The next day came faster than I expected.
My sleep wasn't even deep; it felt like I blinked and morning arrived.
But what truly woke me wasn't the sunlight that streamed through the curtains—it was a knock.
A gentle, calm knock.
I turned on my bed, half awake.
"Who is that?" I asked with a sleepy voice.
There was a small pause before the voice replied.
"Chant, it's me. Dave. I hope I didn't wake you."
Immediately my eyes widened.
Mr. Dave?
I jumped out of bed, almost stumbling before catching myself. I hurried to the door, smoothing down my hair with my hand before opening it.
He stood there dressed in a simple pyjamas, like he had just stepped out of the bed
His toned, and honestly… distracting.
I swallowed and quickly dropped my gaze.
"How are you, Chantel?" he asked softly, his voice still husky with morning.
"I'm fine, Mr. Dave," I said quickly. "Is there anything you want me to do for you?"
He smiled slightly—not the usual business-like smile, but a soft, unsure one.
"No, Chant. Nothing. Sorry for waking you up by this time."
He scratched the back of his neck.
"I was about to take my bath, but… it's already 7. You should start preparing before my brother comes down so we all can go together."
I blinked.
Prepare?
Go where?
Then it hit me—
Mr. Thompson's modeling discussion.
I felt a blush rise to my cheeks.
"Oh! Yes, yes… I almost forgot."
I smiled awkwardly. "Thank you, Mr. Dave."
I started closing the door when he softly said:
"Em… hold on, Chant."
I paused and looked back at him.
He looked uncomfortable for a moment, like he was struggling with his words.
Then he sighed.
"Don't be angry, but… do you really want to do this? Or… is it just because of the money?"
His question hit me harder than I expected.
My eyes widened, and immediately my heart skipped a beat.
Of course the money mattered to me.
What else do I even have?
Who else do I have supporting me?
But there was something else too—
Thompson had been good to me, extremely good.
He provided food, shelter, clothes, peace.
How could I ignore that?
I lowered my voice and finally answered honestly.
"Not just the money, Mr. Dave."
I looked into his eyes.
"I want to help Mr. Thompson. He has been good to me. He needs this favor from me… and I can't turn him down now that he needs me."
Dave stood still.
No expression.
Just silence… and then a slow nod.
"Okay… you can go prepare." he finally said.
"See you in some minutes."
He turned and walked away, leaving a trace of his cologne in the air.
I closed my door gently and leaned on it.
His question kept replaying in my head.
Do I really want to do this?
Yes.
I wanted to.
But for more than one reason.
I needed the money.
I needed to show Thompson gratitude.
I needed purpose.
Something—anything—that made me feel like I wasn't just living in their house doing nothing.
And maybe…
Just maybe…
I wanted to prove something to myself too.
Before I knew it, I had already showered.
My mind was running on autopilot while I stood in the bathroom scrubbing gently, trying to calm my nerves.
Standing before the wardrobe, I pulled out the clothes Mrs. Johnson bought for me months ago.
Most of them I never even touched.
I ran my fingers over the dresses.
Then I picked the one she always loved so much—a pink frey gown with soft fabric that hugged the body in a gentle, decent way.
It wasn't exposing; it wasn't loose either.
It was just… elegant.
I paired it with the white flat shoes.
When I finished dressing, I turned to the mirror.
I froze.
Was this really me?
My hair packed neatly, my gown smooth, my skin glowing from the shower…
I looked different.
More composed.
More… beautiful, somehow.
And this was without makeup.
I stared at myself for a few seconds, not even recognizing the girl in the mirror.
I was still in my thoughts when a knock came again.
I checked the time.
Few minutes to 8 a.m.
I hurried to open the door.
Thompson stood there, still on his phone, not even looking at me at first.
His blazer was perfectly ironed, shirt crisp, hair brushed back.
He looked like a CEO.
"Sorry, please—" he said without raising his eyes from the screen.
"We're leaving in some minutes."
Then he lifted his head—
And stopped.
His eyes moved from my shoes… to my dress… to my face.
Confusion, admiration, surprise—everything flashed across his eyes.
He stared too long.
Then he cleared his throat awkwardly.
"Sorry… you really look… different."
He paused.
"You look good."
I smiled shyly. "Thank you, sir. I'm ready."
Okay,you can come to the car while we wait for dave and...
Before another word could be said, Dave's voice echoed from behind me.
"I'm already here."
I turned and saw him walking toward us, fully dressed now—white shirt, black trousers, sleeves folded to his elbows.
He looked handsome.
Disturbingly handsome.
He froze when he saw me too.
His eyes didn't move at first; he just stared.
Then slowly, they lifted to meet mine.
Thompson looked at him, then at me again, and quietly walked toward the stairs, giving space.
There was a silence—only for a second—but it felt longer.
Dave spoke first, softly:
"Wow… Chant… you look really good."
I smiled gently and closed the door behind me.
Dave stepped aside and allowed me to walk ahead of him, as if he didn't want to walk beside me too closely.
We descended the stairs and headed to the garden where the car was already waiting.
The driver sat behind the wheel.
The front passenger seat was taken by Thompson.
The back door stood open.
Dave gestured for me to enter, but he climbed in first, sliding to the far end.
I followed, sitting close to him.
Thompson didn't turn to look at me again.
He just spoke sharply to the driver:
"Let's move."
The car pulled out of the compound.
I held my hands together nervously.
Dave leaned slightly toward me.
"Hope you're okay, Chant?"
I turned to him and nodded quickly.
"Yes, I'm fine, Mr. Dave."
But deep down, my heart was beating too fast.
The car felt like another world—quiet, intense, filled with unspoken thoughts.
Thompson kept making calls.
Dave kept stealing glances at me.
And me?
I kept hoping I wouldn't embarrass myself that day.