The evening air in the Thompson mansion was calm, the faint hum of the air conditioning mingling with the soft clatter of glasses from the sitting room. Thompson sat comfortably in his plush chair, phone pressed to his ear, laughing aloud at something the person on the other end had said. His voice, deep and rich, carried across the room.
"Oh, you are funny," he said, chuckling as he shook his head. "Yes, the arrangements have been fixed for next month, but we don't have a proper model yet. We need to keep searching. You need to keep searching, actually. There are plenty of young, pretty girls out there ready to model for such a huge pay. Please, I need positive news before tomorrow."
He hung up the phone, setting it on the table beside him. The conversation had been lively, yet his attention quickly shifted as I entered the room, carrying the glass of wine he had requested.
"Where is Sylvia?" he asked, looking at me as though she had suddenly vanished into thin air.
"I don't know, sir. She should be in her room," I replied, keeping my tone calm, though curiosity pricked at me.
Thompson's gaze softened for a moment before he stood, stretching slightly. "Is Dave in? Please help me call him." He turned toward the stairs, clearly intending to leave the room.
I made my way up to David's room, knocking lightly on the door. "Mr. Dave?" I called softly.
"Come in," he said, his voice relaxed. I opened the door and stepped inside, only to find him lying on his bed, partially covered by a duvet. His chest was bare, and for a brief, fleeting second, I was lost in admiration of his well-defined muscles, my heart skipping a beat.
I cleared my throat, trying to regain my composure. "Sorry, Mr. Dave. I… I—" I faltered, my words tangling in my throat.
Before I could say more, a hand reached out and gently held mine. I looked up to see Sylvia standing behind me, her expression a mixture of anger and exasperation. "What are you doing standing there like a fool?" she demanded.
"I… I'm just here because Mr. Thompson asked me to call you," I stammered, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. I turned and fled from the room, my thoughts in chaos. Oh God… was I staring at him? Am I even okay? I muttered to myself as I hurried to my room, trying to shake off the embarrassment.
Downstairs, David eventually joined Thompson in the sitting room. He sank into the chair beside him, picking up a glass of wine from the table. "Bro, hope all is fine," he said casually.
"Yes, all is fine," Thompson replied, running a hand through his hair. "I just finished talking to Lawrence. He still hasn't found any suitable models for the project, and we only have next month to finalize everything."
David raised an eyebrow. "Is it really this difficult to find a model?"
Thompson shrugged, letting out a small laugh. "I don't know. The pay is enormous. Who wouldn't want it? The work isn't that difficult either—just a bit of catwalk, a brief line or two about the product, then pictures. But the right girl… she has to have the presence, the height, the figure. It's not easy to find someone who matches the image we have in mind."
They exchanged smiles, sharing a quiet camaraderie in the midst of their professional concerns. Soon, Thompson called on me to bring the wine and glasses he had requested. I approached carefully, setting the bottle and glasses on the table, ready to retreat.
"Hold on, Chant," Thompson said, his voice calm yet commanding. He turned to look at me from head to toe, eyes lingering in a way that made me blush slightly. "Dave," he said, shifting his attention to his brother, "are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
David sat up straighter, his expression serious. "Oh no. No, I don't accept it."
I frowned in confusion. The two of them exchanged glances, their conversation cryptic. "Sorry?" Thompson asked, leaning slightly forward. "You don't accept what exactly? Come on, man…"
I looked between them, utterly perplexed. "I… I don't understand," I muttered to myself.
Thompson finally turned his gaze back to me, his eyes sharp yet strangely gentle. "Chant, do you know anything about modeling?"
I hesitated, uncertain if he meant me personally. "No, sir. I… I don't understand what you mean."
Thompson leaned back slightly, explaining with a calm, measured tone. "My company is searching for a model. The girl we have in mind is someone young, about your age, with the right height and figure. She'll need just a little grooming, and then she's ready for the spotlight."
He paused, letting the words sink in. "All you need to do is wear the modeling attire, hold our new product, walk the red carpet, deliver a short speech about the product, and leave. That's all. And you'll be paid $250."
At the mention of money, my eyes widened. My heart skipped a beat—not out of vanity, but at the thought of such a significant sum for such seemingly simple work.
"Chant, you don't have to accept this," David interjected, trying to be cautious. "It's not mandatory. You can back out if you want."
I shook my head quickly. "I'll do it, sir," I said, my voice firm, cutting off David before he could continue.
Thompson's face broke into a wide smile, a rare, genuine warmth that made my chest tighten. "Thank you, Chant," he said sincerely. "You can go back to your work for now. Tomorrow, you'll come with me to the office. They'll guide you through everything."
I nodded, trying to steady the excitement coursing through me. His smile lingered in my mind long after I had left the room, making it difficult to focus on anything else.
David's face, however, betrayed his concern. As I left, he turned to Thompson, his expression serious. "You know this is exposing her, right?"
"Exposing? Modeling for a day? She's not a child, and she's already agreed," Thompson replied, brushing off the concern with a casual wave.
David's jaw tightened. "You know if our mother were here, she wouldn't have accepted this. Not for a second."
Thompson chuckled softly, sipping his wine, his confidence unwavering. "Dave, we've searched for the perfect model for weeks. We know what we're looking for, and Chantel fits the requirements perfectly. Tomorrow, we'll find out how well she can handle it. There's no harm in a trial run."
David remained silent for a long moment, his eyes fixed on the floor. He knew Thompson's judgment was rarely wrong, but he still couldn't shake the protective instinct he felt for Chantel. She was young, untested, and this would thrust her into a world she barely knew. But Thompson's smile and calm assurance reassured him, though it did little to ease the tension in his chest.
Meanwhile, I returned to my room, my thoughts a whirlwind of excitement, nerves, and anticipation. Modeling had always seemed like a distant dream, something glamorous yet unattainable. And now, here I was, standing on the brink of stepping into that world—even if only for a day. The thought of the money, the experience, and most of all, Thompson's approving smile, made my pulse quicken.
I reflected quietly on the dynamics of the household. Thompson's faith in me, David's concern, Sylvia's unpredictable behavior… it was a lot to process. Yet, amid all the chaos, I felt a flicker of confidence. I could do this.
The night settled in around the mansion, the soft glow of the lamps casting long shadows across the polished floors. I could hear the distant murmur of the city beyond the high walls, but inside, the house remained a universe of its own, filled with whispered plans, silent worries, and unspoken hopes.
And tomorrow, I would step into a new chapter of my life—one that would test my courage, my poise, and my patience. Yet, as I lay in bed that night, I felt something rare and precious: a quiet, steady sense of purpose. I would rise to the occasion. I would face the challenges ahead. And I would do it with grace, dignity, and perhaps a small, secret thrill at the thought of making Thompson proud.