Page 9 of Oliver
Either possibility left a bitter taste in my mouth, but I’d already committed, and I was never one to back out of a commitment.
I pushed the door open, greeted by a small office space—elegant, polished, and unapologetically confident. White walls adorned with framed magazine spreads showcased her work. Fresh flowers stood in full bloom in a vintage vase I recognized as one of her mother’s prized flea market finds. It was a small yet significant show of support and love.
The reception desk was unmanned, but the well-kept money tree alongside an assortment of personal items was evidence of a well-settled employee who was probably sent home early to offer Zahra and me discretion.
"Oliver," Zahra whisper-shouted from behind me, and I turned to find her with her phone to her ear, gesturing for me to follow her as she listened to whoever was on the other end.
She was dressed in a sleek, sophisticated sleeveless wrap dress in a soft powder blue that accentuated the deeper shades of brown in her hair, which in turn made the green of her eyes even more mesmerizing. Then there was the crossover V-neckline, nothing flashy, but it sat just so, especially with the side tie that cinched at Zahra’s waist.
I’d never noticed these things when it came to Zahra—the enticing contours of her curves, the mesmerizing sway of her hips as she walked, or how inviting her lips seemed slightlyparted as she listened intently to whoever was on the other side of the line.
She was gorgeous beyond words, always had been. Not merely a bright star, but a constellation that outshone the rest. It’s how she earned her nickname. But now? She wasn’t merely beautiful, she was achingly sexy.
The thought was a bucket of ice water, and I was ready to turn on my heels and leave, run from the meteor set to crash and burn my life if I went through with this deal.
But then my phone vibrated in my pocket. I didn't need to check it. The same text alert had been haunting me since our meeting at the café. An automated reminder about overdue payments on one of the many loans I had in my name.
The reason I’d called her back to the table.
I was drowning, and I needed to fix it, not just for now, but as a permanent, long-term solution. And I needed this job for that to happen.
Zhara finished her call and turned to me, her smile tight.
"Thank you for coming," she said, then gestured to a small seating area by the window. "Would you like coffee?"
"No, thank you." I waited until she took a seat, then chose the chair across from her, maintaining maximum distance. “Let's get started. I’d like to finalize the contract today.”
“Absolutely,” Zahra agreed, a bit too eagerly. Her desperation struck me as bizarre, but I forced the unease to the back of my mind. Professionalism, boundaries, control—maintaining all three was what kept me safe throughout the last seven years. All I had to do was adhere to the same strict standards I’d always imposed on myself, and I’d sail through this booking with Zahra.
I placed the manila envelope on the glass coffee table between us and removed the two contract copies I’d prepared, laying them out side by side with methodical precision.
"I've outlined everything we discussed in detail," I said, slipping into the detached professionalism that had become second nature. "Payment schedules, social media requirements, and physical boundaries. Each section has been carefully worded to protect us both."
Zahra nodded, her posture perfect, but her fingers threaded in her lap. The nervous girl from the café had vanished, replaced by a poised businesswoman. This was new, the savvy business side of Zahra. It was intriguing.
I pushed her copy toward her, surveying the first page of mine.
"The base rate covers eight hours per day, as we discussed. Anything beyond that incurs the additional hourly rate specified on page three. Travel days are billed at a flat rate rather than hourly."
She nodded, scanning the document. "And the payment schedule?"
"Thirty percent up front, then sixty percent distributed in accordance with achieved milestones, and the remainder upon completion.”
“That’s fair.”
I flipped through to the next section. "Social media stipulations are outlined here. You may post photos of us together on your personal accounts during the contract period. I reserve the right to approve all images before posting. No tagging or location services without prior consent."
Zahra read through each page, asking intelligent questions that reminded me she wasn't the impulsive girl from high school anymore. This woman ran a business, negotiated contracts regularly, and clearly understood the importance of details.
"The section on personal information begins on page five," I continued, tapping the paper with my pen. "Any backstory we create about our 'relationship' needs to be agreed upon by bothparties. Nothing about my current life circumstances is to be shared with family or friends, and no personal questions beyond what’s necessary to maintain our cover."
Her brow furrowed slightly at the last condition. "This is quite... thorough."
"It needs to be." I kept my voice flat. "The nature of this arrangement requires clear boundaries."
Zahra seemed doubtful, but eventually, she shrugged. “You’re the professional.”
We continued through the document until we reached the section that had taken me the longest to draft—physical boundaries. The clinical language felt like a heliosphere, a protective bubble that kept us safe from touching the cosmic radiation of the inevitable contact.
