Description : The Billionaire's Contract
I gave the massive structure, all brute metal and glass windows glittering like teeth, a long, pensive look. The Whitmore Building looked so posh on television--almost gothic and cathedral-like--but without the flashing lights it was just another building on Fifth Street. Still, a couple of things set it apart from the others. The first was PR, an Emmy nominated reality television show that followed two tenacious publicists on staff, documenting the drama and glamour thates with cleaning up the messes of the mega rich. The second was Jacob Whitmore, the twenty nine year old billionaire at the helm of thepany and a constant fixture on the glossy pages of tabloid rags for his lavish lifestyle and penchant for supermodels and celebrities.
I futilely smoothed my dark, corkscrew curls and pushed through the revolving door. Stepping out of the muggy heat and into the cool of central air should have been a relief, but instead, it made me hyper aware of my nerves. The sweat at my back was sticky, making the sheer black blouse I wore adhere to my skin like glue. Even a swallow of the dewy ac didn't do my dry throat any favors.
I instantly recognized the lobby from the show, the motif of glass and white walls giving off a clean, sophisticated edge. Each employee passing through the revolving doors was more glamorous than the last and I couldn’t help but pause in the shuffle, gawking at it all like some awkward tourist.
Trying to gather my wits about me, I gave my head a hearty shake and locked eyes with a burly man sitting below an etched sign that read ‘Whitmore...