Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 98398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
The lobby alone was stunning, with a beautiful marble mosaic on the floor as well as other Gilded Age details like the fleur-de-lis in the molding and the stunning design painted around the base of the crystal chandelier that hung down from the two-story ceiling.
The doorman greeted Harrison by name and asked if his guest needed to sign in. I assumed that meant me.
“No, thank you,” Harrison said to the doorman. “It would be best for all involved if nobody knew she was here. However, she will be leaving each morning for work and returning late. Please see that the other doormen are aware of her presence and know which apartment she’s in.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Astrid,” the doorman responded, then tipped his hat to me and called me Miss. I was not aware people still tipped their hats. Maybe the rich paid extra for outdated chivalry.
“I’m putting you in apartment fifteen oh seven,” Harrison said. “At least until we can find something more permanent.”
“I don’t know what you think is going to happen here. But I am not okay with having you pay for an apartment for me or put me up in your little sex den.”
“I’m not entirely sure what a sex den is,” Harrison said, quirking a brow at me. “This is an investment building for me. I’m putting you in a furnished apartment that is usually rented out to corporate clients for long-term visiting executives.”
“It’s not like I can afford any better place to live. Where I live now is affordable.”
“That was my next question,” Harrison said. “Why are you living in the slums? Paralegals make more than crackheads. Are you dealing with some type of addiction, a gambling debt, or something?”
“Sort of,” I admitted.
Harrison looked at me, his eyes wide. He was not expecting that answer, so I clarified.
“I bet on my future with a high-interest student loan backed by the federal government, designed to keep the poor where they are while letting them dream of more,” I said, not bothering to hide my bitterness. “I’m trying not to start my career half a million dollars in debt, so I’m trying to pay off my undergraduate degree while also saving for law school.”
“You’re smart enough for scholarships,” he said.
I couldn’t help but laugh again at the arrogance and the complete lack of awareness of what reality was like for other people. It continued to astonish me.
First, he actually thought people gave a fuck about housing court. The idea he had that it was designed to protect the tenants and not the landlords was hilarious. And now he thought that scholarships were easy to come by or that they would actually make a dent in the cost of higher education. Or that even if you got one to pay for your tuition, it didn’t matter because you still needed money for food, rent, books, and countless other necessities.
“Why are you doing this?” I asked, not having the energy to enlighten this privileged dick about how the world worked for the rest of us.
“Because I need you at work, I need you doing your job, and I need to know that you’re safe. I can’t have my paralegal, the only one who knows the case that I’m working on, in danger.”
“I’m not your paralegal anymore.”
“Agree to disagree.”
He led me to the apartment, and when he opened the door, it took my breath away.
I didn’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this wide-open floor plan with massive bay windows and state-of-the-art kitchen appliances. It actually had a full kitchen. Not just a mini fridge and a hot plate tucked into one corner of the apartment, but a full kitchen with an oven and everything. The living room was massive, and then another hallway told me there was at least one separate bedroom and bathroom, if not more.
“Take a look around. Let me know if there’s anything else you’ll need.”
I spun around the living room and indulged for a moment in the fantasy of staying somewhere like this place. I dreamed for a moment that a home like this could actually be my life.
Then I turned and headed for the door before it hurt too much.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Harrison asked.
“Home, assuming I still have one. If not, I guess I’ll have to see if I can stay with a friend. Since you got me evicted and all.”
“No, you’re staying here,” he said slowly, like I didn’t understand.
I reached for the front door. “No, I’m not.”
Harrison grabbed my wrist, not hard enough to hurt, but firmly enough to let me know that he wasn’t letting me out of the apartment. He got between me and the door, blocking the only path I knew out.
“Let me go, Mr. Astrid,” I said.
“I told you not to call me that,” he repeated.