Terms and Temptations

“If I’d known I’d end up sitting across from a billionaire’s mother being offered money to seduce her son, I’d have stayed home and updated my résumé.”

She doesn’t even blink when she says it. Not once.

I just sit there, palms sweating, staring at her like I’m part of some prank show.

“My son,” she says, turning a photo frame on the desk toward me. The guy in it looks like the type you only see in Forbes magazines—dark hair, nice jawline, expensive watch. “I want you to make him fall in love with you. No strings attached. When it’s over, you’ll get a job here and five thousand dollars to disappear.”

I blink. “You’re joking, right?”

“I’m not.”

Of course she isn’t. Rich people never joke.

“Right,” I say, sitting up straighter. “So this is either a test to see how desperate I am for a job, or you’ve mistaken me for someone who knows how to seduce billionaires for a living.”

Her expression doesn’t change.

Okay. So not a prank.

“Wow,” I mumble. “This is… definitely the weirdest interview I’ve ever had.”

*****

Five hours earlier.

If I had any idea my Monday would end like this, I’d have stayed in bed.

It’s 9 a.m., and I’m sitting at the reception of Regal Nexus Media, the biggest marketing agency in New York, the one people talk about like it’s the promised land. Glass floors. Tailored suits. Coffee that costs more than rent.

I’ve been waiting for over an hour for an interview I’ve dreamed of since college. I barely slept last night because I kept checking my credentials every twenty minutes, terrified I’d forget something. My outfit? Perfect. Hair? Tied back. Shoes? Polished. I even wore perfume that cost me half my paycheck.

And still, here I am, ignored by the receptionist, who’s currently chatting and giggling with a guy who just walked in.

I clear my throat, trying to stay polite. She glances at me, her fake smile already in place.

“Oh, Miss Duarte,” she says. “Sorry to have kept you waiting, but the position has just been filled.”

“What?”

“Position’s gone,” she repeats, still smiling. “We only hire qualified candidates here.”

“Qualified..?” I stop myself before I say something I’ll regret.

I grab my bag, my heart pounding. I can feel everyone in the lobby watching me, and I swear the floor might as well open up and swallow me.

I mumble a “thanks” and turn to leave before my frustration gets the better of me.

“Excuse me, Miss Duarte?”

A deep voice calls from behind me. I turn around to see a man in a black suit, tall, broad, serious face.

“Look,” I start, “if you’re here to tell me the job is really gone, I got it already.”

He shakes his head slightly. “Madame Montclair would like to speak with you.”

“Who?”

He gestures toward the far side of the lobby.

That’s when I see her.

A woman who looks like she could buy the building without blinking. Classy, confident, not a hair out of place. Everything about her screams money. She’s watching me with a polite little smile, the kind that makes you stand up straighter without meaning to.

I look down at myself, simple black suit, five-year-old bag and suddenly feel like I walked into the wrong movie set.

Still, I follow the man across the hall.

“Hello, dear,” she says when I get closer. “You look stunning.”

“Thank you,” I mumble, even though I’m pretty sure my eyeliner’s halfway down my cheek.

“I’m Isabella Montclair,” she says, offering her hand. “My son owns this firm. I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with the receptionist. You sounded… determined.”

That’s one way to describe a public meltdown.

“I just thought the situation was unfair,” I say, trying not to sound defensive.

“Good,” she says. “I like people who stand up for themselves. Can we talk for a moment?”

I hesitate. “About what?”

“Follow me and you’ll find out.”

*****

The elevator ride is painfully quiet. Her bodyguard stands behind us like a wall, while she checks her phone, completely unfazed.

We stop on the tenth floor, and when the doors open, I nearly forget how to walk.

The office looks like something out of a lifestyle magazine, white marble floors, huge glass windows overlooking the city, and furniture that probably costs more than my entire apartment.

She gestures to a seat across from her desk. “Sit, dear.”

I do, mostly because my legs might give out otherwise.

“Would you like tea?” she asks.

I shake my head quickly. “No, thank you.”

“Alright then,” she says, folding her hands neatly on the table. “Time is money, so I’ll get straight to the point.”

Her tone is calm but firm. “I saw how you reacted downstairs. You were angry, but you didn’t make a scene. You care about your work, about respect. That’s rare.”

I’m not sure what to say, so I just nod.

She studies me for a long second, like she’s deciding if I’m worth the trouble. Then she slides a framed photo across the desk.

“That’s my son.”

I look at the photo. The guy is handsome in that rich-people way. confident smile, expensive suit, the kind of man who probably orders wine by year, not price.

“Okay,” I say slowly. “And?”

She sits back, her expression serious. “I want you to make him fall in love with you.”

I blink. “Sorry?”

“You heard me,” she says casually. “You’ll work here, you’ll meet him, you’ll make him fall for you. When it’s done, you’ll resign, walk away, and receive a Ten-thousand-dollar check.”

I laugh nervously. “Wait, are you serious? You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough,” she says simply. “You’re ambitious. Smart. And you need the job.”

I open my mouth to respond but nothing comes out.

She slides a card across the desk. “Take this. Think about it. Call me if you decide you’re interested.”

I pick it up slowly. “I… don’t think I’m the right person for this.”

“Maybe not,” she says, smiling slightly. “But my son has a way of changing people’s minds.”

*****

Outside, the city feels louder than usual. Cars honking, people rushing by, someone yelling into their phone. I walk to the curb and flag down a cab, clutching the white card between my fingers.

Isabella Montclair, it says in neat gold letters, her number written below.

The logical part of me wants to throw it away.

The curious part of me. unfortunately, the louder one wants to keep it.

By the time the cab door closes, the card is still in my hand.

And that’s how my worst Monday turned into the weirdest job offer of my life.