Ten Million Dollars?

“Finally, Miss Fisher, you’ve graced us with your presence. I was beginning to think you had decided to bail on us.”

The sophisticated-looking woman announced this the moment I stepped into the room.

Her voice was smooth, polished, and just edged enough with amusement to make the statement feel like both a joke and a warning.

I walked toward the table, taking in the sight of her.

She was impeccably dressed in a white turtleneck tucked neatly into tailored black suit pants, the kind that fit so perfectly they looked custom-made. Her jacket hung loosely over the back of her chair, and every detail about her screamed money, discipline, and power.

I offered her a small, controlled smile before taking my seat.

“Of course not. Even though your appointment was quite impromptu, my secretary didn’t want to keep you waiting, and neither did I. I had to come and make sure I heard you out. Business is business, after all, isn’t it?”

As I spoke, my gaze shifted briefly to the three men seated beside her.

They were intimidating in a way that felt almost deliberate.

Dark suits.

Dark shades.

Rigid expressions.

The kind of men who looked like they had been trained never to speak unless absolutely necessary.

Something about them unsettled me.

“Yes, it is,” she replied smoothly. “So let me get straight to the point. By the way, I’m Miss Emily Stephen.”

There was the faintest trace of a smirk on her lips.

I nodded and leaned back in my chair, studying her more carefully.

She carried herself with the confidence of someone who was used to being obeyed.

Professional.

Sharp.

Controlled.

But why was she so desperate to meet me?

What exactly did she want that couldn’t wait until Monday?

Fashion-wise, she already looked immaculate.

“Alright then,” I said, reaching for the notebook in my drawer and picking up my pen. “Now that introductions are out of the way, let’s get to business.”

Emily nodded and pulled out her iPod.

“First of all, I want to apologize for the impromptu meeting,” she began, though the amusement in her eyes suggested she didn’t regret it in the slightest. “But I can’t help saying that I’m not sorry for disturbing you, because I know you won’t be sorry once you hear what I have to say.”

She paused, letting the words settle.

“What I’m about to say is very important, and I can’t stress that enough.”

I remained silent, waiting.

“I recently came across your profile, and I was intrigued. Then I saw your designs featured in Vogue, and I have to admit, I was impressed. You styled both the male and female models flawlessly, but what truly caught my attention was the way you handled the men’s fashion.”

Her eyes sharpened as she spoke.

“You told stories with those outfits, Miss Fisher. Every suit, every tuxedo, every piece of casual wear transformed the model into someone entirely different. Each look carried a distinct identity, a mood, a narrative. That is talent.”

Her gaze locked onto mine.

“And that is the talent we want.”

I frowned slightly.

Her praise was flattering—deeply so—but it also left me confused.

What exactly was her point?

What did she want from me?

And more importantly, why was she so focused on the male styling?

I cleared my throat.

“I’m flattered by your praise, but I can’t help wondering what exactly you want me to do. Do you want me to style you in some way, or…”

“Oh no.”

She cut in almost immediately.

“I don’t need you to style me.”

A slow smile curved her lips.

“I do, however, need you to style someone very important. I could have handed this job to anyone, even his current personal stylist, because yes, he already has one. But I chose to bring this to you instead.”

I stilled.

Now this was getting interesting.

“This is someone who already has an impeccable sense of fashion,” she continued. “Someone who has won best-dressed awards at events he could not possibly care less about.”

One of the men beside her shifted slightly, but said nothing.

“And the amusing part?” she added. “He styled himself.”

She leaned back elegantly.

“Very nonchalantly, too.”

A quiet breath left me.

I still had no idea where this was going.

“But I know what you’re probably thinking,” she said. “Why would someone so experienced in fashion need a personal stylist?”

Her smirk deepened.

“That’s where you come in.”

My grip tightened slightly around my pen.

“I want you to become the exclusive personal stylist to my boss.”

The words landed heavier than I expected.

“I’m his secretary,” she continued, “and he tasked me with finding someone. To be honest, this wasn’t originally his idea. His PR team insisted.”

Her tone shifted into something more serious.

“We’re working on a very important project. Someone extremely close to him is launching a new men’s fashion brand, and she practically begged him to help publicize the collection. He accepted, though very reluctantly.”

She folded one leg over the other.

“Now we need someone experienced enough to style him because this new brand is not exactly his usual aesthetic.”

I frowned.

“I don’t mean to cut you off, but what exactly is his normal style?”

Emily’s lips curled into a knowing smile.

“Serious. Professional. Dark. Unapproachable.”

Something about the way she said it made the words linger in the air.

“But this launch requires something entirely different. More relaxed. More approachable.”

Her expression sharpened.

“We’re concerned that it may not blend well with his naturally… snobbish personality.”

I nearly smiled at that.

“So we need a professional,” she continued. “Someone who can make the impossible possible. I’ve seen your work, Miss Fisher. You are passionate, detail-oriented, and gifted. I believe you are the perfect fit.”

She leaned slightly forward.

“This person is very, very important.”

I sat quietly for a moment, considering her words.

Then one thing stood out.

“You mentioned exclusivity.”

I folded my hands together on the desk.

“How exclusive are we talking?”

Her expression turned serious.

“We need you to be his personal stylist for a period of one year in order to properly publicize the brand. By exclusive, I mean exactly that—you will style only him during that period.”

I stared at her.

For a moment, I was sure I had heard wrong.

“You expect me to put all my other clients on hold for an entire year just to style one person?”

My voice sharpened.

“How is that even remotely possible? I don’t even know who this man is.”

“You’ll meet him on Monday,” she said calmly. “He couldn’t make it today.”

She held my gaze.

“Look, I know this sounds insane, but this could be the breakthrough of your career.”

Her voice dropped lower.

“He is very important. Very popular. If you do an exceptional job and he leaves you with a favorable review, your professional history will change overnight.”

She let the silence stretch.

“It could become the greatest breakthrough of your life.”

I slowly folded my hands together and looked directly at her.

“If I’m going to dedicate an entire year of my life to this ‘important’ client…”

I paused deliberately.

“How much exactly am I getting paid?”

For the first time since the meeting began, Emily grinned fully.

The expression was sharp, almost dangerous.

“What do you say,” she said slowly, “to ten million dollars?"