The offer Part 2

 

 

The stylist clapped her hands once, sharp and final. “Facial first. Then manicure and pedicure. Full waxing before we move on to hair and makeup. I want her flawless for Mr. Edmore.”

The four girls closed in without a word to Sana. No introductions, no smiles, no “Are you comfortable?” They moved like assembly-line technicians who had done this exact routine a hundred times. One tilted Sana’s head back by the chin as if it were a mannequin hinge. Another pinned a plastic cape around her neck so tightly the Velcro dug into her skin.

Sana tried to speak. “Um… does this—”

“Eyes closed,” the lead stylist cut in, already slathering a burning paste across her forehead. The heat stung instantly, like tiny needles sinking in. Sana flinched. No one noticed. They simply kept talking over her head.

“This skin is dry,” one murmured. “We’ll need two rounds of extraction.”

“Mr. Edmore likes the glow to last all night,” another answered. “Double the time under the lamp if you have to.”

The extractions came next — hard, clinical pops that made Sana’s eyes water. Each time she gasped, a gloved hand simply pressed her shoulder down. “Still,” was the only word spoken. They treated her winces the same way a mechanic ignores a car’s creaks while tightening bolts.

Manicure and pedicure followed in the same mechanical rhythm. Her feet were shoved into a basin of scalding water that made her toes curl. The technician filed her nails with aggressive strokes, the rasp loud and merciless. When Sana instinctively pulled her foot away from the pain, the girl simply grabbed her ankle harder and kept going. “These feet need work,” she said to the others, not to Sana. “Calluses everywhere. Mr. Edmore won’t want that in open heels.”

The full waxing was worse.

They laid her on a narrow table like a specimen. The lead stylist ripped the first strip from her calf without warning. The pain flared white-hot. Sana cried out, actual tears slipping down her temples.

No one paused. The rip came again on the other leg. Then the thighs. Then the bikini line — slow, deliberate, and far more intimate than Sana had ever imagined. Each strip tore away hair and skin in one brutal motion. She bit her lip until it bled, but the stylists kept chatting.

“Mr. Edmore prefers completely smooth,” one said, spreading more hot wax. “No stubble tomorrow morning.”

“Underarms too,” another added, already pressing the strip down. “Lift her arm.”

Sana’s arm was lifted for her. She had no say. The wax burned, the rip tore, and the humiliation settled deeper than the pain — they weren’t even pretending she was a person anymore. She was raw material. Product. Something being prepped for delivery.

By the time they finished, her entire body throbbed. Red welts rose on her skin. She was shaking. The lead stylist only checked her watch. “Hair next. We’re behind.”

They sat her upright again. Her long, thick, knee-length black hair — the one part of her old life she had always been quietly proud of — was now the next object on the conveyor belt.

The first girl plunged her hands into the heavy mass without gentleness. She yanked Sana’s head back by the roots to wet it under a spray that was too hot. Water scalded her scalp. Sana hissed. The girl simply kept massaging shampoo in with rough, circular motions, fingers digging deep as if scrubbing a floor.

“This length is impressive,” she told the others, combing through the wet strands with a wide-tooth comb that caught on every tangle. Each tug jerked Sana’s head forward or sideways. “But it’s heavy. Mr. Edmore’s dress is backless — we need it up and sculpted, not hanging like a curtain.”

They decided on an elegant updo right there, talking across her as if she weren’t listening. Hot rollers were clamped onto sections of hair so tightly her scalp screamed. The curling iron followed — the barrel pressed against her neck more than once, leaving tiny red marks. Sana winced every time. They never once asked if it hurt. One girl even said, while twisting a strand so hard Sana’s eyes watered, “The pain is worth it. Mr. Edmore likes the hair to look expensive.”

They brushed, sprayed, pinned, and tugged for what felt like hours. Her head throbbed. Her neck ached from being held at unnatural angles. Yet every time she tried to shift, a hand pressed her shoulder back down. “Still,” they repeated, like a command to furniture.

When the final pins were driven in, the lead stylist stepped back and nodded once. “Acceptable. Now makeup and dressing.”

The makeup was just as impersonal. Brushes swept across her face with clinical precision. Contouring sharpened her cheekbones until they looked carved. False lashes were glued on while her eyes watered from the fumes. They tilted her chin up, turned her head left and right, never meeting her gaze. “Lips darker,” one said. “Mr. Edmore prefers the bold look.”

Finally they brought the crimson gown. They dressed her like a doll — lifting her arms, sliding the fabric over her head, zipping her in without asking her to step in or out. The backless cut exposed every inch of newly waxed skin. The heels were strapped on so tightly her toes protested.

Only then did they turn her toward the mirror.

Sana stared.

The woman looking back was unrecognizable.

Her hair — once a simple braid she could hide under fabric — was now an intricate, gleaming updo that added inches to her height and made her neck look impossibly elegant. The makeup turned her green eyes into something predatory and expensive. The dress hugged every curve she hadn’t known she possessed, the back dipping so low she could feel the cool air on skin that had never been shown in public.

She looked… costly.

She looked like something owned.

Her hands trembled as she touched the mirror. “That’s… not me,” she whispered.

The stylists were already packing up, paying no attention. One simply said, “Mr. Edmore will be pleased,” and walked out.

Sana stood there alone for a long minute, heart hammering, still unable to believe how completely they had erased the starving girl from the supermarket.

The luxury car that collected her was a Rolls-Royce Phantom — black, silent, and smelling of leather and money. The driver opened the door without a word. Edmore waited inside, one ankle crossed over his knee, looking exactly as calm and expensive as ever.

Sana slid in. The door shut with a soft, final click. The city lights blurred past the tinted windows while she sat very still, the new dress whispering against her skin with every tiny movement.

She kept thinking: *If I say yes…*

No more dark apartments. No more choosing between food and electricity. No more pretending she wasn’t exhausted. She could wake up in silk sheets every day, have breakfast made for her, never check a bank account again. All she had to do was look pretty, smile when he wanted, and let him shape the rest. The thought should have frightened her. Instead it settled warm and heavy in her stomach.

The party was in a private mansion on the hill overlooking the city. The moment they stepped inside the ballroom, Sana’s breath caught.

Crystal chandeliers the size of small cars dripped light onto a floor of black marble veined with gold. A live string quartet played in one corner. Waiters in white gloves carried trays of caviar on ice, champagne that cost more per glass than her old monthly rent, and tiny gold-leaf desserts she had never even seen in magazines.

Women dripped diamonds the size of almonds. Men wore watches that could buy houses. Everyone moved as if money was just background noise.

Sana felt smaller with every step.

What she had once thought of as luxury — the designer outlet, the salon — was nothing here. This was another level entirely. She watched a woman laugh while wearing a necklace that probably cost more than everything Sana had ever owned in her life. She overheard two men casually discussing their private jets as if they were cars.

And she was here. On Edmore’s arm.

A tall blonde in a silver gown drifted over, champagne in hand. “Edmore, darling, who is this exquisite creature?”

Sana’s throat tightened. The woman’s eyes were kind but appraising — the same way the stylists had looked at her.

“Hi,” Sana managed, voice soft. “I’m Sana.”

The woman smiled. “Lovely to meet you. What do you do? Fashion? Modeling? You look like you belong on a runway.”

Sana froze. Her old life flashed — the supermarket samples, the overdue rent, the dark apartment. “I used to—”

“She’s focusing on personal development right now,” Edmore interrupted smoothly, his hand resting possessively at the small of her bare back. His voice never wavered. “And she’s a natural at it, wouldn’t you agree?”

The woman laughed, satisfied. “Of course. You always pick the best ones.” She drifted away.

Sana’s knees felt weak. He had saved her without even blinking — as if hiding her past was the easiest thing in the world.

The rest of the night became a blur of new sensations. She tasted Dom Pérignon that fizzed like liquid gold on her tongue. She danced once — Edmore’s hand guiding her like she weighed nothing. She watched people who owned islands talk about their next yacht the way normal people talk about weekend plans.

Every second made her old life feel smaller and smaller.

By the time they left, her decision had hardened into something solid and certain.

The same Rolls-Royce waited outside. The moment the doors closed and the city lights slid past again, Sana turned to him.

“Edmore,” she said quietly.

He looked at her, patient, waiting.

She took a slow breath. The pain from the wax still lingered under the dress. The weight of the updo still pulled at her scalp. The expensive fabric still clung to her like a second skin. And none of it felt like punishment anymore.

It felt like the price of the life she now wanted.

“I’ve decided,” she said, voice steady for the first time all day. “I want that life. The house, the car, the wardrobe… everything. I’ll say yes.”

A small, satisfied smile curved his lips. He reached over and brushed one knuckle along her jaw, the touch light but unmistakably possessive.

“Good girl,” he murmured. “I knew you would.”

Edmore’s fingers lingered on her jaw a moment longer, then withdrew. The car kept gliding through the night, smooth and silent, while he spoke in that same calm, measured voice that never asked — only instructed.

“Tomorrow morning the driver will collect you at ten sharp. You won’t need to bring anything from that apartment. Nothing. The past stays there.” He reached into his jacket and produced a thick envelope, pressing it into her manicured hands. “This is enough to clear whatever rent you owe, plus a little extra. Hand over the keys when you leave. The driver will take you straight to the new house. A maid will be waiting. She’ll explain the rest.”

Sana’s fingers closed around the envelope. The paper felt heavy, real. She swallowed, voice soft and respectful. “Yes, Edmore. I understand. Thank you.”

His eyes held hers in the low light. “One more thing. Be dressed exactly as you are now when he arrives. The same dress. The same hair. The same everything. I want to see how well it holds after a night.”

A small shiver ran down her bare back. She nodded again. “I will.”

The Rolls-Royce slowed to a stop outside her old building. The driver stepped out and opened her door without a word. Sana slipped from the leather seat, the crimson gown whispering against her thighs. She stood on the cracked pavement, the expensive fabric glowing under the streetlight like something that didn’t belong there anymore.

Edmore’s window lowered just enough for his voice to reach her.

“Sleep well, Sana. Tomorrow everything changes.”

The window rose. The car pulled away. She watched the taillights disappear, then turned and walked up the narrow stairs for the last time.

All night the excitement refused to let her rest.

She lay in the dark, still wearing the gown because he had told her to, the pins in her updo pulling at her scalp with every shift. She kept imagining the house — marble floors, walk-in closets bigger than her entire apartment, cars lined up like toys. A sleek black Bentley maybe. Or a white Rolls just for her. She pictured waking up to breakfast already made, never worrying about bills, never hiding her face again. Just… pretty. Just his.

The thoughts tasted sweet, almost dizzying. But underneath them something darker stirred — the knowledge that she had just traded the last scraps of her old life for this. She drifted off still smiling, dreams swirling with silk sheets and deep voices telling her exactly what to do.

The alarm she had set pulled her awake at nine. Sana stretched lazily under the thin blanket, the gown now wrinkled from sleep but still beautiful. She moved slowly, savoring the last moments in this tiny space that had once been everything.

She gathered every single thing she owned — clothes, old shoes, the few pots and plates — into two black bags. Then she walked to the charity store three blocks away, heels clicking on the sidewalk like they already belonged to someone richer. The volunteer at the counter looked surprised when Sana simply pushed the bags across and said, “All of it. I don’t need any of this anymore.”

Back at the apartment she paid the landlord in cash, handed over the keys, and felt the final click of the lock like a door sealing shut on her past. By the time she stepped outside again, the black Rolls-Royce was already waiting at the curb.

The driver opened the rear door. No greeting. No smile. Sana slid inside, heart suddenly racing. Her blood felt electric. *Did I really do this? Is this real? What if I’m making the biggest mistake of my life?* The questions fought with sweeter ones: *What kind of car will be mine? How soft will the sheets be? What new things will I get to touch, wear, feel every single day?*

The car moved through the city and climbed into the hills. When it finally slowed before a tall wrought-iron gate, the driver tapped the horn once. The gates swung open like they had been waiting for her. Sana rolled the window down, cool morning air brushing her face as the car glided up a long, tree-lined drive.

The house rose at the end — modern, sprawling, all glass and pale stone, bigger than anything she had ever stepped inside. At the grand entrance stood two women.

The first was the maid Edmore had mentioned — perhaps twenty-eight or twenty-nine, a few years older than Sana. She wore a crisp black-and-white uniform that looked tailored to perfection, and her dark hair was cut into a sleek, flawless bob that framed her face like it had been measured with a ruler. She smiled politely, but something in her eyes felt… off. Too calm. Too knowing. Like she had seen girls like Sana arrive before and knew exactly how the story ended.

The second woman was taller, silver streaks in her perfectly coiffed hair, dressed in a tailored charcoal suit. She carried herself with quiet authority.

The maid spoke first, voice smooth and professional. “Welcome, Miss Sana. I’m Lena, your personal maid. This is Ms. Valeria — your governess. She’ll be teaching you everything a lady in this world needs to know.”

Sana managed a small nod. “Thank you.”

Introductions finished in seconds. Lena led the way inside, heels clicking on marble. Valeria followed a step behind Sana, silent and watchful.

The tour began.

Lena moved through the house like she had memorized every inch years ago. “This is the main salon… the formal dining room seats twenty-four… the morning room for breakfast… Mr. Edmore’s private study — you are never to enter unless invited.”

Sana barely heard the words. Her mind kept repeating the same dizzying thought: *This is mine now. I live here. I’m rich.* She drifted from room to room in the crimson gown, heels sinking into thick carpets, eyes wide at the indoor pool, the cinema room, the walk-in closet already half-filled with clothes in her size. Every new discovery felt like another layer of her old life peeling away.

The kitchen gleamed with appliances she didn’t know how to use. The master bedroom had a bed so large it made her feel small. The balcony overlooked the city she had once starved in. Lena explained everything with quiet efficiency. Valeria never spoke once during the tour — she simply observed, noting how Sana moved, how she touched things, how her posture still carried traces of the old apartment.

When they returned to the grand foyer, Valeria finally stepped forward and handed Sana a cream envelope.

“Today is your first day, so your schedule is free. Enjoy the house. Settle in. But from tomorrow morning your lessons begin at eight sharp.” She gave a small, professional smile. “Etiquette. Table manners. Conversation. Posture. Everything required to move comfortably in Mr. Edmore’s world.”

Inside the envelope was a sleek black bank card and a folded note written in Edmore’s precise handwriting.

 

*Some pocket money to keep you pretty while I’m away.

I’ll be out of the country for the next month. Use this time well.

Valeria will prepare you exactly as I expect.

Be good for her the way you’re learning to be good for me.*

 

Sana’s fingers tightened around the note. The sweetness of the luxury wrapped around her like warm silk — the house, the money, the promise of a life without worry. But underneath it, dark and thrilling, sat the truth: she was no longer deciding anything for herself.

She was being prepared.

Molded.

Owned.

And the part of her that should have been terrified only felt a slow, heavy pulse of excitement instead.

Lena gave a small bow. “Your room is ready whenever you wish to rest, Miss. Just ring if you need anything at all.”

Valeria’s eyes lingered on her one last moment, assessing, measuring.

“Tomorrow,” she said softly, “we begin.”