She pours herself a cup and sits at the island, legs swinging like a schoolgirl, eyes fixed on her cell. I watch her in the glass, the way her blonde hair tumbles down her back, the way she glances at me when she thinks I’m not looking.
“Do you regret your decision?” I ask, pouring my own coffee.
She shrugs. “No.” She trails off. “I just didn’t know I’d be so isolated.”
I walk to the table, open my laptop, and pull up a file I prepped last night: the new contract. It’s written in plain English, no bullshit. The offer is simple—$50,000 for two months of work, with very clear duties. Sexual in nature, performance-based, filmed for reference but not for publication. Confidentiality absolute.
I print a copy, sign my name at the bottom, and set it on the table in front of her.
“Read it,” I say. “If you’re out, say so. You keep everything you’ve made so far. No harm, no foul. But if you’re in, I need your signature, sweetheart, because once we’re in, we’re in.”
Kat stares at the paper like she doesn’t recognize it. For a second, she doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. I can feel her mind racing—money, reputation, the fear of being ruined by this. I don’t interrupt.
After a minute, she picks up the pages, flips through. Her eyes dart over the lines, then up to me, then back down. I watch theway her hands tremble, but she keeps going. She finishes and sets the contract down. Her face is a war zone.
“Is this for real?” she says in a quiet tone. “Fifty grand for two months?”
I nod.
“That’s more than my mom makes in a year. You could feed a family on that money.”
I give her the straight line: “Something tells me you’re worth every penny, sweetheart.”
She laughs, shaky, and for a second I see the girl from the Polaroid—unsure, but so, so hungry for someone to tell her she’s beautiful, and worthy of being worshipped.
She’s quiet for a long time.
“I want to finish school,” she says finally, voice breaking a little. “That’s what all this is for. I just—” She shakes her head, trying to chase off the tears that threaten to show. “I’m not… I’m not that girl. I never even had a boyfriend who…” She lets it die.
“You think I want you because you’re experienced?” I say, keeping my tone gentle. “I want you because you’re real. That’s all I need.”
She bites her lip, then signs her name at the bottom of the page.
I slide the contract into my folder and hand her a pen. “Welcome to the job.”
She tries to smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
I let her be. I get dressed, go outside, chop some wood to add to our already humongous pile. When I come back in, Kat’s onthe couch, curled in the robe, reading a paperback she found in the guest room. She’s pretending to be okay, but her hands keep drifting to her phone.
“Hey,” she says, “can I call my friend? Just to check in?”
I disappear into my office, and then hand her the sat phone, already queued up for an outgoing call. “Go for it. No one’s monitoring you.”
She dials, and I give her space, but I linger in the doorway, close enough to hear the tremble in her voice as she leaves a message for someone named Simone. She keeps it short, leaves out all the details, but ends it with “I’m okay, I swear,” and hangs up with a small, brittle sigh.
I want to tell her it gets easier, but it doesn’t. Not for her, anyway.
The young girl looks up at me, big blue eyes shining with something halfway between fear and want.
“When do we start?” she asks.
I smile, flashing even white teeth.
“Tomorrow,” I say. “After breakfast.”
She nods, sets the phone aside, and goes back to her book.
I let her rest, let her pretend she’s still in control, because I know the truth. There’s nothing more intoxicating than surrender, when you choose it for yourself.
