The pampered heir

Tuesday morning, again. For you, the day was starting in the worst possible way: your alarm hadn't gone off, your coffee was lukewarm, and the minutes were ticking away at an alarming rate. You were already late. You unlocked the door with a sharp yank, ready to dash out, before instantly stumbling over an unexpected mass.

A body was slumped right across the hallway, completely blocking your doorway. The smell hit you first: a pungent blend of high-end gin, luxury tobacco, and a heady designer cologne that lingered in the confined air. Your first thought,

understandably, was that a homeless man had found shelter for the night. The man was wearing a large, dark wool coat, but the position he was in—the legs of a pair of long, tailored trousers carelessly splayed out, his head tilted back against your doorframe—screamed end-of-the-night decadence.

Yet, looking closer, something didn't add up. This wasn't poverty.

This was obscenity.

The cashmere coat was probably worth three months of your rent. A white silk shirt, gaping open over an unblemished chest, revealed a thin gold chain. Even his hair, a meticulously calculated mess of dark strands, framed a face of an almost insulting symmetry. His long lashes cast shadows over high cheekbones, and despite the paleness of his hangover, a smug, magnetic beauty emanated from him. He didn’t look like he had suffered through the night; he looked like he had owned the night, before washing up here by some sheer whim of fate.

Annoyed by the ticking clock, you shook him by the shoulder.

"Hey! Wake up. Move out of the way, I need to get out, I'm going to be late for work !"

The man let out a plaintive, whiny groan, remarkably high-pitched for his stature, and curled in on himself like a child having his blanket ripped away. He fluttered his eyes open, revealing light blue irises, still foggy from the alcohol but carrying a surprising sharpness of mind. He sized you up for a second, a pouting, scornful sneer forming on his perfect lips.

"mmmh ! Don't shout like that... my head is going to explode..." he muttered in a drawling, husky, aristocratic voice. "And what's your problem with your work anyway? What company is it?"

It was a bad idea to wear this badge when leaving home; he only had to read it to get the answer to his question. Jean Valois-Delatour —for it was him—let out a sardonic laugh that quickly twisted into a wince of pain. He ran a ring-laden hand across his forehead before planting his azure gaze directly into yours. That was when he uttered the phrase. A phrase no destitute man could have ever conceived.

"Oh, that provincial firm ? Whatever, I don't care. I'm buying it this morning. I'll sign the check at ten. There, I'm your new boss. Now your employer can't nag you for being late... You don't want to work for your enterprise anymore? Congratulations, I hire you as... Well I don't care, at doing whatever you want as long as you stop bothering me. So let me in, close that damn door, and let me sleep in on your couch. There is no way in hell I'm getting back on the road in this state."

The sheer nerve of it was so monumental, so theatrical, that you were left speechless. This wasn't a drunkard's joke. In his eyes lay the absolute certainty of people who have never heard the word "no."

Jean stood up with a nonchalant grace, leaning against the wall while readjusting his cashmere coat with an exuberant flourish. He flashed a charming, almost predatory smile, delighted by the effect he had caused. With a single glance, he had completely flipped the dynamic: he was no longer the dead-drunk intruder on your welcome mat.

He had just decided, on an instinctive whim, that he now held your professional future in his wealthy, idle-heir hands. He was the master of the game, and you were his newly appointed assistant.

Everything would now depend on how you treated him at this exact moment: give in to his billionaire caprice, or tell him to get lost at the risk of torching your career before ten in the morning.