As I expected, Tristan handles everything. The next day, even though it's a Saturday, I receive a nondisclosure contract and a request for my bank information via courier.

After signing and returning it, twenty-five percent of my advance appears in my account Monday afternoon, followed by a phone call.

"Ms. Amato?" I recognize the voice as the older secretary from Black's office.

"Yes?"

"I'm calling to go over some details."

The "some details" take an hour, and entail coordinating a visit to the doctor, setting up an appointment at a spa for hair, facial, massage and waxing, and organizing a time for a designer to come to my house for a private wardrobe fitting.

My days fill with tasks. He wants me to do everything from choose new clothes to confirm I'm not allergic to animals to tell him what kind of pen I prefer.

I get a clean health report and a birth control shot, and the doctor says I can have unprotected sex immediately without risk of pregnancy because the shot came within seven days of my period.

After hearing that I go home and masturbate in the shower. Yeah, I'm a crazy person this week. Touching myself one minute, weeping the next, gasping with free-floating anxiety the rest of the time.

It's as if I have to jump through multiple hoops — which isn't entirely a bad thing, I guess. I'm grateful that he's so thorough, like when he sends his last five years of health reports to me, highlighting the negative STI tests with little blue paper flags. I smile and run my finger over them, wondering if he'd gone through and placed each sticky note on the page himself.

I'm sure he did.

However, I still have no idea when we're going to... begin. I'm sure he's doing this on purpose, to keep me slightly off-kilter.

Early Friday morning, my phone rings.

"Sienna." His voice is unmistakable and deep.

"Hey." My voice is raspy with sleep.

"Please have all of your bags packed by three this afternoon."

The sound of my pulse whooshes in my ears. "Okay."

"Don't pack one of the formal dresses you selected from the designer. You'll need one for this evening."

"Oh, you're not going choose what I'll wear?" I can't help but sass back.

There's a long silence. "I'm not that much of a control freak."

Right. I almost laugh out loud. "Whatever you say."

"I'll pick you up at seven. Please be ready. I hate when people aren't punctual."

"I kind of suspected that."

"See you this evening, Sienna."

He hangs up and I begin to sweat.

Since I'm starting a new life that's completely unlike my current one, I choose to wear something I've never previously considered: a jumpsuit.

The fashion consultant that came to my apartment the other day assured me that the velvet, sleeveless jumpsuit with the plunging neckline is the sexiest thing she'd ever seen. Its color is black as midnight and makes me feel decadent.

Glancing in the full-length mirror for the fiftieth time, I'm not sure about that anymore. But it does somehow make me appear taller. With the four-inch Louboutin heels, I seem almost... sleek. I'm leaving my hair down tonight, mostly because I'm too nervous to try to tame it into a bun.

A simple, long strand of pearls — yes, they're real, courtesy of Tristan — complete the outfit.

The buzzer honks, and I take a deep breath. I won't return to my studio for a while. At least ten days, but possibly up to a month or more. That's what our contract said.

Grabbing my sparkly silver clutch and a white, faux fur wrap, I lock up and clomp downstairs.

The Mercedes is at the curb, gleaming amidst the grime of my neighborhood in the fading daylight. The driver holds the back passenger door open, and I try to slide gracefully inside, hoping my neighbors don't spot me. I told them I'll be visiting distant relatives in another state for a few weeks.

Tristan is inside the car, dressed in a black tuxedo. His eyes grow bigger for a half second when he sees me.

"Hi," I say shyly.

"It's wonderful to see you. I trust you had a productive week?"

The car pulls into traffic and I not. "Busy. Thanks to you. Where are we going?"

"You'll find out soon."

I attempt to make small talk as we drive. He's polite enough to respond to my comments about the weather and traffic, but haughtily refuses to contribute any original conversation. Frustrated, I sink back into the plush seat.

This is never going to work. I give up trying to chat and stare out the window. That's when I feel him taking my hand. I cringe, knowing that my palm is moist and clammy.

"My dear, you'll come to learn something about me. What you might mistake as arrogance is actually a touch of shyness."

I glance at him, ready to toss off a "yeah, right." But his expression is different from what I've seen in the past. It's earnest. Painfully so. I nod in response.

After about twenty minutes, the car rolls through Midtown and pulls onto W. 46thStreet. We're in the theater district.

"No," I whisper when I see the crowds in front of Richard Rodgers Theater. "Did you actually get tickets for Hamilton?"

A stupid question, of course. Because men like him get anything they want.

"Mmmhmm," he hums, and a pleasurable vibe runs through me.

The car stops at the far edge of the crowded queue, and the driver opens our doors. Everyone turns their eyes to us, as if we're celebrities. My mouth goes dry

"Come," he says, spanning his hand on my back and steering me to an unmarked door on the side of the building. There's a massive mountain of a man standing in front, and he speaks into an earpiece while shaking Tristan's hand.

The door opens, and he guides me in. We're met by a smiling woman in a dark suit. I'm in a daze as we walk into the bowels of the theater. Where are we headed?

After a few twists and turns, we're led to another door. The woman knocks once, it opens, and like magic, Lin Manuel Miranda is inside, sitting in a chair. He greets Tristan warmly. I'm so stunned that what they say to each other barely registers. When Tristan introduces me, he keeps a light hand on my back.

I manage a wide grin, a hello, and some stammered comment about how excited I am to see the show.

Between meeting the most famous man of the moment in New York and Tristan's continued touch, I feel like I'm floating. Floating out of the dressing room, floating down the corridor, floating into our exclusive box seats.

I gawp at him. "I can't believe we just did that."

He chuckles, his deep blue eyes twinkling. "What did you think? That I'd imprison you in my home as a sex slave and never let you outdoors? You're a writer. You need inspiration. Care and feeding. We'll be doing a lot of this."

I giggle. "Thank you. And yes, I did expect to be your sex slave."

He leans in, his lips dangerously close to my ear. "We'll discuss that part later. And by the way, I wanted to say: you look so very beautiful tonight. You surprised me by wearing the jumpsuit. A bold choice. I like a woman who takes chances and surprises me."

My heart leaps at his compliment. Even if nothing else comes of this agreement, even if I don't get a penny, it will all be worth it for the experience of this one magical evening.

The lights in the theater dim, but my smile doesn't.

____