An Impossible Request

I stood in front of an apartment on Central Park West, directly overlooking the park. This was my first time visiting Mr. Alonzo’s home, though he had come to my ridiculous efficiency apartment a couple of times. I expected him to live in luxury, but I wasn’t expecting him to live in my dream.

Yes, my dream: one day, I would hit the jackpot, become rich, and buy an apartment overlooking Central Park with floor-to-ceiling windows. I would sip red wine while watching the city, thinking about my old, poor self—meaning me, now.

Okay, Alice, focus on what matters. You’re about to make a ridiculous spectacle of yourself in front of a multi-billionaire. But your family is more important than your tiny sense of dignity or integrity. If you have to throw yourself at his feet and beg, does it really matter? If it saves your family, it doesn’t.

I kept pep-talking myself about how little I cared about disgrace and how easy everything becomes once a person has nothing left to lose. But when I entered the building and security escorted me to an elevator that carried me to Mr. Alonzo’s top-floor duplex, all my courage and carefreeness evaporated. The elevator opened directly into his apartment, and I was shaking like a leaf in the wind. The weight of what I was about to ask pressed down on me. Every cell in my body screamed to run, because for my entire life, I had lived for my pride. Yet here I was, preparing to serve that pride on a golden platter to ensure my family’s safety. It was a price that could cost everything I owned, but I didn’t care.

A butler—the exact embodiment of the word—with a black frock coat and a British accent, welcomed me inside. A little cliché, but I suppose that was standard for the ultra-rich. He guided me through lavish corridors adorned with expensive artwork and paintings. We passed a staircase with mahogany bannisters topped with horse-head figurines. White marble floors threaded with golden veins stretched into an enormous sitting area where the butler directed me. Full-length French windows embraced the sweeping city view, including Central Park. Of course. Why not?

Two large sofas sat there: a plush one facing the view, and a leather one facing a wall dominated by a massive entertainment center with a TV and various electronic devices I couldn’t name.

“Please wait here, ma’am. Mr. Alonzo will be with you in a minute.”

“Thank you.”

“Would you like something to drink?”

My eyes—still darting around the high-ceilinged parlor—caught the liquor cabinet built into the floor-to-ceiling bookcases opposite the windows. A stunning wine collection rested at its center. I didn’t picture myself sipping wine in front of the Central Park view while preparing for the hardest conversation of my life, but I can’t say the thought didn’t cross my mind—just to fulfill my impossible dream in some small, ironic way.

“Ma’am?”

“Oh, no thank you.”

The butler left, his high-stepping footsteps echoing against the marble floors and high ceilings. I tried to focus on the view outside to distract myself from the conversation ahead, but even the breathtaking skyline wasn’t helping. I rubbed my hands together, my slick palms sliding from nervous sweat.

Then a soft pair of footsteps sounded behind me. When I turned, I found Anton standing at the room’s entrance. He looked… different. Barefoot, in sweatpants and a T-shirt that hugged his broad chest. His biceps strained the sleeves, and the faint outline of his abs was visible beneath the thin fabric. His usually too-slick hair was messy and damp, as if he had just stepped out of the shower. No suit, no armor—just a man who somehow looked even more dangerous like this. He looked… sexy.

“Ms. Wonderland. To what do I owe this pleasure?” he asked in his usual grumpy tone, though this time a hint of curiosity threaded through his voice. He stepped closer.

“Hello, Mr. Alonzo. I needed to talk to you about a personal matter.”

“So it couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”

“No. It couldn’t.”

“I’m listening,” he said, folding his arms across his chest, making himself appear even larger. I looked at him, then at the floor, then back at him, unable to start.

“Would you like to sit?” he asked after watching my failed attempts at forming words.

“Yes, if that’s okay.”

“Sure, please.” He gestured toward the leather couch, and I sat without hesitation.

He took a seat on the other couch, leaving a wide stretch of space between us. Normally, I would have preferred the distance, but right now the room felt too big, and I didn’t want to shout my plea from across it. So I shifted closer to the end of my couch nearest his. He watched me move with raised, surprised brows.

Once closer, I caught a clean scent of musk and powder—probably his shampoo. When I looked up, his eyes were wide and his pupils slightly dilated. Damp strands of hair clung to his thick brows, framing his obsidian eyes. His chiseled jaw was set, a muscle ticking as he watched me. He looked carved out of shadow and heat—too intense, too handsome, too aware of me.  Damn Alonzo.

I took a deep breath, cleared my mind, and finally managed to begin.

“Mr. Alonzo—”

“Anton.”

“Pardon?”

“You can call me Anton when we’re alone and outside the office.”

He said it calmly. A warm feeling climbed from my stomach to my neck, like the moment in Hawaii when he first asked me to use his name. The last time we felt like two people—not waging this stupid war, but trying to understand each other. When had we drifted apart?

Stop, Alice. This is not the time to feel anything. This is a bargain.

“Anton.” His eyes fluttered closed for a heartbeat, and he leaned in slightly, as if he wanted to be closer. A rush of chills scattered down my spine and through my body, prickling like tiny needles, making me hyperaware of his attention. We felt like two magnets pulled toward each other, and if we got close enough, there would be no escaping the collision.

His focus settled on my face again. It was hard to speak when his eyes kept flickering between my face, my mouth, and my eyes, making me want… more.

“I am in need of a big favor,” I said, finally. “I know it’s too soon to ask as an employee—even if things were perfect at work, which they aren’t, considering I’m on the verge of being fired. But I have to ask anyway.”

“Okay…” he said, waiting for me to continue.

“I need a small advance payment.”

“Huh?” he asked, wearing the most surprised expression I had ever seen on his face. Not even when Alonzo Corporation’s stocks skyrocketed had he looked this shocked.

“I know I’m about to leave, but I can find ways to pay it back. We’re selling my father’s house. You can keep me as your assistant and stop paying me until the house sells. Once it does, I’ll repay everything at once—and you’ll never see me again.”

He stared at me, dumbfounded.

“Ever—and ever. I won’t bother you again. You’ll never see my face or hear my voice. Ever. I promise.”

His expression shifted from surprise to irritation. His thick brows tightened, and his obsidian eyes dropped to the floor, as though he’d heard something he didn’t like. But I couldn’t stop now; once I started, I had to finish.

“I only need $300k. It’s nothing to you, but it could save my life.”

“So because I’m rich, I can just throw money around? If this amount is so insignificant, why are you asking me?” he asked sharply. His words made me realize how stupid I sounded. Stupid, stupid Alice.

“No, I didn’t mean that. I just meant… you can afford it. And I’m not asking for a handout. I’ll pay you back with interest—whatever rate you want.”

“Why do you need this money?” he asked, his expression tightening into a mix of disgust and disappointment. God, it was excruciating.

To save my family from a cruel mafia and keep my father from being killed and my sisters from being hurt, I wanted to say. But I had already sunk so low—I didn’t want to lose what little dignity I had left.

“It’s personal. Can you give me the money?” His face hardened. This was the usual emotionless Anton Alonzo—the businessman. The one who made impossible decisions without blinking. This could be my last chance.

“Please, sir. I’m begging you. You’ll never see me again, I swear.”

A flicker of something—almost pain—crossed his face. It vanished as quickly as it appeared.

“No,” he said.

“No?” My voice cracked.

“No. I won’t give you this money. I’m sorry, Ms. Wonderland. I don’t do business with my employees.”

“But sir—”

“Conversation over.” He stood and gestured toward the door, arm extended in dismissal.

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