Episode 3

The clock on Mia Torres’ phone glowed at 9:45 AM as she stepped out of her apartment into the humid embrace . The Brooklyn streets were alive with the scent of fresh bread from a nearby bakery and the distant honk of taxis, the air thick with the promise of another scorching day. She adjusted the strap of her worn leather satchel, her sketchpad tucked inside alongside a list of conditions scribbled on a napkin. Her heart thudded against her ribcage, a rhythm that matched her hurried steps toward Brew Haven on 5th Avenue. This meeting with Ethan Caldwell wasn’t just a negotiation—it was a test of her resolve.

The café came into view, its glass front reflecting the morning sun. Inside, the aroma of roasted coffee beans mingled with the soft chatter of early patrons. Mia scanned the room, her eyes landing on Ethan almost immediately. He sat at a corner table, his presence commanding despite the casual gray blazer and white shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned forearms. A black coffee sat untouched before him, steam curling upward. He looked up as she approached, his green eyes locking onto hers with that same intensity from the gala.

“Morning, Mia,” he said, his voice smooth as he stood to pull out her chair. The gesture was polite, but there was a calculated edge to it, as if every move was part of a strategy.

“Morning,” she replied, sliding into the seat and keeping her satchel close. She needed the anchor of her sketches, a reminder of who she was beyond this deal. “Thanks for meeting me.”

“I was curious to hear your terms,” he said, settling back with a faint smile. “You’ve had me wondering since last night.”

Mia took a breath, unfolding the napkin from her bag. Her handwriting was a messy scrawl, but the words were clear: Financial support for art supplies and rent, no intimacy unless I agree, creative freedom, exit clause at my discretion. She slid it across the table, her fingers trembling slightly. “This is what I’m offering. Take it or leave it.”

Ethan’s eyebrows lifted as he read, his expression unreadable. He traced the edge of the napkin with a finger, the silence stretching until it felt like a physical weight. Finally, he leaned back, crossing his arms. “Bold. I respect that. Most would’ve jumped at the money without conditions.”

“I’m not from most people,” she said, meeting his gaze. “I want this to work for me, not just you. If I’m going to do this, it’s on my terms.”

He nodded slowly, a flicker of admiration in his eyes. “Fair enough. I’ll cover your rent and art supplies—top-tier materials, no limits. No intimacy unless you initiate, and you can walk away anytime with a severance package to keep you stable for six months. Creative freedom is yours, but I’ll need you at public events—galas, charity functions—as my partner. Deal?”

Mia’s pulse quickened. It was more generous than she’d expected, but the public aspect gnawed at her. “What about the media? They’ll tear me apart if they find out.”

“Let them try,” he said, his tone hardening. “I’ll handle the narrative. You’ll be presented as an artist I’m mentoring. Keeps it clean, protects you. But you’ll need to play the part—dress the role, smile for the cameras.”

She hesitated, picturing the headlines: CEO’s New Muse or worse. But the alternative—struggling alone, watching her dreams fade—was worse. “Okay,” she said finally. “But if it gets too much, I’m out. No questions.”

“Agreed.” He extended a hand, and she shook it, his grip firm but warm. The contact sent a jolt through her, and she pulled back quickly, focusing on the coffee menu to steady herself.

A waitress approached, and Ethan ordered another black coffee, gesturing for Mia to choose. She opted for a latte, needing the comfort of its sweetness. As the waitress left, he pulled a sleek phone from his pocket, typing briefly before sliding it toward her. “My assistant will send you a contract today—standard NDA, your terms included. Sign it, and we start tomorrow. The first event is a charity auction. I’ll have a stylist sent to your place.”

“Tomorrow?” Her voice rose slightly, and she caught herself. “That’s fast.”

“Speed’s my specialty,” he said with a smirk. “You’ll need a wardrobe, and I don’t waste time. Trust me, you’ll look the part.”

Mia nodded, though trust felt like a fragile thread. The latte arrived, and she wrapped her hands around the mug, letting the warmth ground her. “What’s in it for you, really?” she asked, her curiosity overriding caution. “This isn’t just about mentoring an artist.”

Ethan’s smile faded, his gaze drifting to the window where the city bustled by. “Revenge,” he admitted, his voice low. “Lila thinks she broke me. Showing up with someone like you—guaranteed, real—proves she didn’t. But it’s more than that. I need… something genuine, even if it starts as a game.”

The honesty disarmed her, revealing the crack she’d sensed at the gala. She sipped her latte, processing. “So I’m a pawn and a prize?”

“For now,” he said, meeting her eyes again. “But I don’t expect you to stay that way. Prove me wrong, Mia.”

The challenge hung between them, and she felt a spark of defiance. She would prove him wrong—not just for him, but for herself. “I will,” she said, her voice firm. “Let’s see where this goes.”

They finished their drinks in a charged silence, the contract looming like a shadow. As they stood to leave, Ethan handed her a black card with his number. “Call if you need anything before tomorrow. The stylist’s name is Claire—she’s discreet.”

Mia pocketed the card, her mind racing as she stepped onto the sidewalk. The sun beat down, but a chill ran through her. This was real now—a step into Ethan’s world, with all its luxury and risks. She hailed a cab, her sketchpad heavy against her side, and settled into the backseat. As the city rolled by, she began drafting a new sketch in her mind—Ethan’s face, but softer, with hope instead of hardness. It was a vision she’d chase, one brushstroke at a time.

Back at her apartment, she signed the contract when it arrived, her signature a shaky line of commitment. The stylist’s call came an hour later, arranging a 6:00 PM visit. Mia spent the afternoon sketching, pouring her nerves into the page. By evening, Claire arrived with racks of dresses, her chatter filling the room as Mia tried on a sleek emerald gown. It fit like a glove, and for the first time, she saw herself as Ethan might—confident, poised.

As Claire left, Mia stood before her mirror, the gown catching the light. Tomorrow, she’d step into the lion’s den, armed with her terms and her art. The game had begun, and she intended to win.

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