Morning, Prosers,

It has been a number of weeks since the Bookstore launched and we've been busy working hard to eradicate bugs and update some core features that our Partners need.

Today we have added a sales history page, found within your transactions page, so that Partners currently selling their books can see what sales they are making.

We are aware that the visibility of Partner (paid-for) books on the Bookstore may have hindered book sales so we have remedied that by making sure these books are now front and centre of the bookstore. People will be able to find your books easily, and all you need worry about is spreading the word via your social channels along with writing some badass content for those readers to enjoy.

However, this does not mean we are done with the bookstore. We are constantly evolving and we’re relying on you all to get in touch with your feedback. Without you guys, Prose wouldn’t be Prose.

So, what are we working on next?

A donate button. This will be on each and every post you make on Prose, Partners and non-Partners alike. If you read a post you like and enjoy and you want to show your support to a fellow author, you can donate as few or as many coins to them as you like. 

The donate button is a cool way for ALL Prosers to make money and to show fellow Prosers encouragement and appreciation for exceptional content.

If you have any feedback for us, please get in touch via email on info@theprose.com or direct message, we are always happy to hear from you.

Keep on doing what you do so well, writing.

Until next time,

Prose. 

Morning, Prosers, 

It's time for our regular instalment, Two for Tuesday. 

This week, after having a number of users asking this very question, we thought we'd share with you two tips for increasing your exposure and readership, both inside and outside Prose. 

Buckle up, take notes and prepare to be bowled over with the simplicity of these two pointers. 

1) Share. 

Sounds simple right? Yet many people overlook this exact thing. If you're already using mainstream social networks, leveraging your audience there will help you get more reads on Prose. We as a team do this with our own work. Not only does it increase reads, it also increases the likelihood that those visitors will keep popping back and reading your work without further prompts. Share to any platform you can. Text your friends the link. Email your contacts. If you get into a healthy share routine, these things won't take you long at all. Sharing the same piece multiple times in timed increments also helps. For instance, the "shelf life of a Tweet is up to 24 minutes," so even if you have hundreds of thousands of followers, if they don't see it in those crucial minutes, they probably never will. 

2) Interact / Engage

This might sound dumb, but it really is key. You get what you give. Especially on a platform like Prose. Prose is single-handedly the best platform for engagement and interaction. But to build up that trusty base of readers you have to give a little first. Read, comment, like, share. Show that support to your peers and they will support you. Plus, who doesn't want to read the awesome wordporn found upon our pages? 

While these two tips sound very self-explanatory, they are often overlooked. Give them a try, slot them into your routine, we promise it'll do the trick. 

Before we go we'd like to ask two things of you. 

Firstly, if you don't already, please follow us and encourage those around you to follow us. We promise we are not being attention whores! This is the easiest way for us to reach all of you with big announcements and such, and may help those of you who have questions or requests. If you're already following Prose, thank you, you could help us by reposting our posts so that we catch those that do not follow us. 

Secondly, and lastly, we know that there has been some confusion over coins. Coins are our in-house currency, paid for on the Bookstore with either PayPal or credit/debit card. Prose does not hold any of your payment details, these are completely secure with PayPal only. These funds can only be purchased on the website, but will be spendable on iOS in our next update (this is imminent). One coin is equal to one cent. Once you have your coins, you can buy premium content (books and shorts) from the Bookstore. These coins are shared between the author and Prose, and the author always comes out on top. Not only are you supporting your fellow Prosers' hopes and aspirations of being able to write full-time, but you are also enabling our small and humble team of 5 to work above and beyond full-time hours to continue writing the next chapters for the history of Prose and the freedom of its writers. We hope we can count on your support. 

Thank you to every single one of you for being here, and for making Prose the absolute shit. 

Until next time, Prosers, 

Prose. 

you were drunk when you told me

that i was beautiful and you were falling in love

but i knew that in reality

you just wanted to fuck me

it's peculiar because i would have been

nearly as satisfied to hear those words

than the lies you chose instead

at least you would have been honest

your words wouldn't be filled with deceit

maybe then i wouldn't have been so vulnerable

so ready to fall to my awaiting heartbreak

yet how can i know for certain you were lying

when your eyes shone like never before

the moment you claimed you were in love

Sebastian Chase was restless.

It didn’t help that his car had been stuck in a rush hour traffic jam for the past twenty minutes. Usually, he would be on his phone, or reading the business news on his tablet, but today he felt like a caged animal inside his large Lincoln town car.

He was on his way to a dinner. However, it was more of a business function than a social one. Unless he was dining a beautiful woman, he preferred his social interactions to have purpose, specifically one that would further his business goals. More business meant more work for more people.

Business. The well-oiled machine of commerce. That’s what he thought about most days.

Today was different. Instead, he wondered when was the last time he took a walk out in the sun. Golf games didn’t count — if you played with clients, technically that was still work. And Sebastian only ever played with clients, or business partners.

It was the same with all the parties he’d ever gone to. The Mattheson Bank was his family empire, so even family gatherings were business-related. At least, that’s how he’d come to think of them. His relationship with his father was not the most cordial, and neither was he particularly fond of his father’s siblings or their children. The only people he thought of as his family, other than his son Benson, were his mother and his brother Eric, and they were both gone.

It was at that moment that Sebastian realized what the date was.

“Connor, I’m going for a walk,” he told his driver.

“Sir?” If Connor Mills was surprised, he didn’t show it. It was part of his job. If Sebastian had suddenly asked him to wait outside a jewelry store while he robbed it, Connor would merely ask if Mr. Chase wanted him to keep the engine running.

“Please give my regrets to the Chapmans, and charge their dinner check to me.”

“Certainly, sir.”

Sebastian opened the door and stepped out the car. He didn’t know where he was going, not really, but that didn’t matter.

He consciously walked away from where everyone seemed to be heading, walking past restaurants, flower shops and banks. He remembered his brother Eric once told him he wanted to open up a small shop that sold nothing but socks. “Wouldn’t Dad throw a fit?” he’d said, laughing.

“Probably,” Sebastian had replied. “Then he’d come back after a month to check if your sales were improving.”

“Sadly, it seems you’re the only businessman in the family, Sebastian. I don’t think I’ll be good at anything. Maybe I should find me a nice hardworking wife, and I could stay home and cook for our kids.”

“So long as she doesn’t plan on selling socks, you should be fine.”

Eric and their mother passed away in a plane crash on this day five years ago. Eric had left a son, and a wife he’d been separated from a mere two years after they were married. Their mother only had him and Eric, having been divorced from Sebastian’s father since Eric was born. Sebastian was the only one who ever remembered she was in that plane crash too.

There would be no phone call from his father. No dinner on the anniversary of his mother and brother’s deaths. No words of consolation for each other. They didn’t do that sort of thing. They didn’t have a personal relationship, just a business one. All George Mattheson expected from him was a healthy growth in the family corporation, and a healthy heir to that corporation to take over after Sebastian retired.

It would just be another day for his father.

The streets were both familiar and unfamiliar to him. He may have passed through the area once or a hundred times, he wouldn’t know. Sebastian didn’t take walks, not really. He barely glanced outside when being chauffeured from place to place. He wasn’t hungry, but a sign on a coffee shop window caught his eye for some reason he couldn’t put his finger on. On impulse, he went inside.

It was not a fashionable coffee shop by any means. The décor was simple and old fashioned. The first thing that hit him was the familiar smell of cinnamon and bread. He took a seat at a table farthest from the door.

“What can I get you, hon?” said the waitress who appeared almost immediately after he sat down. She was thin and pale, and looked about forty. Her brown hair was pulled up in a bun. “The doughnuts are freshly made. They’re real good with coffee.”

“I’ll have one then,” Sebastian said. “And coffee.”

“I’ll be right back.” She looked tired, but her smile was warm.

According to her nameplate, she was Mabel. Sebastian didn’t even need to read it — customers called her by her name. She chatted up a couple of them on her way to the counter, asking how they were and if they wanted a refill on their coffee.

It didn’t take long before she was back with Sebastian’s coffee and doughnut. He nodded his thanks. As she moved away, an elderly man from the next table called out to her.

“Hey Mabel. How’s Jenni?” he said. “I heard you had to rush her to the hospital yesterday.”

“She’s fine, Cal. Spent two hours in the emergency room, and I was near out of my mind with worry. But the doctor changed her meds and she’s been fine since then. Thanks for asking,” Mabel said. “Thank goodness Victoria offered to take my shift yesterday.”

It was then that Sebastian realized why the name of the place seemed so familiar. He’d seen it on a resumé recently. The Foxhole. Current employer of one Victoria Slade.

“That was right sweet of of her, Mabel,” the elderly customer said.

“That girl is some kind of angel, I tell you,” Mabel said. “She had an appointment that same afternoon too. A job interview I think. Now that I think about it, I hope I didn’t make her miss it.” She shook her head and picked up an empty dish from the elderly man’s table. “More water, Cal?”

They say we live. We do not.

Life is not all sunshine,

For there is gloom awaiting.

For life is naught but bloody pain,

Peace is found on bloodstained wings,

Solace in death, peace in tragedy.

No one sees it, no one knows it.

Silent in cold halls, they lay in wait.

Remember. They are coming.

Be careful with whom, secrets to entrust,

Many will squeal what's privately discussed.

I do beseech,

Keep at arm's reach,

Trust me, for self-preservation you must.

Room full of people. Mouths moving. Scenes fast forwarding. Alone.

Smiles everywhere. Mouths moving more. Scenes changing slowly. Feeling nothing but alone.

Loving eyes staring. His beautiful mouth moving. Holding tight. Alone.

Scratching at chest. Pounding at head. Demanding to not feel alone.

Beautiful eyes staring. Little hands holding tight. Little mouths moving. Desperate to not feel alone.

Cinnamon.

The smell of spice lingered long after she had left the elevator. It was oddly mesmerizing, breathing in her scent as she stood close to him in the elevator. Sebastian could still picture the lights glinting on her dark red hair as she walked away. His gaze had lingered on the pale skin on the back of her neck, making him wonder what it would be like to touch it.

"Sir, don't forget your check," Frank said, pulling him out of his reverie. His assistant took out a cream-colored envelope from a folder he carried. "It's the one you signed yesterday, made out to the children's foundation. I know you hate bringing your checkbook with you."

"Thank you Frank," Sebastian said, putting the envelope in his jacket pocket. The elevator doors opened and they stepped out into the basement parking lot where a large grey limousine was waiting for them. "I suppose I can't just drop this off at the reception, can I?"

"You could. But if people see you getting chummy with the hospital board and personally handing them a check, they're more likely to give a donation of their own. You'll have plenty of time after your meeting to get to the fundraiser. Are you sure you don't want me at the meeting?"

"It's really more of an informal chat with the British ambassador, Frank. I'll need you here to help Callie prep for the meeting next week for the Beijing deal. Her new assistant can barely keep up with her."

"Yes, sir."

One of Sebastian's bodyguards, Selene, opened the limousine door for him. "Mr. Chase," she greeted him as he got inside.

"How is your mother, Selene?" he said as she sat down across from him.

"She's fine, sir. Thank you."

They rode in silence, and Sebastian's mind went to the impromptu interview with the latest applicant for the tutoring job. It was a pity Ms. Slade did not pass muster. Her resume wasn't bad. Cum laude graduate of English at a respectable university. A master's degree in Comparative Literature. Bylines in the local papers. Nothing too grand, but her essays were thoughtful and sharp. He had read an article of hers published two years ago titled "Are we raising our sons to be boys or men?" and this was what prompted him to shortlist her among the applicants for the job. In the piece, she described how society has been teaching toxic values of masculinity, producing boys unprepared for a modern, more progressive age of gender equality.

He'd been raised that way, and he hated it. His father, a patriarch — in every sense of the word — of an old Texas banking dynasty did his best to mold Sebastian into his image.

Benson deserved better.

When Benson's father — Sebastian's brother Eric — passed away five years ago, and his mother permitted Sebastian to adopt the boy, Sebastian swore he would do good by his nephew. He had made sure to raise him with better values than what he himself had been forced to live by growing up.

Now his adopted son was ten years old, and while he seemed happy and healthy, Sebastian worried about the lack of a female role model in his life. Sebastian had no other siblings, and doubted he would be getting married any day soon. He thought the best solution was to hire a female tutor and companion for him. His son was enrolled in the best private school, and the curriculum was challenging enough that most of their students had tutors.

There was no question about whether or not to hire Ms. Slade. He could never abide by tardiness. When a person acted with discipline, it was a reflection of a disciplined mind. Which was what he needed in a tutor for his son Benson.

Sebastian had three other interviews lined up for the job. He was sure Ms. Slade would find a position elsewhere that would make the most of her talents, but for now that position wasn't that of tutor to his son.

"You seem to care for your son very much. I hope you find what you're looking for."

He felt an emotion nearly overwhelm him, and he realized it was regret.

It was something he hadn't felt for a very long time.

***

"Tell me again why you aren't trying acting? Lots of aspiring screenwriters try to get a break that way," Victoria said. "I mean, look how well it worked for Matt Damon and Ben Affleck. And Sylvester Stallone."

Her best friend and roommate Nicolette rolled her eyes delicately, in a way that very few girls are able to. "Are you kidding me? Can you imagine the really horrible lines I'd have to work with until I get to work in a decent production?"

"Most actors just have to go through it at the start, I think."

"Most actors have the patience for it," said Nicolette.

She had a point, Victoria thought. Nicolette wasn't the kind of person to do anything she wasn't crazy about. She was either all in or not at all. This explained much of her career trajectory: make mad money working as an escort while (in her words) her ass was still pointed the right way, until she got her scripts on theater screens across the country.

She and Nicolette were hanging out in Nicolette's bedroom watching movies. It was their favorite thing to do together. They didn't get a lot of time together because Nicolette worked mostly at night and Victoria worked during the day, so on the rare occasions they were both free, they made sure to schedule some quality girl-bonding time. Tonight, they were having quiche from the corner bakery, and watching Old Boy, one of Nicolette's all-time favorite films. As they'd already seen it together about fifty times, they were having a light discussion about Nicolette's writing career.

"Plus," Nicolette added, "do you know how my clients like to talk about their lives?"

"Yeah, you mentioned that." Victoria laughed, recalling the stories Nicolette would tell her about the men she'd go out with at her job, ranging from hilarious to creepy to just plain sad. One of them had her over to cook him Thanksgiving dinner because he couldn't celebrate it with his ex-wife and estranged children. A terrible cook who prided herself in this particular non-talent, Nicolette ended up serving burnt turkey and soggy mashed potatoes, but the 45-year-old investment banker was so happy he cried.

"I get a glimpse into the lives of the rich, powerful, and sometimes sad men and women of L.A.," said Nicolette. "It's the stuff great movies are made of."

"I love that I get to talk to you about these things," Victoria said. "I never get to meet anyone rich and powerful. Well, hardly ever." She suddenly remembered blue eyes and dark hair. "Hey, actually I did meet someone like that today."

"At the coffee shop?"

Victoria shook her head. "Job interview."

"I didn't know you had a job interview today. How did it go?"

"Not well. Disastrous." Victoria sighed.

"I'm sorry, sweetie," Nicolette said. "I'm sure you'll find something soon. So, this guy interviewed you?"

"Yeah. Some big brass over at Mattheson Bank downtown, the corporate office. I was late."

Nicolette frowned. "Must have been really big brass — a VP or CEO or something — if he gets to interview his kid's tutor at work."

"I'm pretty sure his tie costs more than what I make in a year. Anyway, I had to practically run after him and try to convince him he should hire me." She winced. "That was probably not the best move."

"You didn't try to sit on his lap, did you?"

"What? No!" Victoria laughed. "I jumped in his private elevator with him. The receptionist looked like he was about to get a heart attack."

"That's not something I would ever imagine you'd do, Vic." Nicolette eyed her suspiciously. "Was he hot?"

Victoria bit her lip and nodded. "Oh my God, is that why I ran after him?"

Nicolette burst out laughing. Victoria groaned, fell backwards on the bed and covered her face with a pillow.

"You know, if you find yourself running down hot bankers in hallways, it may be a sign you really need to get laid. Like, soon," Nicolette said.

"I know!" Victoria's voice was muffled from the pillow over her face.

"It's been two months, babe." Nicolette grabbed the pillow and her face hovered over Victoria's. "You're not still hung up over Jason, are you?"

"What? No!" Victoria tried to grab the pillow from Nicolette, who pulled it away from her reach.

"Oh really? Have you seen anyone since then?"

Victoria gave up trying to get the pillow back. "I've been busy. I'm job-hunting, remember?"

"Fine," Nicolette said. "But once you get a proper job, I'm setting you up with some guys I know."

"I thought you said a girl doesn't need a boyfriend."

"What is this, the 19th century? I didn't say anything about a boyfriend. All I'm saying is sex will do you some good."

"Is that why you're always so bright and cheerful?" Victoria teased. She picked up a mushroom and artichoke quiche. "Because of all the sex you're having?" She grinned evilly.

"Damn right it is. And I'm going to make sure you're getting some soon, even if I have to pay for it."

Victoria nearly dropped the quiche she was in the process of biting into. "Really, you'd do that?"

"How about we see if anyone will do you for free first." Nicolette pretended to look her friend over with a critical eye.

"I don't know. I think I smell like doughnuts. Is that a thing men like?" Victoria sniffed the front of her shirt. When she first started work at the Foxhole, she enjoyed the aroma of coffee and pastries. After a couple of weeks, however, it started to get old. And stick to her clothes and hair.

Nicolette sighed. "You seriously need a new job."

"I'm so sorry I'm late, Vic," said Mabel Jones. She was flushed and a little sweaty as she tied her apron on, having just rushed over five blocks.

"Don't worry about it, Bel. I'm happy to do it," said Victoria Slade. She began to untie her own apron, the same brown one that had the name of the coffee shop "The Foxhole" printed on it in white. Her eyes were soft with concern. "Is Jenni going to be okay?"

"Yes, she's better now. I'll have to take her back to the doctor tomorrow for another checkup, but at least her wheezing had stopped. Thanks so much for taking over my shift." Mabel gave Victoria a tight hug. "I've had too many absences this month, I'd probably have gotten fired if you hadn't covered for me."

Victoria could see the faintest sign of tears in her friend's eyes. Clearly her daughter Jenni's latest asthma attack had been pretty bad, and had left her shaken. "Are you sure you're going to be okay? Because I'm happy to work your whole shift if you need to be home."

"No, no, I'll be fine. You better get going, you have that job interview this afternoon. Oh dear, can you still make it?"

"I think so." Victoria looked up at the wall clock behind them. Three thirty. She had half an hour to her interview, which meant she had no time to go home and get dressed.

Five minutes later, in the locker room, she was trying to smooth the wrinkles on her grey skirt. Her black top was of a soft lightweight wool that didn't need pressing, however, it was old and a little shabby. Not the ideal attire to a job interview, but it would have to do. Her long wavy auburn hair hadn't been properly washed since yesterday, and it smelled like turnovers, so she had hurriedly tied it up in a bun. She still had a chance to make the interview, and for that she was thankful. When Mabel called her at noon to ask if she would take over her shift for a couple of hours, she didn't hesitate. Victoria needed to get the job she was interviewing for, but Mabel needed the café job even more. She had a sickly six-year-old daughter at home whom she was raising by herself: there was no one else to take her to to the hospital whenever she had one of her asthma attacks.

When she got to Third Street, Victoria's eyes scanned the high rise buildings above her. She wasn't familiar with L.A.'s financial district, and she would have looked up the map online if she had the time. She looked at her watch for the third time in the past minute: three fifty-five. She looked up again and after a moment, she finally spotted the address.

The Mattheson Building loomed tall and stately, all gleaming glass and steel in the L.A. sunshine. Victoria's misgivings about her clothes increased as soon as she walked into the elegant and richly appointed lobby. It was like stepping into a box of expensive French chocolates, except the place may have smelled even better. Her pace slowed down, every step an apology to the pale cream marble floor with gold flecks which her cheap flat shoes had no business touching.

As she pressed the elevator button for the 55th floor, it suddenly dawned on her that it had to be a mistake, this job interview. People who had offices on the 55th floor didn't hire tutors who advertised on community newspapers and questionable online ad websites, which was the only places she could afford to post ads for her services as a tutor. She did try an agency, but they wouldn't take her for her lack of experience. She was fresh out of graduate school, and trying to make ends meet with freelance magazine writing jobs and her stint at the coffee shop.

The 55th was even more luxurious than the lobby. A chandelier graced the high ceilings, and sofas in rich leather rested on thick-piled carpeting around the round receptionist desk where a man and a woman sat, both on the telephone, as she walked towards them. Whoever it was she was interviewing with, they could definitely afford her rates.

The man saw her approach, and she gave him a nervous smile. While he nodded in return, he continued his phone conversation.

Victoria waited, but a minute passed before the man finally hung up.

"Hi. I'm Victoria Slade," she said. "I have an interview for the tutor position at four." She grimaced. "I'm so sorry I'm late."

The man smiled pleasantly. "Unfortunately, Ms. Slade, it's ten minutes past four," he said. "Mr. Chase is no longer available to see you."

Her heart sank. "I can wait. Or perhaps we could reschedule? I'm willing to come back anytime that's convenient." Who did he say it was? "Anytime it's convenient for Mr. Chase," she added.

He smiled at her sympathetically. "I'll see what I can do. However, Mr. Chase is extremely busy, and I highly doubt he would be willing to schedule another appointment."

"Is that him?" She pointed to a tall man in a suit emerging from a door on their left. He was followed by a lanky, younger man carrying a briefcase and some folders.

"Yes, but—"

"Mr. Chase!" she called out, walking toward the man as fast as she could without running.

"Ms. Slade, please—" the receptionist started to say, but she didn't hear the rest of it.

When Chase met her gaze, Victoria nearly froze.

She had fully expected him to be some middle-aged man, since the job she had applied for was as a tutor for a fifth grader. So it was a bit of a shock to find a man who couldn't possibly be older than thirty-five or thirty-six.

Nothing prepared her for the intensity of his blue eyes or the perfection of the rest of his face. His light gray suit looked like it had been molded on to his trim figure by one of the renaissance sculptors. Michelangelo, maybe. Her knees turned to jelly under her, but something about him kept her moving inexorably forward. It was almost like gravity.

"Yes?" he said.

"I, uh," she stammered.

He raised an eyebrow, but didn't break a stride.

"Hi, I'm Victoria Slade," she said, finding her voice. "Your four o'clock? I know I'm late but—"

"Punctuality doesn't seem to be a priority for you, Ms. Slade." He brushed past her.

"I apologize," she said, walking beside him. It was hard to keep up with him and his long legs, but she did the best she could. "I thought perhaps we could reschedule. I'll come back anytime—"

"Your resume says you work at a coffee shop," he said, interrupting her again. "Is that the best you could do with your masters degree?"

"No. I mean, I've stated in my resume that I also write for magazines."

As they walked past the reception desk, the man behind it gaped at her silently.

"You do freelance writing," Mr. Chase said. "And you don't make enough that you have to wait tables at a coffee shop, and now do tutoring work?"

"I have to make ends meet, Mr. Chase. Writers don't exactly get paid as much as hedge fund managers."

"No, but surely a woman of your intelligence and credentials should be able to manage her career and finances better."

"I don't understand. What does that have to do with the tutor position?"

They were walking toward an elevator. It had wider doors than the others, and was positioned farther away from the other. A personal lift, perhaps? His assistant rushed ahead of them and tapped a card on a panel on the side, and the doors opened silently.

"I'm looking for someone to entrust my child's educational care. I cannot give it to someone who can't seem to take care of their own financial well-being. Or," he said, looking at her pointedly, "can't seem to show up for a job interview on time."

She opened her mouth to argue, and realized she had nothing to say to that.

He got inside the elevator with his assistant, leaving her standing outside.

Victoria wasn't sure what possessed her, but in a moment of impulse, she dashed inside the elevator before the doors closed.

"Ms. Slade, what are you doing?"

I don't know, she thought. It was as though she was compelled by forces beyond her control.

"I, uh ..." she stammered. Great going, Slade. Really articulate. She cleared her throat. "Mr. Chase, I completely understand how you feel."

"Do you?" He nodded to his assistant. "Let's go, Frank."

His assistant pressed a button for one of the basement floors. The elevator doors closed and they began their descent.

"I'm not an economics or finance major," Victoria continued, seeing as he made no move to kick her out of the lift. "I'm pretty good with numbers but horrible with money. As a matter of fact, I only like money as much as it can pay for my groceries or my car insurance. But I don't think your child needs a financial advisor right now. What he needs is someone who believes in the importance of learning, someone well-rounded who can make him see how different areas of knowledge are connected. Help him see how education is relevant to real life."

Chase didn't look at her as she spoke. He kept his eyes on the doors of the elevator, his face expressionless. Was he bored? Was he even listening to her?

"I think you want this for him," she added. "This is why you asked me to come for this interview despite the fact that I've had no experience. The reason you considered hiring me was because of my educational background in English and Literature, and the fact that I write for science magazines."

She studied his face, waiting for a response. Nothing.

"You didn't hire an experienced tutor because he probably already goes to school run by highly paid teaching professionals," she said. "But you want him to acquire an imagination, which is why you want to hire me."

"Anything more, Ms. Slade?" he said, still not looking at her.

"Uhm, no. That's it."

"I see. Frank, we'll be dropping Ms. Slade off at the first floor."

"Yes, sir."

She watched Frank push the first floor button, and her heart sank.

"My apologies, Ms. Slade, if you were under the wrong impression about this job," Chase said. "I'm looking for someone to take responsibility for my son's education outside of school. His school demands much from him, and I want to make sure he is able to keep up with these demands. I don't believe you and he will make a good fit. Thank you for your time."

"Oh. I see." She had hoped he would at least tell her he would think about it and get back to her, but this was clearly a man who didn't like to waste time. Disappointment felt like a physical lump in her throat, but she straightened her back, looked him in the eye and forced herself to smile.

"I understand. Thank you for your time, Mr. Chase."

When the elevator opened at the first floor, she walked out. But a sudden thought made her stop and turn. "You seem to care for your son very much," she said. "I hope you find what you're looking for."

Victoria turned and walked away just as the elevator doors began to close.

Well, that was that. She did her best, at least. She was still surprised at how she had jumped into that elevator without a thought in her head. They could have thrown her out the building for that.

What were you thinking, Slade?

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

To be continued.