Page 8 of Sold to Him

“Give me just a sec,” ‘she apologizes, punching away at her phone. “Hello? Oh yes, she’s fine. Thank you.”

What? Is she talking about me? But then she ends the call, returning her attention towards me with a warm smile. “Trina, you’re perfect,” she declares.

“I’m perfect?” I ask stupidly. “Um …?”

But Karen merely nods.

“Yes, in fact we’re ready to go straight to the second portion of this interview. Follow me please.”

And we leave the conference room just as quickly as we entered. I trail her down the hall, totally perplexed. What just happened? Was the first part of my interview a looks test? It certainly seems like it. But then again, maybe they get a lot of women who look nothing like they describe on the phone? We walk down the narrow, sparsely decorated hallway as my stomach churns with anticipation.

“Here you are,” Karen announces when we reach an atrium-like room, surrounded by a garden just beyond the glass windows. I gasp. The greenery is absolutely beautiful, and my eyes skim over vibrantly colored flowers and lush green fronds. But there’s no time to appreciate the garden because another blonde appears, this one younger than Karen and wearing white scrubs like she works at a spa. “Hi Trina, I’m Jane.”

“Oh, are you the second interview?” I ask, dubiously shaking her hand.

“Kind of.” She smiles. “Come with me please.”

Leaving the garden room, we walk along another set of hallways until I fear I may be in a maze. Looking around, I try to make note of room numbers in case I’ll need to make an escape later. Kind of like Theseus on the Labyrinth before he fights the Minotaur. But this is no Greek myth. I’m in a corporate office building in the middle of Manhattan, and I need to keep my wits about me. This is a job interview for a position that I desperately need.

“Here we are,” Jane says, smiling brightly when we arrive at a big white door.

She’s testing me, standing back as she waits for me to open the door myself. Is this a part of the interview? Maybe she’s testing my commitment to the company? With that in mind, I open the door with trembling fingers, stopping as soon as my eyes comprehend what’s going on.

Because this is a full-service spa with soothing music and the unmistakable fragrance of lavender wafting through the air. Relief fills my veins. This isn’t a dungeon, nor the Labyrinth I’d been anticipating. The spa has gleaming white walls and orchids perched on the reception desk.

“Um, am I interviewing for a spa position?” I say hesitantly. “I thought I was here to interview as a companion? I’m sorry?” What have I gotten myself into?

Jane gives me a knowing smile. I’m not the first girl in my position to be a bit stunned by this interview process. Reasonably so.

“All the girls have to go through this before meeting Mr. Knight. Try not to be too nervous,” she assures me.

Mr. Knight? What’s going on? Who is Mr. Knight? This is getting crazier by the minute, but just like Karen, Jane continues to move about as if this is all perfectly normal.

She shows me to a private room, and inside the lights are lowered with a green tint. A small speaker in the corner plays a calming sound that reminds me of the ocean breaking against the beach.

“I’ll take your clothes. Just leave them on the chair, dress in the gown, and sit on the massage bed please.”

Slowly, I walk over to the table, hearing the door close behind me. Turning, I see Jane has left me alone and I take a deep breath, realizing this means I need to be naked. Is this some type of setup? Maybe once I’m naked the door will fly open and a man will rush in to swoop me away? This is absurd for a job interview, but I continue to remind myself that this is all for a good cause. I need to make money to provide for my brother and Nana.

Quickly, I undress with trembling fingers. And before I know it, I’m stripped naked, throwing the thin nightgown on before sitting on the table and crossing my legs before uncrossing them and then choosing to cross them again.

I’m nervous. It’s obvious.

Forcing myself to calm down, I press my palms into my thighs, attempting to ease my shaky fingers. As if she can sense my apprehensions, Jane re-enters the room, this time pushing a cart on wheels and parking it beside my bed before placing her hand on my shoulder and gently pressing until my back rests against the hard massage table.

“We’re just going to take this beautiful frame you have and polish it up,” she says lightly with a kind smile.

“Oh, okay,” I manage, my heart racing as I lay down.

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