Richer Than God - Amelia Wilde Page 0,4
others, but less timid. Spent hours on her makeup, obviously, and probably more on her hair. She chose a nice dress. And now she is here in my office with red lips and a coy smile. “They’re waiting for you downstairs. Six new girls.” An edge in her voice. Savannah is always nervous that someone might usurp her as the one most obnoxiously obsessed with me. She brushes her fingertips lightly over my things, which is asking for me to pin that hand behind her back and march her out of here. “Reya sent me to tell you.”
“You volunteered and you know it.” I’ve fucked her before. It was fine. A nice distraction. I would consider it a mistake, but I find it unproductive to dwell on those kinds of things.
“You’re right.” A pout. She tosses her hair over one shoulder. “I thought you might want to relax a little before you go downstairs.”
“No need.”
“Are you sure?” I stand up and straighten my jacket, reaching for my face out of habit. It turns out some stitches are required when your head goes through glass, and a bruise on my cheekbone is still healing. Savannah makes a sad face, the corners of her mouth turning down. “You still look hurt. I could make it feel better.” This time, when she reaches for my face, I catch her wrist in my hand and squeeze. Tight. Tighter. Then I drop it and brush past her, ignoring the flicker of a disappointed frown.
Savannah hurries to keep up with me, rubbing at her wrist with a pasted-on smile that becomes a real one before we’re even down the hall. She’s good, but not the best. I expect more of the same from the new girls I’ll be inspecting in thirty seconds. What’s important is the ability to craft them into human illusions. The best. The most expensive. It’s just good branding.
She acts as my own personal shadow all the way down to a room on the first floor, which is conveniently close to the loading dock and the back entrance. I can feel myself becoming the man who owns this place and everyone in it. A benevolent dictator, emphasis on benevolent. Buttoned suit. Perfect posture. Smile. Best not to scare them off before the real work begins.
Reya, my personal secretary disguised as a whore, is waiting with the new hires. All six of them are stripped down to panties and bras. If they can’t handle this, then I won’t put them out on the floor. Each one has her own attitude. The blonde on the far left is the first to meet my eyes and stick her chin in the air. She lets me turn her face from side to side and winks at me when I let her go. Saucy.
“Promising,” I tell Reya, who makes a note in my ledger. She’s good for many things, one of which is recordkeeping, another of which is hiding in plain sight. It would startle most people to find out what she really does for my business, but that’s neither here nor there.
The redhead next in line is promising too, but the third girl is trembling. Her arms are locked over her chest tight, and when I touch her face, she clenches her teeth. I’m not in the business of making pity hires, but what the fuck else am I going to do? Reya was one of those women, shaking and white-faced, blinking back tears. She’s become quite useful over the years. And this girl—judging by the peaked lines in her face—is hungry. “I think you’d be better off in the kitchens. Can you cook?”
“W-what?” She licks her lips. “Yes. I cook all the time.”
Lie. Maybe she used to cook, but not now. “Reya, she’ll start on dishes and work her way up.”
When I step away from her, she visibly sags, letting out a breath. Reya goes so far as to take her out of the room ahead of the other, depositing her into some waiting staff member who will give her a uniform and a bed.
Four and five, beautiful but unmemorable. They’re doing their best, putting on a pretty show, and it’s fine, fine, fine. Excited to be here. They should be, because they know I treat my staff well. Mostly. They bounce up and down on the balls of their feet when I move on, eager to get to what’s next.
And then there’s the last woman.
The sixth.
Suddenly I am far less interested in rushing through this