Page 15 of The Dis-Graced

We walk down a hall to an area that’s illuminated by hundreds of tiny lights that appear to be floating several feet above a plush lounging area. There’s a decadent white rug that looks like it’s never been stepped on before, and I certainly don’t want to be the one to soil it, so I take off my shoes. Because of my job, I’m accustomed to luxury, but this looks like something straight out of a palace.

I take a seat while Drake pours two cups of red wine.

“I hope you like a good cab,” he says.

“It’s worth a try,” I say, knowing full well that whatever is in that bottle is probably more expensive than anything I’ve tasted before.

Drake sits in a chair adjacent to my position, offering me a glass, which I accept.

“You have a nice place here,” I say.

“Thank you. I hope you find it comfortable.”

“This is easily the softest couch I’ve ever sat on.”

For the first time since entering his penthouse, I realize how hot it is. I’m already perspiring, and I worry I might end up fainting if it gets much worse. I fan myself with my hand, what little good it does.

“The temperature is set to seventy-eight, sometimes I keep it as high as eighty-five.”

“Eighty-five?” I say in a panicked tone. There’s no way I can stay at his penthouse if he keeps the temperature that hot.

“Higher temperatures are proven to help the metabolism.”

“Holy crap, I can’t take this,” I say, pulling my oversized shirt off to reveal a hot pink tank top underneath.

“And you shouldn’t have to.” Drake pulls out his phone. “I’ll have it lowered to sixty-eight during your stay. Sorry I didn’t think to do this sooner, it didn’t occur to me before now.”

I exhale a relieved breath. “Thank you.”

“So you’ve agreed to my terms?” he asks. “Surrender your phone, stay inside unless we make accommodations for you to leave discreetly, and monitoring.”

I arc a brow. “This all seems rather invasive.”

“I know, and if you’d like, you can leave now, and I can help set you up with living accommodations and expenses until you get back on your feet. You won’t be destitute or forced to take any old job. If you’re going to want to collaborate with me, though, it must be on these terms.”

I take a big gulp of wine while I mull over his words. He’s being more than generous with his offers, even if I don’t like the terms. Any association with me right now would be considered scandalous, and with the setup that was run on me, it’s easy to see why he’d think I might sell him out.

Drake takes a phone from his pocket. “This will be yours while you’re here. Call or text anyone you’d like and surf the internet and go on all the social media sites, but you will have no ability to record or take pictures.”

“Oh…”

“Don’t look so glum. This initial take on the project will probably last only a month or two, then you can edit elsewhere.”

“So, what is this project I’m going to be working on?”

“ALAN,” he says, “could you please tell me a little about my guest?”

I look around to see who he’s talking to, but to my surprise, a voice seems to fill the room.

“Her name is Grace Anders. She is Caucasian, five-foot-six, and one-hundred-thirty pounds. Her clothing size is small, her pant size is a 2. Her waist is thirty inches, her bust is thirty-six inches. I estimate her bra is a D cup. Her hair is Siena brown, and it’s pulled back into a messy bun.”

My eyes dart around the room, looking for the jerk who’s sizing me up. “Holy hell, what the heck is this?” I snap.

“Grace’s makeup is demure, going for a modern, natural look which is not at all natural because of her unnaturally full eyelashes.”

“Excuse me!”

“Grace does not appear to be relaxed in your company. Her heart rate is elevated, and her muscles are tense. I would recommend a massage, however, coming from you, that might increase her stress level.”