Page 5

Madison

CHAPTER THREE

A hooker , I mentally repeat as all the blood rushes to my face and neck.

I don’t consider myself a very sensitive person. We were raised for most of our lives solely by our father, who, although as good to us as he could be, was also a cheater and pathological liar. When Eleanor married him, both Brooklyn and I had already learned to toughen up so we wouldn't break after every disappointment.

At this moment, however, I feel a buzzing in my ears and my feet tingle.

I know the reason: shame. Just like I felt in school when the kids laughed because we each had only one coat to wear all winter or our backpacks were full of holes.

Sure, I know I don't belong in this place. I'm not good enough in any respect—not well-dressed or cool like the girls out there seem to be—but to be mistaken for a prostitute?

I almost jump out of the chair, getting up at the speed of light.

As a survivor, it's hard for anyone to destabilize me, but I feel like throwing the paperweight on the desk at him. "How dare you?"

"Sit down."

I want to tell him to go to hell, but again I remember the reason I'm here, so I obey, even though the anger hasn't passed.

"I just answered your question. If I were to hire you, Miss Foster, you'd have to learn quickly that I don't beat around the bush about what I think. I thought you were a call girl."

"Why the hell would you...?" I start, and he raises an eyebrow, as if challenging me to continue cursing. "Why would you think something like that?"

Suddenly, I feel insecure and look at my dress. As much as it annoys me that he managed to get to me, I feel exposed and embarrassed. I expected, and still expect, to be unmasked at any moment, but never in my life did I expect to be mistaken for a prostitute.

"Was it my clothes that made you think that?" I can't bring myself to look at him. I'm afraid that if I do, I'll start crying because he hit a weak point. I'm a nobody, insanely poor, but there's something I've always preserved: my dignity. Now, this powerful man has just made me feel like shit.

"It has nothing to do with your clothes; it's your stunning beauty. Apart from your lovely face, your body could raise the dead."

If it were any other man saying that, I'd probably be a little scared, but his voice carries so much indifference that I look back at him.

I think about how much I need this job. Only God and I know how much, but it’s not enough to be treated like garbage.

I take a few breaths and get up.

"I didn't say the interview was over," he says.

In all my life, I've never known a man to be so arrogant. He’s probably never been contradicted.

"I changed my mind. It was a mistake to apply for this position."

"Don't you even want to know what the salary is?"

I'm caught in an internal struggle between pride and need, and as if he realizes it, he calmly states an amount that makes me sit back down to try to process those numbers.

I do a quick mental calculation and don't need to be a mathematician to understand that this job would solve almost all my problems.

I know he can see the astonishment on my face because the corner of his mouth lifts in an sardonic smile, and as much as I'd like to slap him and wipe that cynical expression off forcibly, I'm not that good an actress that I can hide how much I need the money.

"And there's still the annual bonus."

"B-bonus?"

"Yes. Never less than two salaries."

I'm dizzy and my hands are sweaty.

The bonus money he mentioned would be enough to move closer to the hospital—even if it's just closer compared to where we are now. In any case, I could check on my sister more often. I could also quit taking on cleaning jobs for good, and there would be more time for...

No, one thing at a time, Madison. Don't rush. Breathe.

"Do you still want to give up the position?" the damn man asks, already knowing the answer.

"I can't."

"That's what I thought. So now, let me explain why I mistook you for a call girl."

I cross my arms in a protective stance because I have no doubt this man is worldly-wise and knows that if I stay, it's because I need to. But that doesn't mean I've forgiven him for the offense. "I don't know if I want to know."

"My friends have a habit of playing stupid pranks on me," he says, as if I hadn't protested. "More than once, they've sent call girls pretending to be job candidates to my main companies. Even for secretary and assistant positions."

"Why the hell would they do something so dumb?" I ask before I can stop myself, and to my surprise, I see the corner of his mouth lift again.

"Your question is its own answer. Men do dumb things all the time."

I can't disagree if I consider the example I had at home, but this time, I'd rather stay quiet and just listen.

"I made a mistake about you, and since we've cleared things up, I think we can move on."

"No."

"No what?"

"I came here, after going through all the stages required for the position, to work as an...uh . . . exotic dancer at your exclusive nightclub, and I was insulted for no reason other than your prejudice about my appearance. I haven't heard a formal apology from you yet, Mr. Kostanidis."

He spins a pen in his hand in a movement so slow that it becomes annoying, until he finally says, "Pay attention to what I'm about to say, Madison. Don't bluff when you're talking to me. We both know you need this job very badly, judging by your modest clothes and the shoe with the peeling tip. I've said I made a mistake. This topic is closed. That's how it’s going to be, or you can get up and let the next candidate in. What's it going to be?"

I wish I could just leave, but of course, that's not what I do. "I'm staying."

"Then, let me tell you why I'm the one interviewing you now. By the end of this conversation, you'll already know whether you're hired or not.