Chapter Four

NATHAN

(March 3 - Miami)

Securing an appointment with Potiphar Alvarez proved to be a daunting task. After weeks of persistent calls and rescheduling, my secretary, Lena Lee, finally managed to land a meeting with the esteemed political and business figure. 

My driver's voice breaks the silence, "We're here, Sir," as he pulls the car to a halt in front of the magnificent building that houses Potiphar Alvarez's company.

The building's grandeur is awe-inspiring, exuding opulence and architectural excellence. The sleek, modern design seems to shimmer in the sunlight, with every detail meticulously crafted to reflect the company's success. 

I step out of the car and approach the entrance, where the rotating double dark glass doors beckon me inside.

As I enter the lobby, I'm enveloped by a soothing scent that reeks of luxury. The air is thick with the aroma of polished leather and fine wood, a subtle reminder of the immense wealth that has been invested in this edifice. 

The décor is tasteful and understated, with sleek lines, minimalist artwork, and an abundance of high-quality glass and steel accents. Every aspect of the building, from the state-of-the-art infrastructure to the impeccable design, speaks to the impeccable taste and vast resources of its owner.

I take a moment to absorb the atmosphere, my eyes adjusting to the soft, warm lighting that illuminates the lobby. The space is bustling with activity, yet somehow remains eerily quiet, as if the very walls are absorbing any unnecessary sound.

 I can feel the weight of Potiphar Alvarez's influence emanating from every corner of this building, and I steel myself for the meeting ahead.

I approach the receptionist's desk, announcing the purpose of my visit. 

"A minute, please," the receptionist says, dialing Mr. Alvarez's office to confirm my appointment. "Good morning. There is a man by the name, Nathaniel Hawthorne, here, requesting to meet Mr. Alvarez... Alright." She ends the call, setting the phone on its holder. 

She looks at me, giving me the go-ahead with a polite smile. "You are being expected, Sir. You may take the elevator to the penthouse."

I nod in understanding, thanking the lady, and make my way to the elevator, following her direction.

 The elevator, like the rest of the building, is immaculate. I'm amazed by the seamless blend of technology and artistry. The walls are adorned with elegant patterns, and the floor is made of polished marble. I'm captivated by the sheer opulence surrounding me.

As the elevator swiftly transports me to Mr. Alvarez's office, which occupies the entire penthouse, I feel a mix of excitement and trepidation. 

The doors slide open, revealing a breathtakingly beautiful office. I'm ushered in by the front desk assistant, who gestures for me to enter.

Inside, I find Mr. Alvarez sitting regally in his palatial office. He exudes an aura of confidence and power. I approach him, taking in the carefully curated décor. Every piece of furniture, every artwork, and every accessory seems to have been meticulously selected to reflect Mr. Alvarez's impeccable taste.

"Mr. Hawthorne," he stands in courtesy, extending his hands towards me. 

I shake hands with him, feeling a firm but polite grip. "Mr. Alvarez. Thanks for having me."

He motions for me to take a seat, falling back into his own chair. 

I'm struck by his handsome appearance and impeccable sense of style. His greying hair is neatly combed back, revealing a sharp, professional-looking face. Despite nearing his sixties, Mr. Alvarez looks remarkably agile and fit, like an athlete. His deep brown eyes, marked by age-old sagacity and years of experience, assess me as I sit across from him.

"I'm campaigning for this season's gubernatorial election," I begin, getting straight to the point.

 Mr. Alvarez nods in acknowledgment. "I've heard about you."

"It's no doubt you are aware of my current results too," I say, locking gazes with him. 

He admits that with another nod.

I continue, "I've come to realize that to gain a competitive edge in this election, I need to build alliances with influential figures like yourself, Mr. Alvarez. Your endorsement would carry significant weight, and I believe it could be the game-changer I need to overtake my opponent.

Despite my current standings, I'm confident that with your support and my own drive to succeed, I can turn the tide of this election. I'd be honored to have you behind me, Mr. Alvarez, and I'm willing to work tirelessly to ensure that your trust in me is well-placed."

Silence descends in the air as Mr. Alvarez watches me, contemplating my words. His eyes, with their sharp, angular shape, seem to pierce through me, boring into my very soul. I can feel my body stiffen in response, my muscles tensing as if bracing for impact.

 "Sir?" I say when he doesn't speak, trying to break the uncomfortable silence.

"What's in this for me if you win the election?" Mr. Alvarez asks finally, his voice firm and commanding. "Your approach only favors you. That's not how you proposition."

 I shift uncomfortably in my seat, feeling a sense of unease wash over me. "What are your terms, Sir?" I ask, trying to keep my tone neutral. 

Mr. Alvarez leans forward, his eyes glinting with interest. "How anxious are you for my backing?" he asks, his voice low and measured.

"I need you on my side, Mr. Alvarez," I reply, trying to convey my urgency. "I require your full support to win this election. Your influence and resources would be invaluable to my campaign." 

He clucks his tongue, seeming to consider my response. "Alright," he says, leaning back in his chair. "My terms are very simple." 

I blink, awaiting his demand. 

"You are a fine young man, Mr. Hawthorne," he continues. "I've studied your profile, and I appreciate what I've discovered. With the right amount of influence, your stats will gain traction."

I nod, trying to keep my expression neutral. But then, Mr. Alvarez drops the bombshell. "You will make a fine husband for my daughter," he says, his eyes glinting with a hint of satisfaction. 

I frown, not expecting marriage as his term for agreeing to my proposition.

"Aren't you satisfied with my term?" Mr. Alvarez asks, judging from my expression. 

I shake my head, shifting backward in my chair. "No, Sir. I'm just surprised." 

I had expected his condition to be something that would grant him significant influence or a high-ranking position in my administration if I were to win. But marriage to his daughter was completely unexpected.

Mr. Alvarez hits the arms of the chair he's sitting on, readjusting his position. "Alright. That's my term. Take it or leave it. The choice is yours." 

I don't hesitate. "I will do it," I say, trying to sound confident. "I will marry your daughter, guaranteed I have your full, unwavering support in this election."

Losing this election poses a far greater risk than marriage.

 "You have my word," Mr. Alvarez assures me, his voice firm. "I will have a document drafted so we can finalize our agreement and get to work."

I rise to my feet, my purpose here accomplished.

 "Leave your mail with my secretary," Mr. Alvarez instructs me. "She will send the document to you once it's ready." 

I nod, bowing politely. "Alright, Sir. Good day."

I exit his office, meeting his secretary as instructed. She's a middle-aged woman with a kind smile and a professional demeanor. I leave my contact information and step out of the company, feeling a mix of emotions: anxiety, uncertainty, and determination.

When I settle back into the back seat of my car, my driver, Adrian, asks, glancing at me through the overhead mirror, "How was the meeting, Sir?"

I nod briefly, making a sound at the back of my throat. "It went well," I murmur. "Let's go." 

Adrian keys in the ignition, rearing the car to life, and drives away from Mr. Alvarez's establishment.

As the car glides along the path, I mull over the impending future. I have an election to win and an impromptu marriage to plan. I quickly make a mental note to research who Alvarez's daughter is, most importantly.