I pull up into the driveway of the parking lot. A security guard checks my name, reads the email confirming I have an interview, and then waves me through.
The elevator up to the first floor is glass and spotless. As the doors open, I come out into a lobby filled with people, dozens of men in suits filing past, with women in super high heels sauntering in between them.
Are there other escorts here?
I feel entirely out of place in my awful suit. The shirt and skirt fit okay underneath, but the jacket swamps me, and I tug at it self-consciously as I go over to the reception desk.
A woman with flawless red lipstick glances up at me. She has long eyelashes slicked with mascara and perfect makeup. She checks my name and ushers me through some glass gates that ding quietly and turn green as I step through. I feel like there’s a target on my back, and everyone I pass must automatically know what I’m here to do.
If I get a bad vibe from him, I will walk away. There is no pressure. I am in control.
I walk aimlessly over the shiny marble floor, looking around expectantly. I’m not sure where to go until I see a tall, slim woman staring at me. She has black hair swept back in a tight ponytail and large, blue eyes that run over me with a skeptical air.
Following Hope’s advice, I’ve bought new ridiculously expensive underwear for the occasion. It feels like her piercing gaze can see right through my suit.
“Are you Amelia Brooks?” she asks.
“That’s me,” I say, attempting to sound confident, but it comes out as a squeak.
“This way, please. My name’s Beatrice Johnson. I’m one of three EAs who work for Mr. Crawford. You’ll be the fourth if today goes well.”
Jesus, does she know what I’ve been hired to do?
I know Sterling House is known for their discretion, but when I worked in admin, I kneweverythingabout my boss’s life. That thought hadn’t even occurred to me, and it chills me to the bone.
We step into another beautiful elevator with gold accents swirling around the glass, and a floor that probably cost more than my parents’ entire house.
Beatrice doesn’t speak or look at me other than to glance judgmentally at my suit as we travel upward. In just a few seconds, the doors open, and we emerge onto the top floor.
I try to stop my jaw from dropping. Several desks flow outward from the elevator, creating a stunning design that adds space and texture to the place. I yearn to paint it, knowing the sweeping lines and bustle would be captured in every brush stroke.
I follow Beatrice, glancing around at the other workers who are all sitting at spotless desks.
“Mr. Crawford doesn’t like clutter,” Beatrice says sharply. “If you want to keep your job, don’t even have a coffee cup on your desk for longer than it takes you to drink it.”
I blink at her, then look around me more closely. Sure enough, there is nothing on any of the desks except white keyboards and monitors. There aren’t even any pieces of paper or notepads anywhere, no staplers, pens—everything is out of sight.
We move through a short hallway to a long, white desk that runs along the left-hand side. A partition separates it from the rest of the office.
Ahead of me is a massive set of wooden double doors. They’re exquisitely decorated, with a horse carved into the panels across them, its legs leaping upward as though rearing at an opponent. For a second, I’m mesmerized by the image until Beatrice turns around to glare at me.
“You’ll be sitting outside Mr. Crawford’s office, as you’ll be his liaison for much of the day. Kaitlin, Julia, and I all sit together because we coordinate his calendar and schedule. We need to talk with each other constantly. If you need help, you can always ask.”
Her tone suggests that I shouldn’t ask for their help under any circumstances. I stare at her, nerves pulsing through me.
Is this where his last escort sat? Maybe he changes us every few weeks. That’s what Hope seemed to be suggesting.
“Your interview will start in a few minutes,” Beatrice says, her eyes running over meagain,and I want to set myself on fire so she can’t judge my suit any harder than she already is.
“If it goes well, I suppose I’ll see you later.”
“Thank you for showing me everything,” I say, and her eyes narrow at me for a second before her eyebrows rise in surprise.
“You’re welcome. Good luck. Don’t piss him off, or my day gets ten times more difficult than it already is.”
She stalks away. She’s wearing Jimmy Choos, the red soles flashing as she returns to her desk. Two other women are sitting alongside her, one with tight cornrows and long hair extensions.
The second woman appears to be in her forties, with flyaway brown hair and two pairs of glasses: one balanced on her head, the other set on the tip of her nose.
