Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 76329 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76329 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
The kitchen alone boasted almost as much space as my entire previous apartment. Gleaming stainless steel appliances reflected the warm light from recessed fixtures overhead. The refrigerator had already spoken to me twice—once to welcome me to my ‘SA-subsidized residence’ and again to suggest a shopping list based on what it detected was missing from its pristine interior. The stovetop had lit up when I’d approached it earlier, displaying recipe suggestions based on nutritional profiles preferred by top-tier sponsors.
Everything in the apartment seemed designed to make my life easier. At the same time, though, it had quickly become clear that the conveniences extended not just to me, but also to the man who decided to sponsor me.
The bathroom mirror doubled as a screen that displayed helpful reminders about personal grooming standards expected of SA associates. The closet had scanned my meager wardrobe when I’d hung up my clothes and promptly informed me that ‘appropriate attire’ would be delivered tomorrow, courtesy of the Selecta Arrangements program.
Everything connected to the SA app, too. The lights, the temperature, the entertainment system—all controlled through the same application that now put me in touch with ‘potential sponsors.’ The same app that had just chimed with a notification that someone had viewed my profile—and that had recorded my medical examination, my humiliating photoshoot, my body’s betrayal.
Even the elegant alarm clock on the bedside table seemed to be integrated with the system. When I’d explored the bedroom earlier, I’d accidentally triggered its settings menu, revealing options for ‘Sponsor Override’ and ‘Remote Wake Protocols.’ Curious, I had tapped on them to no avail, and then realized they were grayed out. Could my sponsor, whoever he might be, control those things?
The door to the apartment itself had no physical key—it recognized my face through a small camera embedded in the frame. “Facial recognition enabled for primary resident,” it had announced when I’d first arrived. “Secondary access permissions managed through Selecta Arrangements application.”
Secondary access. The phrase had lingered in my mind as I’d explored my new home. Did it mean that whoever became my sponsor would have automatic access to my apartment?
I took a deep breath and tapped on the notification.
A potential sponsor has sent you a message.
The app opened to reveal a profile picture of a distinguished-looking man with piercing hazel eyes and perfectly styled brown hair that fell just past his shoulders—longer than most businessmen wore theirs, but somehow perfectly suited to his elegant features.
Pierre Lemieux, the screen informed me. Age forty-two. Occupation: Investor.
My heart began to race. This was it—a real person, a wealthy man who had seen those humiliating photos and now wanted to… what? Own me? Buy me? The reality of what I’d committed to came crashing down on me with renewed force.
I opened his message with trembling fingers.
Bonjour, Mademoiselle. May I introduce myself?
Such a formal, polite greeting seemed almost comically at odds with the situation. This man had just viewed photographs of me in lingerie, touching myself, my most intimate parts exposed for his assessment. And now he wanted to exchange pleasantries?
I stared at the screen, unsure how to respond. The app helpfully provided suggestion buttons: I’d be delighted, Yes, please do, and I’m honored by your interest. Each phrase made my stomach clench with its artificial submissiveness.
Before I could decide, another message appeared.
I apologize if I’ve startled you. Perhaps I should begin by saying that I found your profile quite compelling. Your background in energy conservation particularly caught my interest, as it happens to align with several of my business ventures.
I blinked in surprise. Of all the things he might have mentioned—my body, my virginity, those mortifying photographs—he chose to comment on my professional background?
My fingers hovered over the keyboard. What was the proper etiquette for responding to a man who might soon own your sexual services?
Hello, I typed hesitantly. Thank you for your message. I paused, then added, I’m surprised you noticed that part of my profile.
His response came quickly.
I make it a point to read everything carefully, Mademoiselle Campbell. Beauty is abundant in Paris—intelligence with purpose, less so. Would you be available for coffee tomorrow afternoon? Perhaps I’m old-fashioned, but I believe conversation should precede other considerations.
Coffee. A normal, everyday activity. Not what I’d expected as a first step in this bizarre arrangement. But the thought of meeting this man in person, knowing he’d seen those photographs, made my heart race with anxiety.
Yes, I replied simply, before I could lose my nerve. Coffee would be nice.
Excellent. There is a café called Le Petit Jardin on Rue des Rosiers, in the Marais, where this useful app tells me you’re located.
I recognized the street name—it wasn’t far from my new apartment.
That would be fine, I responded.
Until tomorrow, then. Bonne nuit, Audrey.
The use of my first name sent an unexpected shiver through me. It felt strangely intimate after the formality of his earlier messages. I set the phone down on the kitchen counter and wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly cold even with the comfortable temperature of the apartment.