The Submissive Wives Estate

2. A Proposition

WHITNEY

The Chateau, where Levi resided, was like any other high-rise building in London, but my memories of time spent inside gave it a uniquely sensual aura. I slammed the door of my red Mustang. The Mustang was a graduation gift from the two foster dads who raised me during my secondary school years. I saw it in a different light once I feared my vehicle would become my home.

I stepped into the slight chill mixed with the mildness and pleasantry from the day. The scent of a typical summer evening fills my nose. Asphalt. Wafts of fried food from down the street. Smoke and sweet aromas of the shisha in the district. Jasmine flowering in the shrubs outside of the entrance. Sprinklers humming against the grass. A summer's night is unwaveringly peaceful, even if you are stuck wishing you could start a whole new life. 

I pressed the code I remembered and a loud buzz told me that Mr. Shelsey was ready for me. My nerves banged like a gong when I realized I was possibly stepping back into the life I had sworn to leave behind forever. Never in a million years did I think I'd be back here.

Upon exiting the elevator and riding to the top floor, I swiveled around the hallway, desperately trying to remember which unit number was his.

"Miss Whitney?" his deep voice boomed through the quiet hallway.

"Shh," I hushed him before losing my balance, my feet tangling around one another. I regained my composure and let out a humiliating, "Oopsie daisies."

"Oopsie daisies is right," he chuckled, holding out his long, left hand, "Come here."

I placed my dainty hand into his warm palm and he guided me into his dark flat, "Thank you."

"You're as clumsy as I remembered," he chuckled.

Engrossing myself in the reality that I didn't need to feign politeness for cash, I scoffed, "Keep it professional, Shelsey. Insulting your prospective business partner isn't a good start for success."

"It wasn't an insult. I liked your clumsiness. I liked you," he flicked on a light to reveal an extravagant platter of every Sushi Roll imaginable. "I hope you're hungry."

"Famished," I removed my sweater and slung it on one of the barstools before hopping up and making myself at home.

"Enjoy however much you like," Levi pulled a roll in between his chopsticks, lowering his head to take a full bite. Even at this angle, doing such a mundane task, he was as pretty as men could get. Like he was carven by the Greeks themselves.

Levi spoke again after I ate a few pieces of Salmon Sashimi, "The penthouse is yours for the next two weeks."

"Mine?! Two weeks?!"

"You heard me, darling. Yours. Two weeks. Now, tell me what happened. Did that bastard throw you out?"

"Evanston? Well, no. But once it ended...I moved in with my friend...or sister...ah, it's a long story. I hate to say the word homeless, but I suppose that's me now."

My sort-of-sister was Layla. A Jamaican adoptee of my former foster mother, Joan. We'll get to that later. Evanston, on the other hand, stage name: Steve Payne, was my dangerously good-looking yet Gaston-like ex-boyfriend. He had the goofy sense of humor your favorite Uncle signatures at every family gathering and cuddled me as I fell asleep. At the time, that was enough for me.

He claimed he saved me from the industry. I met him in the same old way. Girls for hire, scuttling through the BDSM clubs. Evanston smiled at me and offered a knowing look of tenderness and sympathy that I was ever-thankful for at such a young age. A self-labeled "Daddy-Dominant" with a heinous mix of superiority AND a white knight complex. He made all the rules of escorting arbitrary.