by Alex Wolf
“Today at five p.m., Sir. I said it was a matter of urgency, but to be discrete. She will see you at your home.”
Matty nodded. “Perfect. I suppose I’d better head back. Unless there are any other appointments I’m unaware of?”
“None, Sir.” Emilia stared anywhere but at Matty, avoiding eye contact.
“Hey.”
Her eyes moved up and met his.
“I don't blame you for any of this, just so you know. You’re the warden of this nuthouse, but I won't hold you responsible for the meltdowns.”
Matty didn’t enjoy being bothered with trivial nonsense, and it usually perturbed him to no end. But, he’d learned long ago, not to piss off the help. Emilia was a valuable asset to him, and a loyal one at that. It served him well to keep her happy.
His company’s automated system had fucked up his day for the last time, though. It was time to bring in a professional human, and let them do the job.
“Grateful to hear that, Sir. Oh, and Mr. Arvin said, please pardon my language but these were his exact words: 'Look out, she knows what she’s doing and she’s great, but she can be a total bitch.'” Emilia smiled as professionally as always.
Matty nodded. “I'll bear that in mind.”
“Is there anything else, Sir?”
“No, that’ll be all. Thank you.”
Chapter 2
Approaching Matthew Spencer's house, Christina Smith knew she was dealing with a very wealthy client. The mansion looked new and extravagant, like it’d been ripped out of Hollywood and dropped in the middle of a London suburb.
Sandy walls framed the place, and the gate was wide enough to fit a tank through. The gardens were full of exotic plants, dotting the greenery with splatters of reds, pinks, yellows, and blues. It was also the only garden on the street which hadn’t been carefully manicured that morning. Couldn’t he afford to pay someone to come landscape the house?
He’d called for her to come at once. Seemed more likely it was a breakdown in communication. He definitely needed her services if he couldn’t even keep his lawn mowed.
She walked up to the front gate and noticed that the intercom had a two-way video option.
Christina flipped open a mirror and made sure that her hair was still firmly tied back, and her makeup was clean and professional. The more money these guys had, the more perfection they demanded. When she’d first started, she’d assumed her work would speak for itself. That’d been a mistake.
Her skin had to be flawless, her lips cherry red, and the lines of her makeup sharp. Her wavy brown hair had to be pulled and twisted until there wasn’t a single stray hair sticking out. Her dress was tailored, dry cleaned, pressed, and she wore perfume that was two hundred pounds an ounce.
If she was not perfectly dressed and on point, how could they trust her to organize everything for them?
Reassured that she looked okay, she pressed the button on the intercom. It came to life, and an older man in a dark suit stared back at her on the screen. “Good afternoon, please state your business.”
“Umm, I’m Ms. Smith. I have an appointment with Mr. Spencer. Five o'clock. I’m a few minutes early.”
“Very well. Do come in.”
There were no subtle options for entering the estate. Not unless you were a servant, it seemed. Everyone was forced to go through the main entrance.
The gates creaked open slowly with a slight squeak. She could see the older man already waiting at the door. She was used to places like this and knew many of the people in these houses actually lived paycheck to paycheck and were up to their eyes in debt. By now, she’d learned to have a nose for money. And judging by what she’d seen so far, this guy—like his friend Mr. Arvin—was loaded.
There were little signs of extravagant wealth woven through the place. There were also many signs that these things were seriously neglected. A unique sculpture sat near the porch. It didn’t look like it’d been cleaned anytime recently. Many of the exotic plants were beginning to wilt without any reason for it. A solid gold knocker hung on the door. It was just for looks. Nobody would ever use a damn knocker. Whoever she was helping was someone that never thought before buying.
No wonder he needed her help.
The older gentleman welcomed her in, guided her to a main living area and asked her to wait there for Mr. Spencer. She walked around the room, scoping it out. The inside was as much of a mess as the outside.
She spotted a pile of unopened mail on the table by the window. An overdue bill was up on the mantlepiece when she strolled over. A dirty coat was out in the hallway, on the floor. All normal things in a normal house, but very out of place in a mansion with a ton of employees to keep the place running. Finally, she sat down in one of the chairs and waited.
“Good afternoon, you must be Ms. Smith?” A rich, baritone voice came from the hallway the second she’d taken a seat.
She whipped around to face the man. “Yes, Sir. Are you Mr. Spencer?” It couldn’t be him. This guy was too young to have this kind of money.
“I am.” He walked over to the chair across from her but stood instead of sitting down.
“It’s nice to meet you.” She stood and held out a hand.
He waved her off without shaking. “Do sit back down.”
It was always hard to tell how these wealthy people wanted her to act. Even social interactions were like games to them. They always had to be in control. They always treated employees like they were less than them and showed off their power any chance they got. Most of the time, it was telling her to do the opposite of whatever she was doing. But she always played along. It didn’t hurt anybody. She sat down and waited for him to explain why she was there.
Her game was thrown off for a second, and she had to regain her composure. She wasn’t used to having clients that didn’t have gray hair. He was also one of the tallest, strongest looking men she’d ever seen. Breathing became difficult when she got a good look at him. He could’ve easily been a movie star or a musician. In fact, he probably was. She just hadn’t recognized him because she didn’t pay attention to celebrities and gossip magazines. It was rare for someone under sixty to live in a place like this, and Mr. Spencer looked like he was pushing thirty at the most.
“I'm sure you get asked this a lot, but what is it exactly that you do?” He walked around her chair and then over to the window, where he shuffled through the letters, clearly not sure where to begin.
The man didn’t even know why he was hiring her. That wasn’t surprising. “You should put them into separate piles for bills, personal, circulars, and business. Then work through them by date.”
He glanced at her. “I see.”
“That’s what I do. I show you how to manage your home. I make sure you have all the staff you need, line up all your schedules. Help you get more organized.”
“Like one of those automated solutions?”
“No way. Those things are a disaster. The technology isn’t there yet. Unlike a computer, I can actually reason and make decisions on the spot, as opposed to depending on how someone coded a computer.” She thought for some kind of analogy she could use. “I guess you could think of me as a sort of modern Victorian housekeeper, or a personal business manager.”
“I’m still none the wiser.” His words had an edge to them, like maybe she’d offended him somehow. “But I suppose it’s worth a chance.” He put the letters down and stalked back over to her chair. “Do you want me to explain the problems to you?” Mr. Spencer sat down in front of her.
She shook her head. “If you knew the problems, you would’ve solved them by now.”
He let out an exasperated sigh. “I’m pretty sure I know what’s wrong with my own house.”
“Sorry for being forward, but you know the consequences of the problems, not the problems themselves. It’s like being sick. Everyone knows their symptoms, but they still go to a doctor to be diagnosed and treated. I’m here to diagnose your life and prescribe a treatment for it.�
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“That makes more sense to me. You're analyzing the situation. At the end, would my life be cured of its ailment?”
“I’ve never left a patient ill.” She paused with a slight smile. “Now, sometimes clients stop treating their condition and symptoms return, but if you follow my plan, you shouldn’t have to see me again.”
“Are you sure that none of your clients let the symptoms return purposefully?” His eyes raked down to her heels and back up.
Christina nodded. She knew exactly what he meant. “I’m sure it happens. That’s up to them.”
“You’re prepared to start immediately?”
She nodded. “Absolutely.”
“Great. Once you’ve been shown around just do whatever it is you do. And if you need anything, don't hesitate to ask the other members of the staff.”
“Will do. Thank you, Mr. Spencer.” And just like that, she had a new job.
“One last thing.”
“Sir?”
His voice lowered. “I’m not sure how much Emilia told you about my business, but, we need to keep this all very quiet.”
“Your secretary didn’t tell me anything about what you do.”
“I’m actually the owner of Mia, the smart-house.”
She realized why he was frustrated a few moments before. “Umm, you designed Mia?”
“In a way. Not on my own, obviously, but yeah.” He shrugged.
“Sorry for what I said earlier.” Shit, that could’ve cost her the job.
He shook his head. “No. Between you and me, Mia’s a disaster.”
It all made sense at once. The owner of a company that sold smart-home solutions was living in complete disarray. He needed a human professional to fix his personal life. No wonder he was so evasive and probably embarrassed. And he was so desperate he’d made an appointment with her.
She smiled. “No worries. We can fix this.”
“I bloody well hope so. Let's have a tour of the house.”
She stood up and his eyes burned through her. He may not have noticed her figure before, but he definitely did now. It didn't take a genius to realize he was checking her out. And why wouldn't he? She was petite, with perfect, full curves that had been squeezed into a tailored dress—along with impeccable hair and makeup. Christina knew most men thought she was hot. Her male clients all looked at her the same way.
It was definitely clear that Matthew Spencer liked her. Everything about him changed as they walked from room to room. The way he carried himself, his tone of voice. Not to mention the fact that he was personally showing her around.
His hand fell on the small of her back as he guided her to the next room. She figured he was also a man who didn’t know what it was like to be rejected. This could either be fun or torture. She wasn’t sure. But there was no way she would reciprocate.
She had a personal rule of not sleeping with clients, and her work made dating impossible. She spent weeks at a time living in strange men's houses, flying around the world to fix their personal lives. She was fortunate Mr. Spencer lived in the same city as her. She was always busy. And she had to be a cold bitch to get the respect she deserved. Otherwise, these men would walk all over her.
Trying to ignore the way he placed his hand on her back, she took in her surroundings.
Everything was perfectly clean, but out of place. Lights were on in rooms with large, bright windows, and turned off in dark hallways. Shit was strewn over tables and chairs, as though someone had set it down and then forgotten it was there. As he walked, Mr. Spencer explained all his problems. Missed appointments, employees not coming in on the right days, contractors not being called in for repairs, or none of them were coordinated right.
He was just spending, spending, spending, like a boy with his father's credit card. Every time something went wrong, he threw money at it until it went away. A rough calculation told her he was spending about five times more money than he should.
She’d worked for men with the same issues, but Matty Spencer was taking it to the extreme. The place looked like it’d been decorated by a frat boy. At least the place wasn’t too cluttered, and he had servants to keep the place clean, but, the decorating was all nudes and edgy pop art, or expensive cars—classical sculptures, and original prints from famous artists. The aesthetic was what she would expect in a Harvard dorm room.
From the sound of it, the rest of his life went the same. He’d see something he wanted to do, and he would just go and do it. He’d just whip out the credit card at anything he wanted to buy. Anyone else would’ve been in trouble by now, but not Mr. Spencer. She figured he’d coasted through life on a combination of wealth and quick wit, and only now was he starting to feel the effect of it.
“You like the décor?” He smiled as he caught her staring at a large sculpture of a naked woman on a horse.
She nodded and faked a smile. “You have unique taste.” She definitely had an opinion, but she wasn’t there to improve his decorating skills.
Despite his atrocious sense of style, she couldn't help but be jealous. She made a decent living, but she’d never earn a fraction of what he spent in a year. She was desperately saving for a dream house back in Kentucky, for her father. She lived completely frugal. Only spent money on absolute needs and items she had to have for work. He could probably buy that modest home with his weekly paycheck. She couldn't imagine living somewhere like this.
It was one of the perks of the job, though, living vicariously through her clients. She could enjoy beautiful houses during the day, and at night when she traveled. Many of her clients had guest houses and didn’t want to foot the bill for her to stay in a hotel.
Even with her local clients, she could usually get away with working a few hours every morning and then kicking back for the day. She was that good. Then she could sit back and enjoy expensive wine and whatever entertainment the home offered.
It would be a few weeks before she could do that here, though. This guy needed a lot of work. And the work always came first.
Chapter 3
Fuck me!
Christina was one of the hottest—no, the hottest woman Matty had ever seen. In all his years of dating models, actresses, even porn stars, he’d never seen a woman so perfectly proportioned with her hourglass frame. She was sensual in every movement. She was—exactly his type. He never even thought he had a type before, other than “hot”, but looking at her, he knew Christina was it.
Every little thing about her was breathtaking. She had brunette hair and sharp brown eyes. The way her tailored dress hugged her figure, clinging to her firm hips and tight waist. The sharpness of the painted lines on her face, the boldness of her lips, the way her eyeliner drew you into a mesmerizing gaze. The way she masterfully strode in skyscraper heels. Stilettos so tall that no woman should be able to get away with wearing them, yet somehow clinical and stern like the rest of her. Heels that took her from a petite Hispanic woman to a powerful goddess who could look men of his stature in the eye without needing to peer up like a child.
Normally he would mock or chastise women like her. She was cold. She was collected—a professional. She embraced her femininity only in as much as to announce her sex, and rejected every hint of softness, fragility, or humility foisted upon her. She was a woman, but a clean-slate, aseptic, robotic woman. All the female and none of the feminine. All the woman and none of the human. But goddamn, she wore it well.
Her look inspired confidence in him. On the one hand, he knew it was carefully crafted for that exact purpose. But on the other hand, any woman who could put herself together so perfectly, so sharply for an interview, and then hold that look, that character together—she was a walking advertisement for her own composure and order. And composure and order were precisely what he wanted to buy from her. Her presence in his home would be a pleasant little perk, of course. But she had a job to do first and foremost.
“I need you to start work as soon as possible.” He guided her into his office. “I’m as
hamed to admit, but everywhere I look I see nothing but disorder. This needs correcting. It’s humiliating for a man in my position, in my industry, to be living in such disarray. If someone were to notice, the whole premise of my company may be called into question.”
Christina made eye contact.
He could see the look in her eye, judging him, probably wondering why he was creating these products if he knew nothing about them.
“I can start today. If that’s what you want.”
He studied her for another moment. How could she talk without a hint of emotion on her face? Was she even a woman at all? Perhaps she really was a robot?
He wondered what shaped her and molded her into the way she was. Perhaps she grew up in an emotionless environment, or some trauma trained her to hide all her feelings. It didn’t matter, though. He would hire her. She would whip the place into shape, and he’d go on living the way in which he was accustomed.
“I would like you to start immediately. I have a backlog of four weeks of paper letters. I hate them. I prefer emails and video calls. So they're completely unread. You can go through and organize them so I can manage them in the future.”
“You know what I cost, right?” She raised an eyebrow.
“Haven’t a clue.”
She sighed. “It is nine hundred poun—”
“Don’t care.” He brushed her off with a flippant hand. “Just bill my secretary. No, my housekeeper. I can't have you connected to work.”
Her face canted to the side. “You don’t even need to think about the price?”
Matty stared at her, confusion written all over his face. “I don't care if it's nine hundred pounds a day, or an hour. Just send the bill.” Surely, she was not so dense as to think he needed to budget.
“Mr. Spencer, this is the sort of attitude that got you in this position. How you got by in life until now is beyond me.”
