But maybe Alex isn’t his ex-girlfriend. Maybe she is an obsession of his—he could be a stalker. Or worse: Alex could be his sister. He looks too young to have a daughter in university.
She shouldn’t be overthinking this. Any minute now he’ll knock on the door and she’ll have to pretend to be Alex, will have to sleep with this man to make five thousand dollars (an amount that still seems impossibly high) and be that much closer to her dream.
She hears her phone buzz inside her clutch. She should probably turn it off or at least silence it completely. A text from Alice lights her screen.
Where are you? We need to talk. Please be at the house at 5 P.M.
She won’t be done by five o’clock. It’s her day off, which means Alice has no right to ask her to be home at a certain hour—not that Alice cares. She wants to fire Malaika as soon as possible.
Malaika takes a look at her exchange with Calan. It’s been nearly one hour since his last message. She’s strangely sad he’s given up on reaching her.
Malaika picks up the outfit and heads to the bathroom to change. There, she begins to remove her black dress, the same one she’d worn on her very first “date” with Simon. She remembers how nervous she’d been when all she had to do was pretend to be someone’s girlfriend. Now, she is about to sleep with a stranger. She slips into the half-outfit and glances at her reflection: she looks ridiculous.
A knock at the door.
“Hi, Alex,” he says, when she opens the door for him.
“Hi, Lucas.” She smiles. “Come in?”
He kisses her as soon as he closes the door, pressing her back against the room’s white walls. Malaika keeps her eyes open, her gaze firmly fixed on the fire escape instructions, a single sheet of paper covered in cheap plastic. His hands are wrapped around her waist. She had expected him to go straight for her breasts or her ass. His kiss is hungry and sloppy, but not aggressive. This, too, is surprising.
He pulls back, grinning wide at her. “I’ve been wanting to do this for so long.” There’s a longing to his voice. Whoever Alex is, he cares about her.
She wants to wipe her mouth with her hand, but that’s probably deviating from the script. A script. That’s what she wants. It would be easier to know what to do, beat by beat.
“Do you want me?” he asks, his tone eager.
“I do,” Malaika says. And then, because he seems to expect her to elaborate, she adds, “I want you so bad.” What she’s saying sounds ridiculous. She’d be laughing if she weren’t so nervous.
“Now we can be together.” He moves in for another kiss, leading her further inside the room. They reach the bed—her eyes are still open, and she can feel the thick bedcovers grazing against her calves.
He throws her on the bed. The move catches her by surprise. It doesn’t hurt—the mattress is soft—but it feels awkward, out of place. She props herself up on her elbows. He’s standing at the foot of the bed, sweeping his eyes over her body. His gaze is greedy.
She can’t do this.
The feeling hits her with the certainty of a fact. She. Can’t. Do. This.
The other voice inside her mind, the one insisting she doesn’t have a choice, that voice is quiet now.
Because she does have a choice.
There is so much she wants. She wants the thrill of seeing her name stamped on the labels of stylish outfits. She wants to have front-row seats to Fashion Week. She wants to read about herself in Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar. She even wants the struggles that come with being a designer—late nights, poor reviews, the fickleness of a cruel industry. She wants the bad because it comes with the good. She wants to feel as though her life is finally beginning. She wants to make it in the most cosmopolitan city in the world.
But she doesn’t want to make it like this.
If she sleeps with Lucas, the money she’ll use to make her outfits will always be tied to this: crossing a line, going against her values. Her issue isn’t conceptual—sex for money is as fair a trade as any, as far as she’s concerned. It’s personal, specific to her—it’s not a trade she wants to make. It would violate her boundaries. She finally understands the word now, beyond its literal meaning. Boundaries aren’t limits or barriers. They’re a protective cover, like the roof of a house.
Malaika isn’t someone who is willing to sleep with a stranger for money, not even when the money can change her life, not even when the money can help her be closer to her dream.
“I’m sorry,” she says, getting up from the bed. “I can’t do this.”
Lucas looks confused and then wounded and, for a moment, Malaika worries he won’t take no for an answer.
Malaika feels a lump in her throat as she makes her way to the bathroom. Inside, she changes back into her dress, neatly folding the outfit Lucas had brought. She picks up her phone and dials 911. If he tries to stop her from leaving, she’ll make the call.
But when she opens the bathroom door, he is on the other side of the room, on the phone. Probably complaining to J.T. about her poor performance.
Malaika heads to the door. “Sorry,” she calls out. She doesn’t wait for a reply.
She makes her way to the elevators, her pulse thrumming in her ear. She only realizes she’s been holding her breath when the elevator door opens.
She exits the landmark building with the speed of a newly liberated woman.
And there, on Lexington Avenue, is Calan.
For a second, she thinks her eyes are playing a trick on her, but no—it’s him. His eyes are glued to his phone, his
