My stomach tightens.
“I assumed,” I say slowly, “that it was a public-facing role.”
“You assumed wrong.”
“I’m starting to see that.”
“You’re not hosting,” he says. “You’re participating.”
Fear hits hard enough to steal my breath.
I should leave. I should say no.
“The Ledger mentioned the possibility of an extension,” I say instead. “If I proved suitable.”
“Suitable,” he repeats. “For what I actually requested.”
“Yes.”
He steps closer. Still not touching. His presence presses in anyway.
“You know what happens to untrained women at my parties?”
I swallow. “They get overwhelmed.”
“They get broken,” he corrects calmly.
A shiver races down my spine.
“You heard the rumors,” he says.
“Yes.”
“And you still came.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Because my sister's life has a deadline.
“Because you pay well,” I say. “And because I don’t have the luxury of being naive.”
His gaze drags over me again. Slower now. Calculating.
"You are not ready for the party," he says quietly. "You are not trained for what I require."
"I can learn."
"You can." His thumb traces a line at the hinge of my jaw. "But not as a hostess."
He considers for a beat. His eyes rake over me one more time. Measuring. Calculating.
"I have a different job in mind for you."
My breath catches. Relief. Terror. They taste the same.
Then: “One month.”
