Bound To You

Chapter 1- Clara

The light flickered through my linen blinds as I awoke from my slumber. I gingerly moved my body up from the bed and reached over for my phone to check the time. Crap, my alarm never went off. I hoisted myself up from the warmth of my cotton sheets and sherpa blanket and felt an aching pain deep in my core. It was the kind of soreness I could only get from my pilates class, and damn did she kick my ass yesterday. I pushed through the pain and made my way across my studio apartment and into the bathroom.

Hastily, I washed my body off in the shower. Being careful not to get my head wet and ruin my straight hair from yesterday, I awkwardly stuck my limbs into the shower stream one at a time. I knew that if I got one drop of water on it, my strands would coil up and be impossible to tame. My natural waves required a lot of work and ample time to do so. Time was the only thing working against me and if I wanted to make it, my hair needed to stay pin-straight. Satisfied with my work, I reached to turn off the faucet and carefully stepped out of the shower. I threw my bleached blonde hair into a half up half down style and tied a light pink ribbon in it for good measure. I needed to ensure I had some defining feature in my look that would make me memorable. I powdered the apples of my cheeks with a soft, rosy blush, giving myself a look of sweetness and innocence. I donned a shimmery eyeshadow on my lids and brushed the same color on the highest parts of my face, giving myself a natural-looking glow. Brown mascara and pink lip gloss finished the look, making me look effortlessly beautiful, at least I thought. I've always struggled with my appearance ever since I was a little girl. I felt I wasn't allowed to express my femininity since there was an expectation to look like the other girls in my class. Once I said screw that, I finally allowed myself to feel pretty and feminine, dressing the way and doing my makeup the way I wanted to. For me, glittery pink lip gloss was the freak flag I was waving.

Making my way toward my closet, I pulled out the outfit I specially ordered for the occasion. The skirt and blazer combination resembled a Chanel outfit, with a black and white tweed design and a Blair Waldorf flair. I swiftly threw on a black turtleneck and zipped up the short yet classy skirt. Then, I put on the blazer, which had dainty black bows where the buttons should be. Hopefully, he wouldn't realize this outfit was not, in fact, real Chanel, but rather a look-alike set from Shein. With a little stumble, I put my 4-inch heels on, which, may I add, had red bottoms courtesy of my paintbrush. To finish the look, I donned my knock-off Louis Vuitton bag. Again, it would be great if he didn't take notice of the counterfeit item purchased from Chinatown last week. With a granola bar in hand, I dashed out the door of my building and headed toward the subway station.

I had only lived in New York City for a month and still had no suitable job. Sure, there were always openings at McDonald's as a cashier or as a barista at Starbucks, but that wasn't the kind of career I wanted for myself. After spending most of my high school years as a babysitter just to make enough money to move out of Mansfield, I needed a job that would keep me far away from there. On my 19th birthday, I booked a flight to New York, found a tiny studio apartment in Midtown, and never looked back. With just enough money to get me through the next month, I needed to find a job to cover everything.

College was never in the books for me. I didn't want to sit in a classroom with 200 other students and listen to an 80-year-old professor talk for hours. I desired something more exciting, different every day. It wasn't until my friend, Lexie, told me about a listing that would be ideal for me. She was the first friend I made in New York. After the first week of moving my stuff into a tiny 200-square-foot apartment and being completely unsuccessful in finding a job, I dragged my ass to the bar. With a fake ID in hand, I proceeded to drown my sorrows in tequila. On my third drink, a girl approached me with long black hair that shined with every movement she made and bright red lipstick. "Just get her some water." She said to the bartender and then turned to me, "Honey, what's going on?"

After that, and in a drunken stupor, I proceeded to trauma-dump my entire life to this stranger. It was Lexie who dried my tears, sobered me up with some coffee and pizza, and made sure I got home safe. We've been friends ever since. The job listening, in question, was as a personal assistant to Nicholas Bettencourt.

Nicholas Bettencourt was the famous, dashing self-made billionaire slash bachelor who embodied the American dream. Born and raised on a small farm in Iowa, he became interested in medicine when taking an anatomy and physiology class in high school. Being intrigued by technology as well, he started inventing different things in his basement during his free time. It was during that period when he created SmartScan, a diagnostic tool that could diagnose a person within 30 seconds of stepping into the scanner. Once a larger company caught wind of this invention, they provided Mr. Bettencourt with the funds to perfect and advance his design. SmartScan became a staple in every hospital across the world, making him filthy rich and completely unapproachable by the average person. At least that's what I read on Wikipedia.

    I understood that this job would mean long hours and grueling workdays. It would, however, mean that I could turn my counterfeit bag into a real Louis Vuitton, so it would be worth it in the end. A job like this would show my family that I could be successful on my own without college or staying in Mansfield. After all, I had already made it through the first three rounds of interviews with people under him. All I had to do was nail this interview with Mr. Bettencourt himself, and the job would be mine.

    I finally made it to my stop and my palms began to sweat as I stepped off the train. I milled through the people in Times Square and looked up to notice the New Year's Eve ball, the one I'd always watch drop every year from back home in Ohio. As a little girl, I'd be amazed watching all those people gather around in one place to watch the event. I guess it could seem silly since it's the most anticlimactic thing to watch when celebrating the new year. Nevertheless, my family gathered around the TV anyway to watch Dick Clark's New Year's Rockin' Eve.  As a teenager, I wanted to be one of the people in the crowd, watching Mariah Carey perform and drinking champagne at the stroke of midnight. Growing up in rural Ohio meant nothing exciting ever happened. Like ever. Sure, in high school, I used to sneak out on the weekends to go to parties at the popular kids' houses, but that was about it. I was never homecoming queen, I never had dreams of going to Ohio State, and I never wanted to stay in my hometown forever. My parents had those dreams for me. My two older brothers and two little sisters had those dreams themselves. Me? I would watch movies that took place in New York, Los Angeles, Paris, and London and fantasize about living there. I wanted to wear designer brands, have breakfast at Tiffany's, and of course, carry a dog around in my purse. Looking up at that ball, knowing I was now a resident of the most exciting city in the world, interviewing for one of the most prestigious jobs I could think of, set off butterflies in my stomach. This was my dream.

    Looking down at my phone, I saw the interview began in exactly one minute. This was it. If I didn't make it on time, there would be no redemption. I would never get this job. Taking in a big breath and expanding my lungs, I bravely kicked off my shoes, grabbed them, and sprinted across the street. All eyes were on me, at least it felt that way, as I pushed myself through the revolving doors of Bettencourt Plaza and into the elevator. I slammed my hand against the button of the very top floor and continuously pressed the close door button. Could this thing go any slower? During the ride, I grabbed the elevator wall, balancing myself as I put my heels back on my dirty feet. The doors opened and I did a fast walk over to his receptionist, "Hi, I'm Clara Walsh. I'm here for an interview with Mr. Bettencourt."