What's home, if not the first place you run away from? What's love, if not that unexplainable, blazing feeling which comes after a period of hate?
Reputable for her catchy appearance, her over-niceness, her obsession with cartoon animations and her...
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Ariana Grande - no tears left to cry.
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MR. ASH AND I ARE IN MY LIVING ROOM, on sofas opposite each other, with a glass centre table in-between us. Frank Mitchell is seated on the sofa that's to my left. He's dressed exactly the same as yesterday, and Mr. Ash is in a black Givenchy suit. But it's like Frank is invisible, and we're engaging in the most epic stare-down of the century.
"What is your decision?" Mr. Ash asks me, fixing his cuffs, breaking eye contact first and intentionally losing our contest. He wasn't here yesterday, but I guess Frank has already filled him in on how things with me went.
"I will sign your contract." I answer him. "But first, I have few questions for you."
"For who?" Mr. Ash lifts a brow sharply. I swallow.
It's not news that I found this man appealing right from day one, but he manages to look better and better each time I see him.
Right now, he is astonishingly stunning, intimidating me to chaff with nothing but that posture: back leaned against my sofa and his legs spread apart slightly. His manspreading is as annoying as it is hot. No, it's more annoying than it is hot. Why does he have to look so domineering and authoritative? He looks relaxed, like he owns my house and I'm just a cheap piece of furniture.
I can't talk to this man. I won't talk to him...before I make a fool out of myself.
"Frank." I tilt my face left to the lawyer's direction.
"Ask away, Miss. Daniel." Frank speaks up, repositioning himself on the sofa.
"This contract is valid for only six months, right?"
"Yes." Frank clarifies. "After six months, you are free."
"What will I work as in Mr. Ash's house?"
"Anything he wants you to."
What? "Anything?" Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mr. Frank's client's jaw tick.
"Yes. Anything." Frank keeps bobbing his head like an Agama.
"Even a..." God, I'm so embarrassed voicing this out loud, but, "even a sex worker?"
"Frank, leave us for a moment." Mr. Ash butts into our convo uninvitingly before Frank even has an opportunity to reply my question, leaning forward on his haunches and training his eyes on me. "Let me explain the contract to her, in my own terms."
My own terms. He's frowning deeply. I wonder why. I asked a harmless question.
Hesitation to be alone with this man again bleeds into my veins, and almost like it's on reflex, I find myself saying, "Mr. Frank doesn't need to leave for you to explain your terms and conditions."
