Betrayal (Infidelity Book 1) - Aleatha Romig Page 0,75

how much?” I asked, curious despite the fact that I was disgusted with myself that I was giving this company any consideration.

“No, but I can tell you that they’ll pay you for the interview, for your time.”

“If I go to the interview tomorrow, I’ll be paid? No sex… just an interview?”

“Sex is down the line in this process,” Patrick said. “They’ll explain it better. Infidelity doesn’t sell sex. They foster companionships. And yes.”

“How much?”

“Five thousand dollars.”

IT’S JUST AN interview.

I’d said it over and over to myself as well as to Patrick. He’d taken a second day off work to help me with this, and I didn’t know if I was thankful that I had his hand to hold or if I should hate him forever for even suggesting this. More than once during the night I woke with near panic-attack-level doubts.

I was a Montague and I was entertaining the idea of selling myself, my companionship, as Patrick continued to remind me. But then, I’d think about my mother and Alton. Was what they wanted me to do any less degrading? They wanted me to forfeit my dreams and sell myself to Bryce, and for what? For the Montague name. In their deal, I lost everything. I lost my dreams and the future I’d planned. I lost my ability to choose my own husband. Their scenario was a lifelong sentence. In their plan, I wasn’t only securing my own future unhappiness, but more than likely that of my children, future Montagues and Carmichaels.

With Infidelity, if—and that was a big if—I was accepted by the company and I agreed, I could continue law school. If I did this and became an Infidelity employee, I would agree to one year. After that time I was free. There was no lifelong sentence and no children.

That was part of my ongoing inner monologue as Patrick chatted away with Andrew, my first appointment of the day. Andrew was a stylist extraordinaire, apparently very high-priced, and sought-after. New clients rarely made it to Andrew’s chair for hair and makeup, but with one call from Patrick, I was there at ten-thirty in the morning.

Patrick told me as we left the apartment that my attire didn’t matter. Andrew would have clothes for my interview. I got the distinct impression that I was in over my head, and I hadn’t done anything yet.

Every now and then I’d catch some of Andrew and Patrick’s conversation. It was never about me, except to discuss colors of eye shadows or my blouse. Andrew shaded and perfected my complexion, painted my lips, and curled my hair. I was nothing more than a life-sized doll being made into something fit for display.

The dressing room didn’t have a mirror as I shimmied out of my shorts and top and redressed, all the way from the lace underwear to a lace-accented, sleeveless sheath dress. I called Patrick to help me zip the back. When he did, the material came together hugging me in all the right places.

“Little cousin, you look amazing.”

I didn’t know. I hadn’t seen myself. “Why the underwear? You said no sex.”

“Because it makes you feel sexy. It’s a package. You may not be selling sex, but in a classy way…” He helped me with the matching jacket, the one with matching lace cuffs. “…you need to ooze confidence. It’s a persona and, Alex Collins, you’re rocking it.”

I sat on the bench and eased my freshly painted toes into black suede Prada platforms with an ankle strap. When I was done, Patrick reached for my hand.

“Come here, little one. Let me introduce you to Miss Alex Collins, Columbia law student, sexy and confident. Close those gorgeous golden eyes and when I say so, open them.”

My heart beat erratically as I blindly followed Patrick’s lead. With his hands on my shoulders he turned me to the side.

“Open.”

I stood paralyzed as the woman in the mirror did the same. After the spa in Savannah with my mother, my hair was nice, but with the dresses she’d bought, I had the sensation of Alexandria, five years old and dressed for tea. That wasn’t whom I saw today. Patrick was right. My hair was up, professional with more than a hint of sex appeal. The charcoal gray dress and jacket with the straight skirt flattered my curves. At the same time, there was nothing about what I saw that said I was selling my body or my soul. Even the shoes. They were sexy, but could easily be worn