Page 10 of Art of Sin

5concession

In my office late afternoon,I sit with my head in my hands while Trent and Maggie celebrate by uncorking a bottle of wine Maxwell dropped off a few minutes ago. He also brought a cellophane-wrapped charcuterie basket, doubtless a regift from his office. The last thing he left is sitting under my right elbow. A plain white envelope housing my kickback from Frank Masters.

I haven’t looked at the amount yet, though I’m sure it’s enough to make me blink. Especially since Maxwell waited to cut it until I’d landed Gideon Masters and winked when he dropped it on my desk.

“Why the long face?” asks Maggie around a hunk of cracker and brie. “You should be ecstatic!”

I rub the tight skin between my eyebrows. “Did you even read the contract?”

Trent and Maggie exchange a glance. “Not yet,” she says, while Trent shakes his head, worry creeping into his eyes.

I don’t respond, closing my eyes for a moment’s quiet as they find the email on their phones and read. After a few minutes, Maggie whistles. Directly following, Trent curses.

“I can’t believe you signed this,” murmurs Trent.

Avoiding the accusation in his eyes, I inspect my manicure. “Yeah, well, as you both pointed out, I have more than just myself to think about.”

He begins angrily, “I didn’t mean for you to—”

Maggie punches his arm, silencing him. She clears her throat. “It’s not so bad. You’ve wrapped him up pretty good. In spite of the, uh, trade-off, it’s a solid contract.”

I snort. “Gee, thanks.”

“Should we call off Lyle?” she asks.

I shake my head. “Contract or no contract, I’m not taking any chances. Gideon deviates from the agreement and we get a call.”

“Short leash, good,” says Trent, trying hard to sound positive.

“Two days a week.”

I stiffen. “Absolutely not. However high-profile you think you are, I have other clients.”

Gideon shrugs. “I don’t care. Two days a week, three-hour sessions. And make no mistake, you’ll be in the nude.”

“Not happening,” I snap.

He chuckles. “Don’t worry, Snowflake, I don’t fuck my models.”

I sigh in exasperation. We’ve been stuck in the same chairs for two and a half hours, attempting to iron out a contract that so far reads like a deal with the devil.

He has to be a good boy for six months in exchange for… me. Photographing, drawing, then painting my likeness. Along with a bunch of other bullshit that my head hurts too much to dwell on, but essentially makes me his manager, publicist, and errand bitch.

“Why?” I ask softly, beseechingly.

He grins. “Because I can.”

“He’s an entitled ass,” I tell them wearily.

Maggie sighs. “I think it’s romantic.”

“More like creepy as fuck,” growls Trent.

Neither of them brings up the other concession I made, either because they missed it or don’t want to kick me when I’m down.

Gideon demanded I be available to him 24/7, attend every public appearance he makes, and keep his father off his back. The reward—retaining my job, my employees’ jobs, and making the higher-ups at the agency happy—lost its luster a few hours ago.

Six months is a long time.

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