Nearly two weeks had passed by since the yacht party, and the anxiety sitting heavy in Behati's chest had only gotten worse. Her bank account was dwindling, and each passing day seemed to taunt her with reminders that rent was due and bills were piling up. Modeling gigs weren't coming fast enough, and the weight of it all pressed down on her shoulders.
It'd be so easy, she thought, absentmindedly running her fingers over the corner of the business card in her wallet. A few nights of "yachting," and I'd be set. She could still hear Miranda's voice, as clear as if her friend were sitting right next to her. 'You hit the jackpot. Play it right, and your problems are solved.'
The card felt heavier in her hand as she pulled it out. Y/N Falcone. Just saying the name in her mind made her nervous. The woman exuded power and wealth, worlds away from the crumbling apartment Behati called home.
She stared at her phone, fingers hovering over the keypad. What if Y/N didn't even remember her? What if this was a mistake?
But what if it wasn't?, she could hear Miranda say.
With a deep breath, she punched in the number, her heart thudding loudly in her ears. The phone rang twice, and just as she was about to lose her nerve, Y/N answered.
"Y/N Falcone." Her voice was low, smooth—serious.
Behati almost hung up right then. But she swallowed her nerves, forcing herself to speak. "Hi... Y/N, it's Behati. Behati Prinsloo. F...from the party"
There was a pause, and Behati's stomach flipped as she waited for recognition to settle. Then Y/N's voice softened, just a touch. "Behati. I didn't expect to hear from you. How are you?"
"I've been... good," Behati said, though she knew she didn't sound convincing. "I, um, was wondering if you were busy?"
"Never too busy for you," Y/N replied, her voice steady, almost too calm. "What's on your mind? What can I do for you?"
Behati hesitated, her throat dry. "I was wondering if you might want to... meet up? Maybe for dinner?"
Y/N's laughter was soft, barely audible. "I would love to, how about Tonight?"
"Tonight?" Behati echoed. She hadn't been expecting this to happen so quickly. "Uh... sure. Tonight."
There was a beat of silence, and Behati could almost picture the smirk forming on Y/N's lips. When Y/N finally spoke again, her voice was laced with something heavier. "Darling, this is the past where I need to know your rate and I need your address so I can send someone to pick you up."
Behati's stomach twisted. This was it. The point of no return. She stumbled over her words. "Right, my rate... um, 10K? For Like, an hour? And I can... I can text you my address"
A soft chuckle from Y/N's end of the line. "10K it is. Send me your address, and I'll have a car pick you up at 6:00."
Behati could barely breathe, but she managed to squeak out, "Okay. See you later."
"See you later, Ms. Prinsloo." The line went dead, leaving Behati staring at her phone.
The rush of what she'd just agreed to hit her all at once, and she collapsed onto the couch. Her heart was racing, and she wasn't sure if it was from relief or fear. 10K... Her financial problems would disappear in an instant.
With her hands still shaking, Behati dialed Miranda's number.
Without wasting a second she said " I called Y/N Falcone."
"So, you're doing it?" Miranda's voice was casual, as if they were discussing a regular night out, not a date that came with a price tag.
"Yeah... We'll have dinner tonight," Behati replied, trying to sound more confident than she felt.
"Well, good for you. Just remember, Y/N's one of the good ones. She's not gonna push you into anything. She refined. Classy. So, don't worry about going overboard with the sexy. Keep it elegant—understated. She'll appreciate that more."
Behati nodded, even though Miranda couldn't see her. "Right. Okay."
"And most importantly," Miranda continued, "just enjoy yourself. Think of it like any other date. She'll talk to you like a professional, not like some sleazy guy. Relax, Y/N is very polite, very gentle, and she will check in with you during the moment, and if you feel uncomfortable just tell her and she will back away.l
"Thanks, Miranda," Behati said, the reassurance helping, if only a little.
"Call me after, babe. I want to hear all about it, call me or text me if you get anxious too, I'm here for you."
Behati hung up, feeling slightly more grounded. It's just dinner, she told herself. I can do this.
The next few hours passed in a blur. She showered, taking her time to wash her hair, shave, and do everything she could to calm her nerves. She picked out a simple, black dress, something sophisticated and chic. Nothing too revealing. As she stood in front of the mirror, she practiced smiling, willing her anxiety to melt away.
At 4:30pm, there was a knock at the door. She slipped on a robe and went to answer it, her heart racing.
A tall, sharply dressed man stood there, holding a bouquet of roses. "Ms. Prinsloo? I'm Matthew Avery, Mrs. Falcone's security detail. She asked me to bring these to you."
Behati opened the door wider, accepting the flowers. "Thank you."
"I'll return at 6:00 to escort you to dinner," Matthew said with a polite smile before turning to leave. "Have a good evening."
As she closed the door, Behati's eyes caught the note tucked inside the bouquet. She opened it, her breath catching at the simple words: Can't wait to see you. —Y/N.
Her heart fluttered. She placed the roses on the counter, feeling both excited and terrified. It's just dinner, she reminded herself again, though the words were starting to feel hollow.
By the time she finished getting ready, it was nearly 6:00. The reality of what she was about to do washed over her as she checked herself in the mirror one last time.
Then, right on cue, there was a knock on the door. Behati took a deep breath, smoothing down her dress before opening it.
Y/N stood there, framed in the doorway, wearing a flawlessly tailored suit. Her hair was slicked back, and her expression calm, unreadable—but those sharp eyes were focused entirely on Behati.
"Ms. Prinsloo," Y/N greeted her with a small smile, voice smooth as velvet.
Behati's heart skipped a beat. "Mrs. Falcone."
