09

Mia's POV

The next day at noon, I went to the appointment wearing my only decent business suit.

I stood in front of the Rothschild Building's revolving door, looking up and counting to the forty-second floor. The glass curtain wall cut London's sky into cold blue blocks.

The reception desk didn't stop me.

Even before I gave my name, the woman in the ash-gray suit had already looked up from behind her screen, revealing a well-trained smile: "Miss Sterling, Mr. Rothschild is waiting for you on the forty-second floor. Please come with me."

She led me through the lobby. I followed her figure, my peripheral vision sweeping over the well-dressed people in the lobby—some reading reports, others conversing in low voices.

Each person's presence silently reminded me that this place didn't belong to the same world as mine.

She led me to an elevator. I noticed this elevator was different from the ordinary passenger lifts—it had no floor buttons, only an embedded fingerprint scanner.

"Please." She stepped aside slightly, gesturing for me to enter, then took a step back without following.

The elevator began to ascend, so smooth I could barely feel the acceleration, only the floor numbers jumping on the overhead display.

Fifteen, twenty, thirty, thirty-eight.

I watched the numbers climb bit by bit, opening my mouth to slowly exhale the air from my lungs, trying to relieve the inexplicable tension rising within me.

With a "ding," the door opened.

I stepped out. My shoe soles struck the marble floor with a crisp sound that seemed especially pronounced in the empty corridor.

The forty-second floor was much more spacious than I'd imagined. A straight corridor led to double doors at the end. There were no offices on either side, no cubicles, only an entire unobstructed floor-to-ceiling window.

The sky was very blue, the clouds very thin. Light poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the entire corridor brightly, but this brightness didn't make me feel relaxed.

I walked to those doors, stood still, closed my eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, then pushed them open.

The office was huge.

That was my first thought upon entering—so huge it didn't seem like an office, but more like an art gallery exhibition space converted into a workspace.

The cold gray walls had no excess decoration. The floor was laid with dark solid wood. Black leather sofas were placed against the walls. On the coffee table sat only a white bone china cup, not even an extra magazine.

The entire space's temperament perfectly matched the man sitting behind the walnut desk—cold and restrained, without a trace of redundancy.

The only splash of color was a painting hanging on the wall directly facing the desk. I recognized it immediately as the painting I'd given him five years ago.

I had painted the old church outside our apartment window—the spire, gray stone walls, evening light slanting from the side, turning the stained glass windows into translucent amber.

My brushwork wasn't good, the perspective couldn't withstand scrutiny, the sky color was mixed too blue—so blue it seemed unreal, like the work of someone trying too hard to beautify a memory.

I thought this painting had been thrown away long ago. I never imagined it would hang here, so solemnly framed, hanging where the Rothschild patriarch could see it every day when he looked up.

My gaze moved from that painting back to Calvin's face.

Calvin sat behind a massive walnut desk. He didn't stand, just lifted his chin slightly, pointing to the chair across from him: "Sit."

"Did you sleep well last night?" he asked, his voice emotionless, his fingers tapping lightly on the desktop.

"Thanks to you." I sat down, placing my bag on my lap, my spine ramrod straight. "Three million, I can't raise it. You can proceed directly through legal channels, or—"

"Or?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Or I'll return the painting to you." I gripped my clutch tightly, voicing this proposal that even I found somewhat absurd.

But I said it anyway, because I really had nothing else to negotiate with.

The painting was won by him, the paddle was raised by me, and the three million figure in the auction record was black and white fact.

I could hardly say "you bid first so I competed with you but I don't have the money"—that would be too childish.

Calvin laughed, but the smile didn't reach his eyes.

"Mia, that painting is now worth three million five hundred thousand. You got it for three million yesterday—you already got a bargain." He leaned forward, hands crossed on the desk. "Besides, who said I wanted that painting?"

"Then what do you want?" I asked.

"Three solutions." He held up one finger. "One, installment payments, interest according to the family foundation standard, twelve percent annually. With your annual salary, you'd need about fifty years to pay it off."

Fifty years.

I ran this number through my head. His estimate wasn't exaggerated. The salary Blackwood Gallery paid assistants in London was barely enough for rent and daily expenses. Leo's nursery fees already took up a large chunk of it.

A fifty-year payment plan meant spending all my remaining time in this life paying back this money, and the interest would accumulate new layers.

He held up a second finger: "Two, work for me. Be my private art consultant, on call at all times, until the debt is cleared."

When the third finger rose, his voice lowered, like a devil's whisper: "Three, tell me why you lied back then. The three million will be written off."

I pinched my palm, forcing myself to meet his gaze: "I choose option one."

"You can't afford the interest." He sneered, pulling a document from his drawer and pushing it toward me.

It was my bank statement—every transaction from the past five years laid out clearly.

I stared at that document, my fingertips going cold.

"What about option two?" I heard my voice trembling.

"Private art consultant." He leaned back in his chair, his gaze sweeping from my collar to my wrist and back to my face. "The job is simple—accompany me to auctions, evaluate collections, handle the foundation's art donations. And—" he paused, "you might need to work overtime at night."

"What kind of overtime?"

"Guess."

I stood up abruptly, somewhat agitated. "I won't sell my body!"

"Sit down." Calvin's face turned cold. He stared at me steadily, spitting out two words.

I didn't sit. My self-respect wouldn't allow me to sit now, but my legs were shaking. The muscles in my thighs trembled uncontrollably beneath my suit skirt, from thigh to calf.

Calvin stood up, walked around the desk, approaching me step by step.

He wasn't wearing a suit jacket today, only a dark gray shirt with sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing the faint scar on his wrist bone.

I couldn't help but step back. Calvin pressed forward step by step until my back hit the floor-to-ceiling window with nowhere left to retreat.

Calvin placed both hands on the window frame on either side of me, trapping me in shadow.

His breath pressed down—cedarwood mixed with black coffee, exactly like last night.

"Can I give you security?" His nose almost brushed my bangs. "Is the Rothschild surname secure enough?"

I turned my face away, staring at a seagull flying past outside the window: "I don't need it anymore."

"You do." He gripped my chin, forcing me to turn back and face him.

His pupils showed an extremely deep amber color in the daylight, like some ancient resin, sealing away all the moments we'd shared five years ago.

"Every word you said back then was a lie." His thumb rubbed along my jawline. "I checked your bank statements. Three months after the breakup, there was a hospital charge in your account. What illness?"

I think my expression must have changed.

Because I felt his fingers pause, then grip my chin even tighter.

"Mia," his voice softened, becoming a more dangerous kind of coaxing, "tell me. Was it stomach problems, an accident? Or—"

Just then, my phone rang.

I fumbled my phone from my bag. Zoe's name flashed on the screen.

"Answer it." Calvin didn't pull back. He maintained this position, looking at me at his leisure.

I pressed the answer button. Zoe's voice came through with a sob, "Mia! Leo has a fever, thirty-nine degrees! I called the doctor, but he keeps calling for you—"

"I'm coming back right now." I hung up and forcefully pushed Calvin's shoulder.

He wasn't prepared, or rather he didn't want to be prepared, and was pushed back half a step by me.

I took the opportunity to duck under his arm, grabbed my bag, and ran toward the door.

"Mia." Calvin's voice chased after me from behind.

I grrasped the door handle without looking back.

"Next time," he said, "next time I won't give you a chance to run away."