“And yet you hope to inherit your father’s company?” I shake my head. “Pathetic.”

You are getting incensed. Your tells are like telegraphs: flaring nostrils, narrowed eyes, fingers flexing into fists. “I’m getting tired of this. I’m not paying a thousand dollars an hour to be insulted.”

“You aren’t paying me anything, your father is. And I hope you do get tired of it. Maybe you will find the internal fortitude to stop earning my insults.”

I turn away from you and retrieve our contract. It is short and simply worded, but iron-clad. You signed it, and so did I, and so did your father. I know the wording by heart, and I know your father read it, but you are simply too lazy and too entitled to be bothered.

With the contract in one hand, I use my other to shove you. The flat of my palm strikes you center-chest, and you’re so surprised you fall backward and sit down hard on the couch. You are shocked into stillness. I put one foot on the gleaming dark African teak hardwood between your feet, place the stiletto of my black Louboutin on your chest, press just hard enough to cause discomfort.

“Pay attention, Jonathan. First, and most important, never ever sign anything without reading it all, every paragraph and subheading, every line of fine print. You’d think your father would have taught you this by now.” You open your mouth to protest, but I grind my heel into your chest and you snap your teeth closed. “I’m going to read this to you, Jonathan, and you’re going to listen. It’s very simple, really.”

I lean forward, and your eyes widen as I intensify the pain. And still, your eyes flit to the curve of my calf where the deep jade of the Valentino dress has pulled up to just beneath my knee.

“Pay attention, you twit. Keep your eyes on mine, not on my legs.” I ease off so you can listen. “‘By signing this document, the signees agree to the following stipulations as they pertain to both the contractor, hereafter referred to as Madame X, and the client, Jonathan Edward Cartwright III. Item number one: Neither Madame X nor the client shall in any way refer to or discuss with anyone this contract or the services provided, nor the stipulations or conditions contained herein. Item number two: Remuneration to Madame X shall be carried out via electronic bank transfer from the accounts of Jonathan Edward Cartwright II to the accounts of Indigo Services, LLC, the terms of which shall not be added to, enhanced, changed, or in any way amended by either Madame X or the client. Item number three: The services provided by Madame X, acting as a subcontracting agent for Indigo Services, shall not include sex acts of any kind, whether oral, manual, or penetrative, and such acts shall not be inferred, requested, or demanded by either Madame X on behalf of Indigo Services or by Jonathan Edward Cartwright III nor any representatives of the client. Item number four: The particulars of this contract as pertain to the educational services provided shall remain under the authority of Madame X alone, and may not be challenged, defied, or protested by the client or his representatives, and to in any way seek to alter or challenge the educational program and any methods used shall result in the termination of the contract, which shall result in a termination fee equal to the total estimated billable program hours provided at inquiry, plus a grievance fee of thirty-five percent of the total. Item number five: The educational program pamphlet provided at inquiry is a licensed, copyrighted, and legally protected proprietary document. The pamphlet and its contents shall not be copied, distributed, or in any way communicated to anyone not named in this contract. Breach of this item shall result in immediate termination of the contract, resulting in all of the attendant termination fees, as well as any and all actions necessary to punish copyright infringement.’” I pause and glance at you, and see that you have indeed been listening, and that you also wish you’d read the contract, and, probably, the pamphlet. “Well, Jonathan? Any questions?”

You shake your head. “No. No. I see that I was in error by not reading the contract. I’m sorry, Madame X. I hope I didn’t insult you.”

I smile generously and withdraw my foot from your chest. You rub at the sore spot with a palm, and I am dismayed to see that your hand shakes as you do so. “Did you read the pamphlet, Jonathan?”

You shake your head again. “No, no, I didn’t.”

“Stop wasting words. Say what you mean, and only that.”

“Okay.”

“Not ‘okay,’ Jonathan; ‘yes, Madame X.’” It is a test; if you actually obey me, respond with such sniveling submissiveness, then you will have failed the test, and failed it miserably.

Your eyes narrow and you take a deep breath. “You’re playing games with me.”

I smile at you, and this is my razor-blade smile, my predator smile. You shrink away from me as I lean in, and your eyes go to my cleavage. “Eyes on mine, Jonathan,” I snap. “You don’t get to look at me like that. You haven’t earned it.”

“Earned it?” There is hope in your voice.

Pathetic boy.

I put my hands on the back of the couch, on either side of your head. My face is inches from yours, and I can smell your putrid breath, and I can tell you didn’t bother to brush your teeth this morning. I do not even know where to start with you, how I can even begin to salvage your entitled, spoiled, lazy, passive personality. I stare you down until you look away and try to bury yourself into the couch cushions.

When I know you will listen, I straighten and stand with my spine stiff and my head high, literally and figuratively looking down my nose at you. “I am not being paid to be nice to you, Jonathan, so I’m not going to be. I am being paid to teach you how to be a man. How to sit, stand, speak, eat, drink, and think like not just some rich and lazy little bastard, but like the heir to a multibillion-dollar company. I wouldn’t give you the time of day otherwise, Jonathan. I wouldn’t look at you twice. I wouldn’t even bother to smile at you if I saw you at a bar, or on the street. You exude incompetence. Your entire bearing and attitude says you don’t give a single shit how you’re perceived.”

“I thought I wasn’t supposed to care?” you ask.

“Wrong. You must always be aware how you are perceived. Appearing as if you’re so confident in yourself that the opinions of passersby don’t matter is one thing, and that is what you’re after: the appearance of casual confidence, the appearance of insouciance and just enough arrogance to be attractive.” I gesture at you with a finger, sweeping up and down to indicate you as a whole. “Right now, Jonathan? You stink. Your breath is rancid, and you’ve put on far too much overpriced, low-quality cologne. That all by itself is a turn-off. No woman will ever want to be around a man who can’t even remember to brush his teeth before he meets her. And that’s just my olfactory impression. You’re deferent and submissive, yet utterly arrogant. You didn’t bother to read a contract you signed, so you don’t even know what it is you agreed to. This tells me you’re hopelessly lazy and totally incompetent. You have no bearing, no presence. I have no desire to spend another moment in your company, not for anything. You bored me with talk of football, of all things. In a word, Jonathan Cartwright, you are pathetic. We’re done here.”

I point at the door, and you stand up, visibly angry now.

“You can’t talk to me like this—”

“I most certainly can. I do not need you. I have a client waiting list two years long. I did not seek you out; your father sought me out, because you are hopeless. Your father, now . . . he has presence. When your father enters a room, people notice. When he speaks, people listen. And yes, that is due in part to the fact that he’s one of the wealthiest men in the country. But how do you think he earned his wealth? By sitting around and watching football? By coasting along on his father’s coattails? No! He demanded that his peers take notice, and they did. He demands attention and respect simply by merit of who he is. You . . . do not.” I twist the doorknob and pull the door open, gesture to the foyer and the elevator beyond. “Go away, Jonathan, and don’t bother coming back unless you can learn basic hygiene at the very least, if not how to make interesting conversation.”