Keira

After spending an hour getting ready, I take one more look in the mirror to check that my black hair is properly styled, that my dress fits my curves perfectly, that nothing is out of place, and that my make-up is as glamorous as the night deserves. I was hired as an escort by a German businessman named Sebastian Decker, owner of a very successful fleet of commercial ships. At 35, he is one of the richest men in Germany. In the photograph I saw in his client file, I could only appreciate his serious face, with slight lines marked on his forehead, light eyes, a long and profiled nose, asymmetrical lips, short coppery hair, and a very neat beard covering his wide jaw, fitting perfectly with his features. I found him attractive, although that should be irrelevant; this job is not about being captivated by the client; it is just about being there for them, smiling and nodding for their friends, associates, or anyone around them. Anyway, I'm not on the hunt for any guy, like most of my fellow Ladies in Gold, who hope to one day stumble upon a brand-new wealthy prince charming who will give them a better life. I don't believe in fantasies, let alone care about having a relationship with anyone. My heart was pretty much broken after my last relationship, and I have lost faith in love and in men.

The ringing of the telephone in the suite interrupts my train of thought. I answer with a gentle "good evening," and immediately, without a cordial greeting or introduction, an undoubtedly male voice informs me that in ten minutes he will come to escort me to Mr. Decker's limousine. He describes his appearance and tells me his name: Dimitri Dunn. I let him know that I was ready and hung up the phone without any other mention. Although I really wanted to tell him that there was no need for so much security protocol, the millionaire businessman is Mr. Decker, and I am just his escort for a single night. And no, it's not about sex. When I started this job, I made it very clear that I would not have sex with any client, no matter how much they tried to pay. I can't say the same for everyone who works at Ladies and Gold; I only speak for myself.

I wait several minutes, and when there is a knock at the door, I reach for my black coat and envelope bag on the bed, walk to the door, and open it.

"Good evening, Miss Morrison," says a tall, burly man with the same voice that spoke to me minutes before: Dimitri. He is wearing a black suit, a white shirt, and a tie of the same color as the jacket. His features are hard and asymmetrical; he has thick black hair and dark eyes. He doesn't smile; I haven't met the first escort who does, but this one seems sterner than the others.

“Good evening, Dimitri.” I use his first name because that indicates the list that Mr. Decker stipulated. Yes! I had forgotten to mention that Mr. Decker has a long list detailing how I am to behave around him: not to inquire about his private life; to talk, drink, eat, and breathe only when he chooses; to dress as he chooses, from underwear to shoes; to wear Channel No. 5 perfume, which was laid out on the comb when I arrived at the Crowe Plaza Time Square suite, a hotel of his choice as well. And the most arrogant thing on that list is not to discuss with anyone what I see, hear, think, or feel. Yes, feel! When I am with him. He is the most infuriating client I have ever had! I already detest him and haven't even said a word to the grumpy German. Yes, he must be a real pain in the m****a.

The huge man, who must be almost six feet tall, walks in front of me as we make our way to the elevator that will take us to the hotel lobby. The urge to bite my nails grows with each number the elevator screen discounts, but I restrain myself. I need to rise to the occasion, letting the nervousness and anxiety get under my skin and maintaining, on the surface, a serene and elegant attitude. When Dimitri opens the back door of the limo, I slip gracefully into the leather seat in the back of the car, and then I see Sebastian Decker live and direct, exuding arrogance and sternness. He doesn't look at me once; he's engrossed in his smartphone screen, but he must know I'm here, unless he's deaf and didn't hear the door close or has a smell problem and doesn't pick up on the not at all discreet perfume he demanded I put on. Immediately, the car sets off to take us to a place unknown to me. I was not given the itinerary for the night; I only know that we are not leaving New York. The minutes begin to accumulate, and the billionaire's attention is still focused on his phone. And I stand here, mute and transfixed like a statue, so as not to breach the rigorous terms of his list. But his coldness and that rigid posture of an emotionless individual make me impatient. I wonder why he is so impolite. I've already lost count of the powerful men who have hired me as an escort, but none were as aloof as he is. Not that I expected a long chat or a cordial introduction, but he should at least try to look at the woman he paid a large sum to be by his side tonight.

Fed up with his indifference and waiting for "his highness Decker" to try to acknowledge me, I stop looking at him as an act of rebellion, although his image remains clear in my mind as if my eyes were still on him. He is wearing a tailored tuxedo, a fine silver watch on his left wrist, and matching cuff links on his shirt. From head to toe, he exudes elegance and good taste. Even his perfume smells exquisite. I can't decipher its composition, but it's very manly, with a combination of wood and citrus fruits.

“Keira Morrison, right?” He asks in a thick, powerful voice, as masculine as his appearance. I look at him puzzled, unable to believe that he has finally registered me. He also watches me carefully through bright, clear eyes—of a shade that I can't decipher because of the distance that separates us. His gesture is the same—cold and unchanged from the ones I saw in that photograph. He doesn't seem interested in looking beyond my face, even though I'm wearing flirtatious cleavage on my chest.

Maybe I'm gay. Many of my clients are, and they need an escort to act as a cover. Although it would be a shame if he was, he's so handsome...

I push those thoughts away when I realize how inopportune they are and keep my composure. To his question, I answer with a nod. I don't want my voice to sound weak and for him to realize he's affected me that way.

“We're on our way to my business partner Will Baker's wedding reception. I'll offer him my hand as we get out of the car, and we'll walk together until we're seated at a table. At some point in the evening, we'll go to the dance floor and dance a piece, or two, depending on the music. When I introduce her to Will and his wife, just tell her your name and wish them well. Any questions?” She questions me with her eyes fixed on me and her lips pursed.

God! The man is more obnoxious than I thought.

“Is the dance necessary?” I ask, although I feel more like telling him to fuck off than asking him anything.

"I wouldn't say it if it wasn't," he replies in a thick German accent. Can't you dance?” He asked with a frown.

“The usual. I won't be known for my skills on the dance floor," I mention, trying to take the edge off the conversation, although the tension between us is so thick I could cut it with a knife.

“I'll take it under advisement. Anything else?” He asks with the same seriousness, scrutinizing me with his eyes in a way that makes me nervous.

"No, nothing else," I answer in an austere tone. I want to ask him, though: doesn't the rod he brought from Germany anchored in his ass hurt?

With my answer, he turns his gaze back to the phone and ignores me again, as before.

He's a jerk, arrogant, and rude. If I had a choice, I would give up being his escort tonight, but I can't; I need the money too badly.