Chapter 5

Olivia's POV

The cab screeched to a halt, jolting me out of my anxiety-induced trance. I peered out the window at the towering hotel, its gleaming facade making me feel smaller than usual.

"Are you sure this is the right place, Miss?" the cabbie asked, eyeing the building skeptically.

I gulped. "God, I hope not."

But there was no mistaking it. The Regal Plaza Hotel stood before me in all its opulent glory, looking like it had been ripped straight out of a movie set. This seemed oddly fitting, considering that I was here to meet a billionaire film producer.

I paid the fare and added a generous tip because, let's face it, after this night's disaster, I might never have disposable income again.

I entered the elevator, attempting to embody a Hollywood starlet. Catching my reflection, I cringed. My makeup melted from nerves, and a stray hair escaped my updo. The doors opened, and I exited into a hallway. I followed signs to the restaurant, my heart pounding loud enough for others to hear.

I approached the entrance, where a snooty maître d' eyed me like I was wearing a potato sack. "Do you have a reservation?" he asked, his tone suggesting he already knew the answer.

"I'm, uh, meeting someone," I stammered. "Christopher Wallace?"

"Mr. Wallace? Of course. Right this way, madam."

He led me through the restaurant, weaving between tables filled with people who looked like they owned small countries.

As we approached a secluded corner table, I caught sight of Christopher Wallace, and my breath hitched. He was... not what I expected. Instead of some stuffy old producer, there sat a man who looked like he'd stepped out of a fashion magazine. His dark hair was perfectly styled in a trendy cut, and his tailored charcoal suit cost more than my entire wardrobe. He couldn't be much older than his early thirties. For a moment, I forgot how to breathe, let alone speak.

Our eyes met, and I felt an unexpected jolt. There was something magnetic about him, an aura of power and confidence that made my knees weak. I silently cursed my hormones for picking the worst possible moment to go haywire.

"Please, have a seat," he said, his voice a rich baritone.

I plopped across from him, trying to look graceful and failing miserably.

"So, you're the cutie pie?"

I blinked, confused. "Excuse me?"

"You are Cutiepie69, aren't you?"

"Oh! Um, yes?" I squeaked, having absolutely no idea what I was agreeing to. My mind raced, trying to figure out if this was some sort of Hollywood code I should know.

"Hm. You look quite different from your pictures."

Pictures? What pictures? Had Thomas sent him my headshots? And if so, why did I suddenly have a username that sounded like it belonged to a teenage gamer?

Christopher didn't notice my confusion. He leaned in conspiratorially, lowering his voice. "Now, do you know the rules for being a sugar baby?"

Sugar baby? SUGAR BABY? This was not the audition I had signed up for.

But as I opened my mouth to correct him, a tiny voice in my head whispered, "Wait a second, Olivia. What if this bizarre misunderstanding could actually lead to something? Could it somehow open doors in the acting world if I played along? I bit my lip, torn between setting the record straight and seeing where this strange scenario might lead."

So, instead of blurting out the truth, I said, "Could you... refresh my memory on those rules? Just to make sure we're on the same page."

"Of course, darling. Always good to establish clear expectations." He leaned in, whispering conspiratorially yet authoritatively. "Now, pay attention because I won't repeat myself."

I nodded, trying to keep my face neutral as my heart raced.

"Alright, sweetheart, here's the deal. You call me 'Daddy' in private, but it's Mr. Wallace in public. No exceptions. I'll shower you with gifts - designer clothes, fancy dinners, maybe even a car if you're a good girl. But remember, you're arm candy first, companion second. When we're out, you laugh at my jokes, hang on my every word, and make me look good.

"Now, the bedroom stuff. I like it wild. Maybe a little light bondage if you're for it. I hope you're flexible - I mean that both figuratively and literally. I want you to be an eager, enthusiastic participant in the bedroom. No holding back. I expect you to match my energy - maybe even slightly push the boundaries. I enjoy a bit of spice. Slapping that ass of yours, a little rough sex... I want you to be vocal and let me know when you're enjoying it. Don't hold back your moans and whimpers.

"I'll take care of you financially, but don't get greedy. Ask for too much, and you're out. And one more thing. Discretion is key. No blabbing to your friends, no social media posts about our arrangement. As far as the world's concerned, you're just my very lucky girlfriend, who I spoil because I'm such a generous guy.

"Now, any questions, or should we order champagne and seal the deal?"

I gaped, struggling to absorb the flood of details. My mind raced between the urge to run screaming from the restaurant and the desperate need to salvage this disaster.

"I, uh..." I stammered, buying time. "That's... quite thorough."

"Too much for you? I thought you were experienced in this sort of thing."

I swallowed hard. "Oh, no! Not at all. It's just... you're so much more... impressive in person."

He smirked, clearly pleased with himself. "Well, that's why I'm the daddy, right?"

I forced a laugh, praying it didn't sound as hysterical as I felt. "Right! Of course... Daddy." The word felt foreign on my tongue.

Christopher's fingers danced around the rim of his champagne flute, his eyes never leaving mine. I felt like a deer caught in headlights, except the headlights were attached to a costly, very handsome car about to run me over.

"Well, darling," he purred. "Shall we take this somewhere more... private?"

This was it. The moment of truth. The part where I should stand up, toss my drink in his face, and storm out with my dignity intact.

Instead, I said, "Lead the way... Daddy."

What. The. Actual. Hell.

As we stood up, my brain screamed at me. "Olivia! What are you doing? This is not how you land an acting gig!"

But another part of me whispered, "Maybe this is your in. Play along, and he might bring up the movie later."

So, I let him guide me towards the elevator, my conscience, and my career aspirations, duking it out in my head. All the while, I noticed how good he smelled and how his hand felt on the small of my back.

Was I in trouble?