Page 20 of The Owner's Temptation

I take a breath, steadying myself.

Then, slowly, deliberately, I pick up the pen.

And I sign.

* * *

The rest of the day is a whirlwind.

Orientation, as it turns out, isn’t just sitting through an initial presentation. It’s paperwork. So much paperwork.

Non-disclosures, tax forms, health disclosures. Contracts covering conduct, compensation, client selection, personal boundaries. It’s an avalanche of fine print, and with every page I sign, the weight of what I’m stepping into settles heavier on my shoulders.

Then come the measurements.

A team of well-dressed women—somewhere between stylists and tailors—take my height, weight, bust, waist, and hip measurements with the kind of precision that makes me feel like a mannequin.

“For wardrobe,” one of them says briskly, jotting down numbers. “Everything you’ll need will be provided.”

That includes access to the Ledger spa.

A private tour takes us through a sleek, high-end space designed to cater to everything—hair, nails, tanning, massages, waxing, facials. It’s indulgence on another level, all pristine marble and warm lighting, the air scented with something rich and expensive.

“And it’s all included,” Elena tells us with an easy smile. “You represent the Ledger. The Ledger invests in you.”

I watch as one of the other women—someone who sat two rows ahead of me earlier—books herself a full-body massage and a hair glossing treatment like she was born for this. I, on the other hand, still feel like a fraud, like at any second someone is going to point at me and demand to know what the hell I’m doing here.

By the time we’re finally released, only twenty of us remain.

I wonder how many of them will still be here when training is over.

I wonder ifIwill still be here when training is over.

And yet, despite the uncertainty pressing at the edges of my mind, one thought stays at the forefront all day.

I wonder if Lucian is here.

If he knows I showed up.

If he even remembers me from Friday night.

Probably not.

And it shouldn’t matter.

But the fact that it does? That I catch myself hoping for a glimpse of him as I move through the building? That’s a problem.

When I finally step outside, my purse is heavier than when I arrived—not just with the weight of everything I learned today, but with $1,500 in cash.

For a single day.

For signing my name.

I barely breathe as I call Harper, pressing my phone to my ear as I walk toward the subway.

The second she answers, her voice is expectant, giddy.

“Soooooo?”

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