Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
LARA
W hen I awakened that morning, I would have thought it insane of anyone who told me that before the day was out, I'd be prodded, poked, and tested for STDs to determine my 'suitability' to be a billionaire’s toy for a month. But as I get closer to the billionaire’s lair I recall everything the doctor said and did and feel like I’m the one who should be checked into a mental asylum.
I can’t help wondering over and over again—why me?
I’m sure he could get any woman in the world, so why get an unwilling one? Okay, not unwilling, but as far as he is concerned, one who gives the impression of being unwilling. With a sigh, I turn to look out the window as I’m driven through Manhattan.
I don’t even know where the driver is taking me, but I didn’t expect anything else from a man who thinks because he has lots of money, he can control women. At this thought, my heart plunges. The ugly truth is I am now one of those women he can control. I feel a strange sense of disassociation fill me.
This is not my life.
This can’t be my life.
I’m Lara Fitzpatrick. A little nobody estate agent trying to make my way in the big bad city. I’m not a billionaire plaything material. I’m sexually adventurous and if I’m honest not even particularly sexual. One of my exes accused me of being a frigid prude. I don’t think I’m that of course, nevertheless...
My phone rings, startling me. I pray it’s not my dad as I pull it out of my purse. Despite my attempts to dissuade him from calling me every ten minutes over the past hour to check if I’m okay, he’s refused to back down. I know he’s hurting, so I’ve tried to be patient, but right now my head is too messed up to deal with his guilt and remorse.
Fortunately, it’s Leila. She’s more or less up to date with what’s happening, other than the fresh trauma I’ve just endured at the doctor’s office. Glancing at the driver who is purposely keeping his gaze glued on the road ahead, I put my phone to my ear.
“So you’re actually doing it?” she squeals.
Shutting my eyes, I let out a long sigh. “Yeah. I guess I am.”
“I’m sorry,” she says softly. “You know I would gladly do it for you if I could.”
“Yeah, I know. Hopefully, there’s some clause in there that’ll let me escape sooner,” I mutter.
“Send it to me so David can look it over,” she suggests.
“Can’t do that,” I shake my head. “I’ve signed an NDA. The only person I can reveal anything to would be if I hired a lawyer to represent me.”
“Wow! Talk about fast. So, how was the doctor’s office? You’re already on birth control, right?”
“I’m supposed to be,” I say, turning to stare out of the window.
“What do you mean by that?”
“I was just taking it as a habit, not as a precaution. I haven’t dated anyone in two years, as you know.”
“I know, but I thought you were?—”
“You thought I was what?” I interrupt.
“I thought maybe once in a while when the cravings got too much during the lonely nights you’d go out and indulge in some anonymous encounters, you know?”
My voice is dry. “The only cravings I get at night are for warm waffles with rum and raisin ice cream, chopped hazelnuts, and sliced bananas, drowning in salted caramel sauce.”
She laughs. “Anyway, what did the doctor say?”
“I’m in the all-clear category, but I could’ve told her that. It’s hard to be riddled with STDs when you don’t have sex.
“Do you think he’s going to try to have sex with you tonight?” she whispers urgently.
“That must be the plan since he insisted I come to his house tonight rather than tomorrow like any normal person would.”
“You know, at first, I didn’t see the problem with this scenario. I even thought it was exciting, but now that I know just how desperate he is for you, I’m getting a little scared. The only good news is he is a public figure so he’s likely not an axe murderer. But,” she pauses dramatically, “get ready to collect as much evidence as you can. Everything that might protect you in the future—recordings, photos, anything.”
I listen to her words of warning, but no fear creeps in. I feel it in every cell in my body that he will not hurt me. I perfectly understand what he is feeling. I feel the same thing for him. I’m furious with the way he has manipulated me, but I want him. God, how I want him. No man has ever made me feel this way before.
“Look. I should go. Speak to you in the morning, okay?”
“Please be careful, babes,” she says.
“I will,” I say and put my phone away.
I know this area. We’re going to the southern end of Central Park in Manhattan and heading towards Billionaire’s Row. I can list off the top of my head almost every listing available here, but given how small our agency is, I’ve never had the chance to be involved with such a property.
We stop in front of 220 Central Park South. A man steps forward smartly and opens the car door for me. I step out and look up at the tall skyscraper. So this is where he lives. For a quick second, I feel excited to be here, curious to see what it looks like inside.
“Miss Fitzpatrick,” the man says formally. “Let me help you with your bags.”
“No thank you. I can manage,” I say stiffly.
“Very well. Please follow me.”
We go through the plush foyer and ride the elevator in silence. He opens a pair of wooden double doors and I step into Ivan Ivanovich’s lair. I drop my rucksack on the floor and look around me in awe. Wow! What a magnificent space, with tall ceilings, glass walls, and a grand curving black marble staircase that leads up to more floors. But mostly my eyes are drawn to the many softly-lit beautiful paintings hanging on the walls. I don’t know what I expected, but it was not this worship of beauty and impeccable cleanliness. The entire space is spotless. Not so much as a smudge or speck of dust anywhere, and every hard surface gleams and shines with polish.
A woman dressed in black approaches us. Her eyes are pale, watchful and naturally wary, but I detect kindness in them too. I know immediately that this is the woman responsible for the immaculate state of the apartment. She nods at the man next to me. “Thank you and goodnight, Steven.” The man leaves and she turns to me.
“Good evening, Miss Fitzpatrick. I am Muriel Levine, Mr. Ivanovich’s housekeeper. Welcome. I hope you have a wonderful stay with us.”
“Thank you.”
“Would you like something to drink or eat?”
My stomach growls loudly and I realize that I’ve been cooking and baking for hours but I haven’t had any food since lunch. I don’t think I can hold any food down though. I’m too nervous and stressed out.
“I’m fine, thank you,” I say politely.
“Everything’s ready for you. If you’ll come with me, Miss. Fitzpatrick, I’ll show you to your room,” she says and begins to walk towards the stunning staircase. I pick up my rucksack and follow her up to the second floor.
“If you encounter any problems please let me know immediately,” she says as she shows me into a cream and white bedroom with touches of soft blue. I glance around at the luxurious decor. There is a white four-poster bed with silk curtains. It all looks so luxurious that I’m momentarily speechless. On the bed is a dark red nightie, and on the table by the lounge area is a white box with a red bow, a bucket of champagne with two tall flutes, a bowl of strawberries, and what looks like my contract in an envelope.
“If you have no other requests I’ll wish you a good night, Miss Fitzpatrick,” she says. “Please ring that bell if you need anything at all.”
“Um, are there any hidden cameras in this room?” I blurt out.
The involuntary widening of her eyes tells me I need have no such fears.
“Not to my knowledge,” she says slowly, but now there is speculation in her eyes as she reassesses my status. I have shown myself to be no ordinary guest.
As soon as she exits, I rush towards the envelope, but my hand hesitates as I reach out, knowing what it contains and not wanting to face it just yet, but I know I can’t just skim through it. I have to read every word carefully because sooner or later, I will have to sign this thing. I have to make sure there are no hidden traps, no loopholes that he could exploit to weasel out of his end of the bargain. I need to be sure I’m not making a mistake. Despite the strong desire in me to pretend it doesn’t exist, I take a deep breath, grasp the thick expensive paper and break the logo embossed bronze-colored wax as I tear it open.
As expected, it is my contract, and it’s all laid out in excruciating detail, every clause, stipulation and rule is meant to ensure that I am perfectly obedient, always on my best behavior, with no room for rebellion. It’s all one-sided, all for his benefit—my behavior, my schedule, even my wardrobe, all meant to align with his expectations and whims. It’s so controlling, so suffocating that I can’t quite believe I’ve let myself into this situation.
My eyes skim over the legal jargon, the strict terms that bind me, and I feel my chest tightening with every sentence I read. The reality of what I’m agreeing to settles in more heavily with each word, and it’s suffocatingly clear. He’s buying a service. Nothing more. Why did he have to make it so starkly evident that it would be transaction sex?
I remind myself that this is the only way to fix the mess my father is in and focus on the words swimming in front of me. I need to read through every line and every word. I need to understand exactly what I’m signing up for.
Slowly, I begin to comb through the contract, taking it in word by word. Each section feels like a tightening knot in my stomach—stipulations about when and where I must be available, the expectations of how I should behave, the way I must look and present myself, even the things I am allowed to do in his presence. It’s all there, mapped out as if my life is now a schedule he gets to dictate.
Still holding the contract in my hand, I head towards the walk-in closet. It’s bigger than my bedroom, and although it isn’t completely filled, it’s been stocked with every piece of clothing I could possibly need for my month’s stay. Dresses, shoes, bags, accessories, even glamorous lingerie —all in my correct sizes.
I notice another door. I push it open and it leads into the most breathtaking bathroom I’ve ever been in. The space is massive, with premium rose marble floors and gold fixtures that gleam under the soft lighting. It’s almost overwhelming in its luxury, and for a moment, I’m lost in the beauty of it all. A marble alcove is lined with pristine white towels, and the scent of fresh flowers fills the air, mingling with the faint aroma of the soaps and oils carefully arranged on the counter.
In the middle of the room, perfectly positioned to overlook a window with a gorgeous view of the city’s night sky, is a bathtub. It’s enormous, the kind of tub you could sink into and lose yourself in for hours. I can already imagine how warm and soothing the water would feel against my skin, washing away the day’s stress and the feeling of being soiled. For a brief second, I forget everything else as I picture myself sinking into that bath, letting it swallow me whole.
The thought is tempting.
Without thinking further, I turn on the faucet, choosing a mix of the fragrant oils and bubble baths available. The scent of lavender fills the air, and I feel my shoulders start to relax just a little. I select some of the luxurious bath salts and sprinkle them into the water too, watching as they dissolve and release their calming aroma. The steam rises, and I close my eyes, letting it envelop me, imagining that it’s taking away all the tension building up inside me.
I undress and step into the tub. The water is perfect—warm enough to make my skin tingle but not too hot. Lovely. I feel as if I am bathing in the sky. I sink into the water, feeling it rise around me, and then I let my head rest against the edge. The world outside feels far away, and I almost let myself pretend that this is a beautiful dream. Everything is fine. There is a gorgeous prince waiting for me somewhere in this apartment.
But reality comes crashing back when I look down at the papers on the floor.
I lay my head back and close my eyes, the water continuing to warm me, until eventually, the bath begins to feel less like a comfort and more like a trap—a reminder of the luxury that’s being used to bind me, the softness disguising the control. The scent of the expensive bath salts hangs in the warm air, but instead of relaxing me, I feel a new tension growing in my chest.
My heart feels heavy as I lean back and let the water wash over my shoulders. I close my eyes and for a moment, I let myself drift, imagining another scenario. I was on a fairytale date with Ivan Ivanovich. He really cared about me. I was his girlfriend!
I shake my head at my open stupidity. He is a billionaire. Billionaires don’t choose struggling estate agents to be their girlfriends. I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling. It’s ornate, with a chandelier hanging directly above me—something you’d expect to see in a palace, not a bathroom in the middle of New York. Everything around me is so extravagant, so immaculate, and yet all I can think about is how much I wish I could disappear into this bath and never come out.
But I know I have to face this.
I rise slowly from the tub, water dripping from my skin, and wrap the towel on the footstool around myself. It’s soft, cloud-soft, and I clutch it tightly as I walk back into the bedroom. I pull at the red ribbons of the gift box and open the lid. Inside is a blood-red silk nightie. It is beautiful, but I glare at it, knowing exactly what it symbolizes. It’s another part of the game—a tool to make me feel small, controlled, like a doll he can dress up however he pleases.
I toss the nightie on the bed. No matter how much I want to tear it up, throw it in his face, and walk out the door, I don’t have that option. Not if I want to save my father. Not if I want to save the agency.
This is my life now, at least for the next one month.