sponsors,’ I nearly dropped my phone.

An older woman passing by gave me a curious look, and I realized I was standing stock-still on a busy sidewalk, my face flaming red. I quickly tucked my phone away and hurried down the street, looking for somewhere private where I could process what I’d just seen.

I found a small café on a side street, the kind of place tourists never discover.

The bell above the door tinkled softly as I entered.

Inside, the air smelled of coffee and fresh pastries, and the muted conversations created a gentle background hum.

I chose a corner table with my back to the wall, ordered a café crème from the tired-looking waiter, and pulled out my phone again.

My hands were still shaking. What Selecta was describing wasn’t a job or a mentorship program—at least, not in any conventional sense.

It was… I could barely bring myself to think the word.

Prostitution? No, they made it sound more like a relationship, albeit one with clearly defined power dynamics and expectations.

The word ‘arrangement’ suddenly took on a whole new meaning.

I sipped my coffee, wincing as it burned my tongue.

The pain helped ground me. I needed to think clearly.

Thirty days until my visa expired. No job.

No way to pay rent beyond this month. No money for a plane ticket home.

And even if I could get home, what was waiting for me there?

My parents’ struggling farm? The community college where I’d already completed all the relevant courses? The small-town existence I’d fled from?

I took a deep breath and forced myself to scroll back through the Selecta Arrangements information, this time reading more carefully.

The language seemed carefully crafted—all about ‘mutually beneficial relationships’ and ‘guidance’ and ‘structure.’ I skimmed testimonials from women who claimed the program had changed their lives, given them opportunities they never would have had otherwise.

And then there was the money. The basic stipend, which I could apparently get for a month while I looked for a sponsor, was already more than triple what I’d been making at the energy program.

And the ‘First Intimacy’ bonus… I nearly choked on my coffee when I saw the figure.

It was enough to pay off half my student loans in one lump sum.

I navigated to the qualification questionnaire, my curiosity overcoming my embarrassment. The questions started innocuously enough—age, education level, career interests. Then they became more personal: relationship history, sexual experience, comfort with ‘traditional’ discipline.

When I reached the question “Have you ever engaged in sexual intercourse?” my finger hovered over the screen. I glanced around the café, irrationally worried that someone might be watching over my shoulder, but the few other patrons were absorbed in their own conversations or phones.

I tapped No.

The screen refreshed, congratulating me on qualifying for the ‘First Intimacy Premium Program.’ A new section appeared, explaining that virginity was highly valued by certain SA sponsors, who would pay substantial bonuses for the privilege of being a young woman’s first sexual partner.

My face burned so hot I was sure everyone in the café could feel the heat radiating from me. This was insane. I couldn’t possibly consider this. Could I?

But my finger kept scrolling, and its tip kept tapping: Yes, I spoke French; No, I didn’t have any allergies. At last, the questions gave way to one last button.

For a long moment, I stared at the screen, heart pounding so loudly I was certain the elderly Frenchman at the next table could hear it.

My index finger hovered over ‘Accept Terms and Conditions,’ trembling like a leaf in autumn.

I hadn’t read all the way through the terms—there were dozens of pages, and part of me, insanely, had started to insist that through Selecta Arrangements I would embark on a mysterious adventure into an exclusive world of luxury. Who wouldn’t want to do that?

Another part told me this was madness. Complete madness.

And yet…

“Mademoiselle? You want something else?” The waiter’s voice startled me so badly I nearly dropped my phone.

“Non, merci,” I stammered, my practiced French almost deserting me in my panic.

He shrugged and moved away, leaving me alone with my impossible decision. I looked down at my phone again, at that innocent-looking button that would change everything.

Thirty days until deportation. No job. No prospects. No money.

I pressed before I could think anymore, squeezing my eyes shut as my finger made contact with the screen.

When I opened them again, the app was already downloading, the reddish-silver SA pulsing on my screen as the installation completed. My heart was racing so fast I felt lightheaded. What had I just done?

The app opened automatically, its interface elegant and minimalist. A message appeared:

Welcome to Selecta Arrangements, Audrey. We’re delighted you’ve chosen to explore this opportunity. Before we can proceed with matching you with potential sponsors, our medical team needs to conduct a standard examination to verify your eligibility for the First Intimacy Premium Program.

Below the message was a scheduling calendar.

To my surprise, there were appointments available as soon as today—one in just thirty minutes, in fact.

The location pinged on the embedded map: Selecta France Headquarters.

I zoomed out slightly and realized with a start that I was less than a ten-minute walk away.

It felt as if some invisible hand had guided all of this, making each step forward seem like the path of least resistance. The coincidence was eerie, but in my desperate state, it felt like fate.

I paid for my coffee with some of my dwindling cash and stepped back into the Parisian sunshine. The walk to Selecta HQ seemed both endless and instantaneous, my mind racing with questions and doubts even as my feet carried me inexorably forward.

The building itself looked very imposing—a gleaming tower of glass and steel that reflected the clouds above, making it seem as if it extended infinitely into the sky. The corporate logo, that ubiquitous red SELECTA, crowned the structure, visible from blocks away.

I stood on the sidewalk across from the towering edifice, my stomach twisting with uncertainty.

What was I doing? This wasn’t like me at all.

I was the practical girl from Illinois who’d worked two jobs to put herself through community college, who’d created an energy conservation program that had caught the attention of international researchers.

Not someone who signed up for… whatever this was.

Then again, I’d never been really desperate before.