The Arrangement

BRAD

I couldn’t believe she’d said yes. Even though I was a hyper-successful businessman, even though I was used to being treated like the self-made tycoon I was, I still found myself at a loss for words. There was something so impossibly innocent about her.

And yet, here she was, shaking hands on an arrangement that would force her life down a different path. I might be agreeing to pay her father’s medical bills, but somehow, I still felt indebted to her.

A few days had passed since she’d agreed, and today was the day we were going to meet to discuss the finer details of the agreement.

I invited her for tea at the Plaza, and she readily accepted. And when she asked, “Which plaza?” I couldn’t help but laugh; the girl was unequivocally endearing.

I had just sat down at my usual table, the one in the corner with plush armchairs on either side. It was true that many of my associates frequented tea in this dining room, but this table, hidden behind floral arrangements and centerpieces, made it easy to avoid them.

I was just checking my emails when I felt the whole mood of the room change, like a gust of wind had entered a sauna, leaving everyone inside refreshed.

I looked up, and there she was. She stepped nervously into the room, looking around like a lost child. I couldn’t help but smile—and feel even more sure about my plan.

ANGELA

I woke up with a start this morning, surprised at how late I’d managed to sleep. I had tea with Brad Knight scheduled for the early afternoon. Man, I thought, ~that’s a sentence I never thought I’d say~. What do people wear to afternoon tea?

A business suit?

A frilly dress?

I thought about asking Em for help, but then I’d have to explain who I was meeting, and why. And that felt like a whole other problem. So, instead, I slipped into my normal jeans-and-blouse attire, stomped my favorite black boots on, and headed out the door.

After consulting with Google, I’d learned that the Plaza was not actually a plaza but the Plaza Hotel. Frequented by rich people, the Plaza had a mix of business and celebrity guests.

And afternoon tea wasn’t just chamomile or orange pekoe. It was an event. I read all this on the train, looking down at the fading denim I had chosen to wear. I was out of my element, that much was clear. My nerves were multiplying by the second.

Would they even let me in?

As soon as I walked through the doors, the concierge ran out from behind his desk and put a hand up, stopping me.

“Madame?”

“Hi, yes,” I stuttered. “I’m here for tea?”

He just raised an eyebrow.

“I’m meeting Mr. Knight,” I said, not quite believing it either. But saying his name did the trick.

“Ah, perfect,” he said, his French accent making him all the more intimidating. “Follow me.”

As soon as he opened the dining room doors, I gasped. The decor was so meticulously arranged, so impossibly well coordinated, that I felt like just walking inside would ruin it.

I looked around, from table to table, feeling like an alien. And then I saw Brad in the back corner, standing up and giving me a wave. The concierge, still by my side, raised another eyebrow at me.

“Thanks for your help,” I said softly, and weaved through the tables of people I’d seen in magazines. Holy cow.

“Take a seat,” Brad said as soon as I was within earshot. He pointed to the plush chair across from him, and I felt like I had sunk into a cloud the moment I sat down. “Thanks for joining me.”

“Thank you for inviting me,” I responded, filled with nerves. “This place is incredible.”

“This?” he said, looking around. “It’s nothing.” But he had a smile on his face, letting me in on the joke. “It’s something you’ll get used to.”

“I don’t think I could.”

“Believe me,” he said, “the glitz and the glimmer wear off. There are only so many bottles of champagne you can buy before you realize you have no one you like to share them with. But that’s why you’re here.”

“You drink champagne at tea?” I asked, confused. Just then, the waiter came over, wearing a bow tie. I thought he must be a model. He looked at Brad.

“Mr. Knight? The usual?”

Brad gave him a swift nod, and he disappeared without so much as a glance toward me. But then Brad leaned forward, and I could tell he was gearing up to start The Conversation.

“So, Angela. What you might not know about my son, Xavier, is that he’s been through a lot. Growing up with me as a father isn’t easy, contrary to what many might believe. There’s a lot of pressure. And pressure in small confinements…”

“It explodes,” I finished. And then I felt blood rush to my cheeks. Had I just interrupted Brad Knight?

But he just nodded at me.

“Exactly. Xavier’s been all over the place lately. And I think you…you have the ability to ground him. To remind him of what’s important. That’s what I’m proposing.”

“So, I get married to your son, and you make sure my dad’s health…his medical bills…”

“Everything will be covered,” he said, with a certainty that made me trust him. “So long as you assure me our deal, our arrangement, will never be told to anybody else. Nobody can know why you’re doing what you’re doing. Not your family, not your friends. And not Xavier. Not my son.”

He handed me a multi-paged document. I saw it was a contract, with at least thirty clauses. And then my dad’s face flashed through my mind—the face I’d seen in the hospital bed, all pale and weak.

My mind was telling me to stop, to think it over, but it was like my hand was working on its own. I took the fancy pen out of Brad Knight’s hand and I signed the contract.

Then, hand still shaking, I took a sip of the steaming tea the model-server put before me.

***

It was a couple of days after the meeting at the Plaza, and Brad was texting me instructions. I had never heard of a wedding photo shoot before. Sure, I knew that brides and grooms took pictures at the wedding, but weeks before?

Brad had told me to wear whatever I was comfortable in, so I had assumed it would be casual. But as soon as I stepped my way out of Columbus Circle station, I saw Brad standing at the edge of the park. He was in front of a trailer—the kind of trailer actors use while they’re shooting scenes. He waved me over, genuine excitement on his face.

“Angela! Over here!”

“Coming!” I said at an awkward volume. Not quite a shout and not quite an inside voice.

By the time I crossed the street and was just a few steps from reaching him, he had the trailer door open. I could see the chaos unfolding inside.

“There’s a hair stylist, a makeup artist, and a stylist here for you,” he said, clapping his hands together. “Take your time. We’ll start shooting at the magic hour.”

“The magic hour?” I asked, because that was the most recent confusing thing he’d said.

“Between 4:30 and 6:30,” he answered. Then he whispered, “That’s what they tell me, anyways.”

Before I could respond, one of the stylish women inside the trailer pulled me in and shut the door behind her.

I couldn’t believe the face I saw looking back at me in the mirror. My hair had been piled on top of my head, in some complicated braided top-knot thing, with a couple loose strands framing my face. It looked fancy and laid-back all at once. So, in other words, it looked nothing like me.

It had taken the makeup artist, Sky, over an hour to do my face. My eyes were softly lined with dark brown ink, and the blush on my cheeks made me look all rosy. I never really wore makeup, aside from the occasional brush of mascara, and having this much on made me feel like I was playing dress-up.

“Are you read—?” Brad said, knocking at the half-open door. But he stopped in his tracks when he saw me.

I was in a white lace dress that went to my knees, and a pair of three-inch heels that gave me anxiety. I could barely walk without toppling over, but nobody around me seemed to care. Brad took in my appearance.

“You look beautiful,” he said in that paternal way, and I immediately imagined my own dad saying the same thing. I smiled.

He took my hand and led me outside, making sure I was treading through the grass okay. I almost fell over a couple times, but when I saw the photo shoot set-up in the park, I forgot all about the shoes.

There were lights strung through trees, a massive picnic blanket on the grass, and a buffet of charcuterie boards and chilled wine bottles on a table nearby. It looked like a spread on an HGTV show.

“This is…amazing,” I said, turning to Brad.

“Wait till you see the wedding,” he said, winking. It was unbelievable, all of it. I looked around again, realizing what was missing.

“Where’s Xavier?”

Brad hesitated—the first time I’d ever seen him unsure—but before he could get a word out, his attention shifted to something behind me. A massive smile enveloped his face.

“Excuse me, darling,” he said, and then he swiftly walked past me, going to hug his son.

That was when I saw him. Xavier Knight.

Was this really the same man I’d bumped into at Central Park that one day? I knew he was handsome, but looking at him now without the baseball hat and shades…

Wow.

Xavier towered over everyone else, the suit he was wearing perfectly tailored to highlight his muscular body. He hugged his father and then eyed me, those ice-blue eyes penetrating straight into my soul.

I had to remind myself to breathe.

Brad led him over to where I was standing, and he kissed me on the cheek with a soft, “Hello.”

“Hi,” I said, eyes on the ground, feeling my palms start to sweat.

The photo shoot itself was done within fifteen minutes. We were smiling and looking into each other’s eyes. Well, trying to, anyway.

Looking at him was kind of like looking into the sun. He had this intensity that was almost unbearable. But every time I looked away, the photographer just yelled, “Into his eyes!” And getting yelled at by a fancy photographer was even more embarrassing than the blushing that came whenever I made eye contact with my fiancé.

“This is going to impress The Times,” the photographer said when we were through. “I haven’t seen this attractive a couple since Jennifer and Brad.”

Even though I’d heard him clearly, I knew he couldn’t be talking about me. I was awkward, and my cheeks must’ve been the color of ripe tomatoes by now.

But then I saw Xavier walk toward me, a bottle of wine in his hand, and my nerves got even louder. He’s going to expect something from you. You need to do something wifely. But what the heck did that even mean?

I saw Brad a few yards away, shaking the photographer’s hand, and he saw me looking and smiled. And then he saw his son coming toward me, and his smile grew. I turned back to Xavier, who was almost right in front of me.

“It was nice to meet you,” I said, because I felt obligated to say something but didn’t quite know where to begin. He smiled at me, but something looked off. The smile, there was something eerie about it. Like it was out of place on Xavier’s expression.

I looked at the ground, waiting for him to say something. But instead, he lowered his lips to my cheek.

“I know what you’re doing,” he started, his words hitting my ear right away. “Don’t think that your pretty little smiles and innocent blushes are going to work against me. I see you. Past the hair and the makeup and the dress. I see you.”

His lips brushed my other cheek now, and then he whispered more venom. “I see you, you gold-digging slut. And I fucking hate you.”