PERMANENT HOLD Liberated (New Version of: Falling for a Billionaire)

1: A Mistake

"You don't look like an eighteen year old escort."

I remember when my mom used to drop me off for preschool. Our teacher's name was Miss Cherry. She had bright red hair and spoke both English and Spanish. Sometimes when her husband would drop by to give her lunch, she'd leave us alone in the classroom for a few minutes, and when she came back her hair would be down and her cheeks would be flushed. She would say that we could be anything we wanted when we were older.

Amidst the crayon buckets, the tiny plastic chairs and the color-patterned rug, I thought, I'd really like to be a teacher. I thought bossing people around was the best job you could have. Then later on, when the girls in eighth grade would tease me about my unnaturally curly hair and my frightfully pale skin, I thought, I wish I could be a police officer, so I could lock away bad guys and save people who are helpless. Middle school was a tough time for me. Sometimes I wished for superpowers that would make me popular so that people wouldn't hate me so much. My freshman year, when my mom was ringing up hospital bills like they were steps in a day, I thought, If I were a doctor—if I were able to help her myself—maybe I wouldn't have to go live with Dad. My father was never really a part of our lives. I blamed him for everything that happened, so of course I didn't want to live with him.

But never in my life did I think I would be here.

After standing awkwardly at his door waiting for him to answer, only for him to greet me like that, I look up at the elitist. There's something about standing in the presence of a powerful person that raises the hair on your arms like your body can tell that this person is one in a million. It makes that tiny shred of confidence I had flutter away like a loose leaf in fall. Coming up here to this extravagant building's highest level where he lives is like jumping off of a cliff with nothing below.

My heart flutters in my chest, barely leaving space between rapid, frightened beats. My hands are shaking, so I stick them in my coat. I had gotten dropped off—ten o'clock sharp, just as planned. Just as Daniel Keene wanted it. Just as he requested it when he met with Myra and planned everything out for a price.

He's dressed in what is probably a thousand dollar suit—the texture to it looking nothing like any fabric I've ever seen before, and his shoes are polished to near-perfection. I can see a warped image of myself in them. I notice that his silk tie is loose and his hair looks like it's been combed through by fingers, but that doesn't lower his beauty even a smidge.

He might have just gotten home from working as one of the world's youngest entrepreneurs, but he doesn't look exhausted or worn out like I remember my father did in high school when he would come home late from working overtime. I wonder what his life must be like; how it must be different from mine. He's always been on the front of magazines and making headlines in business news. It must be great to be Daniel Keene. For a second I'm envious, because he's had everything that I haven't. He really must have hit a home run in the luck area. Most likely born into a rich family—easily had his path laid out for him. I brush that depressing thought off as he slowly moves aside.

Downstairs, the petite blonde assistant working in the foyer had been bitterly uncomfortable directing me up here after I walked inside and John and Reuben drove off.

I'm pretty sure she has a crush on Mr. Keene. Her outfit was teetering on the unprofessional side with the low cut, spaghetti-strap blouse and high-slit skirt. She could have been doing my job. But then again, I bet everywhere he goes girls flock around him like they've been summoned. Pretty people have a way of getting whatever they want. That, and a lot of girls really love powerful men.

I walk inside when he prompts me with a swing of his hand. There's a grey suede couch among other modern plush armchairs made with the same suede fabric in what looks to be the sitting area a few yards straight ahead of the entryway. A large kitchen and bar area branches off from the left in an open area, and a spiral staircase spins upward towards a second level on the right among a small alcove with desk and a laptop. I walk to the grey suede couch, but don't sit down. Everything in his penthouse is so white and clean. It's hard to imagine that someone lives here.