At 5 o’clock on the dot, my computer lights with a conference requisition.
Smiling, I take a deep breath and hit accept.
He appears instantly, and I’m captured in his intense gaze. I try to maintain my smile, but my lips fumble.
“Hello, Ivy,” Mateo says in a voice like sandpaper.
“Hello,” I reply back.
“Your profile says you’re looking for a wealthy husband and hope to solidify your comfort with a child.”
My profile did not say exactly that, and I dislike the way he chose to paraphrase it, though I cannot deny the truth of it.
When I fail to reply, he continues with, “If that is what you are looking for, you’re in luck. With me, your comfort is all but guaranteed, just so long as you fulfill your end of the bargain.”
“You want an heir?” I say, my voice raised in question even though I very well know the answer.
“Yes, and the conception must happen quickly. Would you be opposed to taking fertility drugs?”
“Fertility drugs? But I’m?—”
“Yes, you are nineteen and your tests have proven you fertile, but if I don’t have an heir conceived soon, I stand to lose my inheritance. So please, answer my question: are you opposed to taking fertility drugs?”
“No—”
“Good, then I’ll send a doctor sent over after we end this call.” He squints into the screen. “Do me a favor and scrub the crap off your face.”
“Pardon?”
“When I tell you something or give you an order, you’re to say ‘understood.’ Understand?”
I swallow hard, trying not to break under the pressure. “Understood.”
“Your makeup, take it off. I want to see what you look like fresh faced.”
My mother, who’s standing behind the computer, rushes to grab a package of makeup wipes.
And because she’s opportunistic, she takes advantage of the situation and smiles into the camera as she hands them to me.
“Who’s she?” Mateo snaps.
“That’s my mother. We’re close.”
She gives me a wink and a thumbs up as she goes back to where she was standing.
I spend the next minute scrubbing the makeup off, cursing when my lightly applied eyeliner becomes a black smear.
“Look at me,” Mateo barks.
I obey, mortified by how disheveled I look.
“Why do you hide your freckles?” he asks.
“My concealer doesn’t give me a choice.”
“And neither will I. You’re no longer wearing it. You can wear lip gloss and a little mascara, but the dark eyeliner makes you look desperate.”
“Understood.”
