The Whole Package (Hearts to Buy #1)

Lily

O ne hundred thousand dollars.

The amount echoes in my mind, surreal, almost laughable in its absurdity. It's like being thrust into one of those reality TV shows I used to daydream about but never actually believed I'd be a part of. Now, here I am, feeling like I've just been handed the grand prize.

"I assume by your reaction that's a yes," Ava's voice snaps me back to reality. I'd almost forgotten she was there, constantly at her usual table in this unassuming cafe. She's an enigma draped in wealth in such an ordinary place. Why she chooses to frequent here has always been a mystery to me. But then, in Ava's line of work, appearances are rarely what they seem.

Her gaze is fixed on me, a hint of amusement playing at the corners of her lips. It's a look that says she's seen this reaction before, that she's familiar with the shock, the disbelief, the dawning realization of what this kind of money means. And yet, beneath that, there's an understanding, a recognition of the gravity of what she's offering, almost like she doesn’t want me to accept.

My response is a nod, words failing me as I try to wrap my head around the reality of this offer. A simple 'yes' feels inadequate for the enormity of what's unfolding. "Fuck yes," is what I want to say, but it's trapped behind a wall of disbelief.

"As you know, the house takes a twenty percent fee," Ava begins in her business-like voice, but I cut her off in eagerness.

"Of course, yes, I understand," I blurt out, perhaps too hastily. Her gaze sharpens a silent reprimand that I've overstepped. "I wasn't finished, ," she says, her tone softening in a way that throws me off balance. I'm not used to this side of her, and it leaves me bracing for whatever comes next. "Since this is your first time, the house won't take a cut. Everything will be charged directly to the client. All that money is yours."

Holy fuck.

The words reverberate through me, a tidal wave of shock and elation. It's an unprecedented gesture, a show of... what? Trust? Support? The impact of her words hits me like a wave, and without thinking, I lean across the table, wrapping my arms around Ava. It's an awkward embrace, constrained by the confines of the small booth, but it's what I need in this whirlwind of emotions. I need something tangible to anchor me to this moment, to confirm that this isn't just a dream.

"Thank you, thank you so much!" The words spill out, mingled with tears I can't hold back. As I pull away, I'm acutely aware of the wet streaks on my cheeks, the raw openness of my gratitude. Ava, for her part, seems taken aback by the display, but there's a softness in her eyes that I haven't seen before.

"Don't," Ava murmurs, a faint smile playing on her lips that doesn't quite illuminate her emerald eyes. "You all start with gratitude," she continues, her voice low and laced with a bitter truth. "But there will come a time when the self-loathing creeps in when your reflection becomes your enemy. And when that happens, you'll need someone to blame. That someone will be me, . So don't thank me now for a path that might lead you to despise yourself and, by extension, me. I'm not saving you from anything; I'm just doing my job."

Her words are like a cold splash of reality, washing away the euphoria of the moment and leaving a sobering chill in its wake.

***

Nervous doesn't even begin to cover what I'm feeling right now. My whole body is ridden with tremors, starkly contrasting with the eerie calm that settled over me during the last time I was getting ready to meet a client. But this, this is different. It's the money. It must be. The staggering amount someone is willing to pay for a part of me I've never valued. That's the thought I cling to, repeating it like a mantra as I prepare to cross a line from which there's no return.

The moment that money lands in my account, everything changes. My dad's surgery, the costly medications, the in-home care he needs, but we can't afford – it all becomes possible. He's been reduced to a shell of the man he once was. His vibrant spirit is now dimmed by illness and guilt. The days are long gone when his laughter fills our home; now, his words are mostly apologies, and my heart breaks a little more each time he utters them.

But I refuse to let him see how much it hurts and costs me. He's not a burden; he's the anchor that keeps me grounded, the reason I can face each day, the reason I'm standing here now, about to trade away a piece of myself for his well-being.

Right now, though, I can't afford to drown in these thoughts. My focus tonight needs to be laser-sharp on executing everything flawlessly. This client must leave satisfied because this is it – my one shot. After tonight, I won't have to set foot in this world again.

"Ma'am, your car is here," the hotel valet's voice cuts through my reverie, jolting me back to the present. Car? I must look as bewildered as I feel because he hastens to clarify, "Miss Ava mentioned you were waiting for a pickup. He's just arrived."

"Oh," escapes my lips, a small word heavy with the realization of what's awaiting me. I should've anticipated this, should've been prepared. "Thank you," I manage, my voice steadier than I feel.

Stepping through the hotel's grand double doors, I see the sleek black limousine waiting curbside, which sends my heart racing. The door swings open, and I pause, inhaling deeply to steady my nerves before sliding into the unknown.

Inside, the heady aroma of roses mingling with the subtle tang of champagne envelops me, an intoxicating and disorienting sensory overload. Soft music weaves through the air, adding to the limousine's luxurious ambiance. My eyes dance around the interior, absorbing every lavish detail, from the plush leather seats to the gleaming bar. It feels like stepping into another world far removed from my own. The man across from me is a mystery, a shadow I'm reluctant to face. But I can't afford hesitation; I can't let fear dictate my actions. Steeling myself, I lift my gaze, determined to confront whatever this night holds. It's time to play the part, to be the person this situation demands, even if every fiber of my being screams to retreat.

"Hi," the word barely whispers out as I finally muster the courage to meet the gaze of the man who's paid a fortune for a piece of me. In the recesses of my mind, I had conjured up an image of him, sketching out what someone with such extravagant desires might look like. But the reality in front of me shatters all those preconceived notions. Our eyes lock, and a jolt of surprise courses through me at that moment. He's not at all what I had imagined, not the face I had painted in the shadowed corners of my thoughts.

"Howdy," he greets with a chuckle, his grin broad and disarmingly charming, lighting up a face that strikes me as the embodiment of rugged handsomeness. In the soft illumination of the limousine, his presence is commanding, radiating a kind of raw, unbridled masculinity that's both intimidating and alluring. He lounges easily, his posture relaxed yet commanding, like the kind of man who doesn't need to demand attention—it is given to him freely and without question. His dark hair is styled in a perfectly disheveled way, giving him an air of infuriating and incredibly attractive nonchalance. The stubble adorning his jawline adds a rugged edge to his otherwise chiseled features, a perfect juxtaposition that makes my heart beat just a bit faster. His eyes, dark and intense, are the kind that could make you lose yourself if you stared too long.

He is dressed casually, but every piece of clothing on him accentuates the strength and definition of his physique. The way his shirt hugs his broad shoulders and chest tells me he enjoys being physical, while his jeans cling to his hips and thighs in a way that leaves little to the imagination.

"It looks like you're a little overdressed," he observes, his voice laced with easy confidence, the kind born of a man who knows precisely who he is and what he desires. It's an allure that's almost gravitational, pulling you in despite any hesitations. My eyes instinctively sweep over my body, taking in the red dress I had chosen earlier. Now, I feel out of place sitting across from him.

Why would a man like this need to pay for companionship? He's the kind who, I imagine, has admirers lined up, all vying for a moment of his attention. The question whirls in my mind, adding an edge of mystery to the already thick intrigue surrounding him.

"Oh, sorry. I wasn't informed about any dress code," I reply, the words slipping out in a rush of self-consciousness. It feels foolish now not to have asked or considered that this encounter might have its own unspoken rules.

"No worries, we can take care of that," he says casually. I only now notice the champagne flute in his hand and how he seems utterly at ease, lounging across from me. His eyes roam over me, a slow, devouring gaze that makes me acutely aware of every inch of my exposed skin. His words hang in the air, ambiguous and slightly ominous, but I choose to let the questions simmer unasked.

"Drink?" he offers, and I find myself nodding almost desperately, craving anything to ease the growing tightness in my throat. He pours the champagne with a practiced hand and extends the glass towards me. As I reach out to take it, expecting him to retreat to his space, he surprises me by sliding into the seat beside me.

"Not much of a talker, are you?" he comments, downing his drink in one fluid motion before turning that enigmatic smile on me. He’s too close, and the heat radiating off him makes my skin buzz. I can feel the weight of his stare, the way it lingers like a touch, and suddenly, the air feels too thick. There's a dance in his eyes, a playful challenge that tempts and teases, and for a moment, I'm caught off guard by the sudden intimacy of our exchange.

"Oh, I'm sorry... it's just that I'm new," I blurt out, instantly regretting the admission as heat floods my cheeks. It's such an obvious statement, almost laughable. A virgin call girl – it sounds like the setup for a bad joke.

"I figured," he says with an easy laugh, refilling his flute. He nods toward mine, encouraging me to take a sip, so I do. The champagne bubbles lightly on my tongue, offering a brief respite from the tension winding tight inside me.

"I'm ," I add, venturing a second sip. The alcohol is already working its magic, making the world seem a little less sharp around the edges.

"I know," he chuckles in response, and of course, he does. He's the one who chose me, after all. "James," he introduces himself, and I'm momentarily lost in protocol. Do I offer a handshake? More? For now, I choose inaction, letting him steer the course of our encounter.

"Nice to meet you, James," I manage softly, finishing off my drink. I need all the courage I can get tonight. The glass feels light in my hand, a fragile barrier between me and the reality of what's to come. "May I ask where we're going?"

"Santa Monica Pier," he announces calmly, and I can't hide the surprise that flashes across my face. The Pier? That's the last place I expected. Considering Ava's hint about some clients preferring dinner first, I had braced myself for a swanky hotel suite or some upscale restaurant. I’ve been told that our role sometimes stretches to being arm candy at high-profile events. Still, the Pier feels out of place, inconsistent with my preconceived notions of where a millionaire might take a call girl. Then again, what do I know about the whims of the wealthy?

"Do you have any questions?" His words break into my thoughts, and a trace of a Southern accent curls around the edges, adding a layer of intrigue and unexpected charm. That accent is disarming, and it lends him an air of approachability that's dangerously alluring.

"Um, no. You're the boss," I reply, my smile feeling more like a mask than an expression of mirth.

"Okay," he says, setting aside his now-empty second glass of champagne. I can't help but notice the ease with which he drinks, wondering how deep into the bottle he's ventured before I join him. There's a thirst in his eyes, but it's not for the drink.

"Change," he gestures towards a bag tucked under my seat, a detail I had completely missed earlier. Curiosity piqued, I reach for it, my fingers brushing against the fabric inside. Denim? And a white top? My brows furrow in confusion as I pull the items out, my gaze flicking back to him. Is this really for me?

"Go on," he urges, and there's an undeniable command in his tone, mingled with a hint of anticipation. It's a bizarre request, far removed from the glamorous expectations I had braced myself for. And yet, something about this unexpected turn piques my interest and stirs a flicker of excitement amidst the uncertainty.

"Here?" My voice is laced with disbelief, barely concealing the shock that he expects me to change right here in the limo under his watchful gaze.

"Don't be shy," James coaxes, and his words send a flush of heat crawling up my cheeks.

"I'm sorry, I'm just a bit confused," I stammer, feeling embarrassment creep up my neck. "Why the Pier? I assumed we'd be going to a restaurant or a hotel?" The words hung awkwardly between us, but he did invite questions.

"I was asked to make this memorable for you," he replies in an almost too casual tone, and I can't help but gape at him. The silence that follows nudges him to elaborate. "I figured a stunning girl like you deserves the full experience for her first time. We'll hit the Pier, enjoy the rides, grab some food, and then... I'll make love to you." The finality in his voice, the way he articulates those last words, roots me to the spot.

I can't mask the confusion and the whirlwind of emotions his plan stirs within me. "What's in it for you?" The question slips out, my voice barely above a whisper.

"You're mine," he states simply, and the intensity behind those two words sends my pulse racing. "Exclusively. No other clients. Just me." He leans in closer, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. "I'll be the only one who knows the sound of your pleasure, the only one who experiences you completely."