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Madison

CHAPTER TWO

"Madison Foster?" the secretary with a stern expression calls out, and I feel my stomach clench. "Mr. Ares Kostanidis is waiting for you."

Ares Kostanidis?

This can't be happening.

My interviewer is the big boss? What kind of joke is this? Since when does a billionaire personally interview a candidate for a job?

God, I really want to leave.

Don’t they have a position for serving coffee? Maybe at a nightclub, because I need those tips badly.

I should've aimed for something simpler. There's no way a man like him will buy my bluff about being bilingual. What if he asks me something in Spanish? I barely know anything beyond gracias, tacos, and fajitas .

And why on earth does he have to be the one hiring a dancer? Doesn't he have anything better to do with his life? Like flying in a private jet, going to some tropical paradise with a famous model, watching the northern lights—basically anything that his millions of dollars in the bank would allow him to enjoy.

I try to remember what I know about this particular member of the Kostanidis family, but my head is all mixed up because I'm too anxious.

I mean, I did some internet research about my potential new employer because the surname Kostanidis is well-known in the United States. I found out he has three brothers and he's the second oldest.

I thought I'd be interviewed by the club manager or something. I never imagined I'd have to deal with someone this important.

How am I going to carry on with my lie? Jesus, I'm so tempted to run away.

You made it this far. Who knows? Maybe it'll work out, says the devilish voice.

Brooklyn and I were raised by a liar, and I know it's not that difficult to maintain a lie. You just have to tell people what they want to hear.

Despite that, I'm not comfortable with deceiving. Unlike my father, I'm only doing this because I have no other choice.

"Miss? Are you going in, or should I call the next candidate?"

"N . . . no. I'm going. I'm sorry."

I'm not insecure, but I'm trembling from head to toe.

I felt fresh and clean when I entered the building today, but now a layer of cold sweat has formed all the way down to my butt.

I walk slowly, being careful not to trip, but when I pass by the secretary holding the door open, I feel like telling her I've changed my mind and I'm leaving.

Before I can escape, however, the woman closes the door behind me.

I turn to face the inevitable: being alone in a room with a billionaire who, unknowingly, holds my only chance of not drowning in a sea of bills.

When I look forward again, a gorgeous giant who can't be past his early thirties stares at me.

"Who the hell are you? I'm going to kill the idiot who thought it'd be funny to mess with me like this."

My stomach churns, even though I have no idea what he's talking about.

You know what's wrong with lying? Guilt shows on your face, and I think that's what he sees in me right now. And he hasn't even asked me anything in Spanish yet.

Oh my God!

"Get out!"

I shiver, but contradictorily, I freeze in place.

"What the hell are you still standing there for? I told you to leave."

I know the secretary is back because I hear a noise behind me.

"Mr. Ares, is there a problem?" she asks, seeming as nervous as I am.

"Who brought her here?" he asks the woman, pointing at me. "No need to answer. Just get her out of my sight."

That finally wakes me up. I might be desperate, but I won't allow someone to talk to me like that. "I can leave on my own. I'm not a pet that needs to be led around."

"Then she's not fit for the job? She won't even be interviewed? She went through all the stages, just like the others," the secretary insists.

"Don't bother intervening for me. I'm leaving. There's no salary worth working for someone like him." I try to gather the few shreds of dignity left in me and, with my head held high, turn my back on them and walk toward the door.

"Stop," he orders, almost growling.

I want to smack myself when I obey. Maybe it's need overriding dignity.

"Janine, you can go. I'll talk to the young lady . . .”

"Madison Foster," I reply, gritting my teeth and looking him in the eye as I turn. I should have stayed quiet, but my bad temper doesn't allow it. So, forgetting who we are in the game of life, I continue like a daredevil, "I have no idea who you thought I was, but you owe me an apology."

He blinks a few times, as if making sure he heard correctly.

I think no one has ever had the courage to say something like that to him, and maybe in a normal situation, I wouldn't have either. The problem is, I'm too angry.

"Who are you?" he asks, repeating the question he asked in the beginning but now a little calmer.

"Miss Janine already said who I am, and I just confirmed my name," I reply, chin held high.

He looks me up and down.

Then, as if he hadn't been a jerk to me, he returns to the table and opens what I believe to be my folder, the same one the secretary handed him.

"Madison Foster, nineteen years old. Never attended dance college but passed all the tests. How is that possible?"

"Ever heard of talent? I can dance, and that's all there is to it." I've completely lost the desire to be sweet, which I don't have much of normally. After that little show of madness he put on, I won't allow him to mistreat me again.

He lets my snappy response slide. "Intermediate Spanish?" he asks, as if this is the start of the interview and he didn't act like an idiot two minutes ago.

"Are you sure you want me to stay?"

It wasn't the question about my non-existent Spanish that made me ask this. It's because, in an emotional battle, anger outweighs fear. Suddenly I thought he might actually be crazy—the only explanation for such a drastic behavior change— and maybe it's not a good thing to be locked in a room with a lunatic.

"Sit down. What you need to learn about me is that I only do what I want to do. If I say you should stay, don't question me. Now, tell me about there not being a salary that compensates for working for someone like me. Are you sure about that?"

Everything in me screams to shout a resounding: yes, you brute!

However, I don't reply, because I'm not a fool, so instead, I accept his suggestion and sit like a good girl, even though inside, a bloodthirsty psychopath is still seething.

I accept the Greek ogre's change in behavior as a second chance at life.

"Answer me, Madison."

"I think, given the way you spoke to me when I entered here, I'm entitled to a question too, Mr. Kostanidis. Why did you treat me like that?"

He doesn't hesitate. "I thought you were a hooker."