Chapter 5 The Billion Dollar Offer

CHAPTER FIVE

Ivy's POV

"Hi," I greeted, smiling wryly at the receptionist.

"You must be new," she replied sharply, and I nodded, sighing as she took a condescending look at my overall appearance.

"You look like you're fit for the job, but definitely not with what you're wearing," she said and dialed the phone in front of her.

"I need you here as soon as possible," she said into the phone.

My nerves were wracking on the inside, and I was sure she could sense my nervousness from where she stood, but now wasn't the time. If I were in the same state, I was sure my father would do more.

"What's your name?" the receptionist asked, snapping me out of my thoughts.

"Ivy," I replied, and a man who seemed to be the stylist walked in.

"I need you to sign this consent form," she said and handed the paper to me.

I took the pen from her, my hand trembling slightly as I scanned the paper. Just my name, phone number, and a signature. Nothing complicated. Still, it felt like my hand weighed a ton.

I scribbled my name quickly, sliding the paper back to her.

The stylist, a tall man with sharp cheekbones and a measuring tape hanging around his neck, gave me a quick once-over, his eyes lingering on the champagne stains still faintly visible on my blouse.

"This won't do," he said flatly.

"I-I can't really afford-"

"Relax," the receptionist cut in, waving a dismissive hand. "You'll get something from our wardrobe. Go with him."

I followed the stylist down a long corridor, the click of his polished shoes echoing against the tiled floor. My own steps felt heavier with each stride, as if my body knew I was walking deeper into something I couldn't back out of.

He opened a small dressing room and gestured inside without looking at me. "Change into that."

On the hanger was a short black dress, the kind that clung to every curve, with thin straps and a deep neckline. My throat went dry.

I picked it up, my fingers brushing over the silky fabric. "Do I have to wear this?"

He looked at me then, finally meeting my eyes. "If you want the job, yes."

The way he said it-calm, matter-of-fact-made me swallow any protest that wanted to leave my lips. My father's face flashed in my mind again, pale and still in that hospital bed.

I changed quickly, avoiding my own reflection in the mirror. The dress fit perfectly, but it didn't feel like mine.

When I stepped out, the stylist gave a small approving nod and handed me a pair of black heels. "These too. Come on, they're waiting."

"They?" I asked, but he didn't answer.

He led me back down the corridor toward a door at the end. My stomach churned as we approached, the muffled thump of music growing louder with each step, and I finally stepped out into the open.

My world had been crashing since my father slipped into a coma. I was doing everything I could to keep it from crashing entirely, but right now, with the two men in front of me, it all came down.

Antonio... and beside him was Alessio. Antonio was my childhood best friend, and Alessio was his brother, my childhood crush. As degrading as it was, they were both sons of Valentino, my mother's new husband.

"I-Ivy..." Antonio called, staring at the revealing dress I was wearing.

"Antonio," I replied, swallowing hard. I'd never felt as embarrassed as I did standing before them, with Alessio staring at me with nothing but loathing.

"What are you doing here, and what the damn are you doing in that dress?" Antonio snapped.

My throat tightened. I could feel every pair of eyes in the room shift between me and the two men, as if they were watching a slow-moving car wreck.

"I..." My voice cracked. I swallowed and tried again. "I'm working."

"Working?" Antonio's tone was a knife, slicing through whatever fragile composure I had left. "This isn't work, Ivy. This is-" He gestured at me, at the dress, at the heels that felt like shackles. "This is not you."

The music thumped in the background, but all I could hear was my pulse roaring in my ears. I couldn't even bring myself to look at Alessio. I didn't need to-his silence was heavy enough to feel.

"Antonio," I said softly, hoping to calm him, but the words felt flimsy.

"Don't 'Antonio' me," he snapped, taking a step forward. "Why are you here? Who told you to do this?"

Before I could answer, Alessio's voice cut through, low and edged like cold steel. "She doesn't have to explain anything to you."

That made me look at him. His eyes, darker than I remembered, raked over me with an expression I couldn't read-part contempt, part... something else.

Antonio turned to him sharply. "What the hell are you talking about? You see her standing here dressed like-"

"Enough." Alessio's tone didn't rise, but it carried enough weight to shut him up. Then his gaze locked on mine again, and I felt pinned in place. "You've made your choice, Ivy. Don't act surprised when people see you for what you show them to be."

His words were like ice water down my spine. I wanted to tell him he didn't know anything about me, about what I'd been through, about the hospital bills piling up and the way the walls at home felt like they were closing in on me every night. But I couldn't.

My tongue was frozen.

Antonio was still bristling, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "We're not done talking," he said, his voice tight.

The stylist cleared his throat nervously from the corner. "Uh... she has a shift to start."

I tore my gaze from the brothers and nodded quickly, more to myself than anyone else, and followed the stylist toward a table in the corner of the room. Every step felt like walking barefoot over glass.

But even as I moved, I could feel Alessio's stare burning into my back.

And for the first time in years, I wished my father could open his eyes, see me here, and tell me what the hell I was supposed to do now.

"I'll buy her," Alessio growled, his hands tightening around mine.

The stylist froze, his hand still on the door, glancing nervously between us.

I turned, my pulse spiking. "Antonio, what are you doing?"

He stepped closer, his jaw set, voice firm. "I said I'll buy her. Whatever her shift is worth-double it. Triple it. Just tell me the damn number."

The receptionist, who had silently drifted over, arched a brow. "That's not how this works."

Antonio's gaze darkened. "Then make it work."

Behind him, Alessio stood with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. But I could feel his disapproval like a weight pressing down on my chest.

"I don't need you to save me," I said, the words sharper than I intended. My voice trembled anyway.

Antonio's eyes softened, but his tone stayed stubborn. "You're not walking through that door like this. If anyone's going to be stripping those clothes off you, taking you, it'll be me."