Chapter Five: Terms and Conditions

The universe must’ve been in guilt mode. That’s the only reason Mr. Dalton, aka King of Unpaid Overtime, texted me at dawn:

Mira, take the day off. Fully paid.

Suspicious? Extremely.

But after last night’s emotional trainwreck–the screaming, slammed doors, and Jesse’s savings box nearly being snatched by the woman who birthed us. I wasn’t about to question a rare miracle.

Until my phone pinged again.

Come outside. We need to talk.

Cade.

I groaned into my pillow and thumbed out a lie:

Already clocked in. Don’t waste gas.

Another ping.

Liar. You’re still in bed. I told Dalton to give you the day off. You’re welcome.

Ah. So that’s why Mr. Dalton suddenly found a soul.

I replied back:

Ten minutes.

---

Ten minutes turned into fifteen because eyeliner should never be rushed when facing someone who casually manipulates your work schedule.

Cade grinned the moment I opened the car door. “Good morning, Mira. Didn’t know your shift started under a comforter.”

I buckled in with a glare. “Shut up. And if this is about what you saw last night…”

He cut me off casually. “What incident?”

I blinked at him.

He started the engine. “Far as I recall, I dropped you off. You went inside. We said goodbye. That’s it.”

I turned toward the window, lips tugging upward. 

Maybe friendship with a rich boy wasn’t completely off the table.

---

The restaurant he drove to had marble tables, gold-rimmed menus, and a host who addressed Cade like royalty.

Private table. Secluded corner. A view beautiful enough to distract you from the fact that brunch would barely fill a tooth.

I didn’t even open the menu. “Order for both of us.”

He arched a brow. “You trust me that much?”

“No. But I trust you’ll cover the bill if it sucks.”

We chatted while waiting, the conversation gliding from ridiculous to disarmingly real. He hated ties. I hated heels. He once got food poisoning in Ibiza. I once got detention for throwing a hotdog at a gym coach.

Then the food came.

Three leaves, one lonely sliver of chicken doing laps in a drizzle of sauce.

I stared. “What is it with rich people and tiny food? Do your appetites shrink with your morals?”

Cade laughed, nearly choking on his overpriced water.

“It’s called plating, Mira.”

“It’s called starvation with extra steps.”

A few bites later, while I was still trying to decide if I’d just consumed edible art or a scam, Cade dropped the bomb.

“Come work for me.”

I paused mid-chew. “Excuse you?”

“You heard me. Be my personal assistant.”

I set down my fork. “Ah. There it is. I was wondering when the rich-people plot twist would kick in. You finessed me with friendship first.”

He chuckled. “You’re paranoid.”

“Deflecting already? Classic rich-boy tactic. Why me?”

“My last assistant quit. So did the one before her. And the one before that. I need someone who doesn’t crumble.”

“And I scream emotional resilience to you?”

“You scream fearless. You don’t shrink when I walk into a room, you tell me off like I’m regular, and you don’t kiss ass. I like that.”

I tilted my head. “Nice pitch. Still no.”

He leaned forward. “What if I told you the salary is double your current monthly income… per week?”

My jaw didn’t drop. But my brain definitely short-circuited.

“Per week?”

He nodded.

Rent. Jesse. Groceries. A life that didn’t involve tip jars and backup noodles.

“You don’t play fair.”

“Never said I did.”

“I’ll think about it.”

He grinned like a man who knew he’d already won.

---

“Quick stop,” he said as we pulled into a gated estate. “I just need to change before my next meeting.”

His house looked like it was featured in a luxury home magazine and paid to never mention it again. Sleek glass walls. Architectural silence. A scent I couldn’t identify but could only describe as expensive.

“Make yourself at home,” he said, vanishing down a hallway.

I sank into a cloud-soft couch, stared at a chandelier that could pay my rent for five years, and tried very hard not to look impressed.

I failed.

Until a voice echoed behind me.

“Babe! Miss me?”

I turned.

And saw her.

She was the kind of tall that made you feel poorly assembled. Glossy hair, airbrushed skin, heels loud enough to file a tax return.

Her eyes landed on me and narrowed. “Who are you?”

“Mira.”

“Ugh. You must be the help. My bags are still in the trunk.”

I tilted my head. “Let me guess, people usually obey when you bark?”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re excused. For mistaking me for someone who gives a damn.”

She stormed closer. “Who the hell do you think…”

“Kimberly?” Cade’s voice cut through.

She turned like a switch flipped. “Babe!” She rushed to him, kissed his cheek. “This girl is rude. Why is she here?”

Cade sighed. “Kimberly, meet Mira. My new assistant.”

“I’m not your assistant,” I said.

“Yet,” he replied smoothly.

Kimberly’s smile flattened. “I don’t like her.”

I stood up. “The feeling’s deeply mutual.”

Cade cleared his throat. “Weren’t you supposed to return next week?”

“The shoot wrapped early. Thought I’d surprise you.”

“Well, I need to drop Mira and then head out.”

“With her?” she snapped. “Not happening.”

I grabbed my bag. “Relax Barbie. I’ll find my way. Deal with your mess, rich boy.”

And I left her screaming in the background.

---

That night, I sat at our tiny dining table, a bowl of cereal in front of me and a laptop open.

If I was going to take this job, I wasn’t doing it like some desperate girl with a dream.

I’d make the rules.

I opened a blank document. Typed “HIRE ME, I DARE YOU” in all caps.

Then, slowly, carefully, I drafted my own terms.

I wasn’t a lawyer, but damn, when I finished, I was proud.

I read it again, just to be sure. 

Then I picked up my phone and typed:

We need to talk. Tomorrow. Rich boy.

Send.