~PART 1| THE AGREEMENT~
The square electronic system that had been placed on the table was ghostly black. But then an old woman, mounted on the chair, rocking back and forth with gunmetal-grey-colored hair, that was also long and lush, switched the television on. The first channel was about an animal expert looking for endangered animals. Not having a single drop of interest, the woman transferred to another channel. And then to another, and then to another, and then to another until it reached her favorite channel. A smiling feminine face came into view. She was wearing a white pencil dress with paper in her hand.
“American fashion model; the face of the cosmetics company FemGirls and the American lingerie, clothing, and cosmetics retailer Victoria's Secret: Barbara Lang, and the only son of the CEO of Phillips Wine Estates: Jordan Phillips, were recently spotted in a hotel of Manhattan, holding hands,” the woman uttered in a first-class gossip before a picture of somewhat couple-like, covered her, whole.
“The American model said in her recent interview that the relationship was perhaps 'platonic',” the woman with ash-blond hair and slim waist, added. The rocking old lady smiled pleasantly, her eyes sparkling.
“Grandma, have you taken your meds already?” her granddaughter asked from the kitchen.
“If you mean that tablet with the ungodly and god-awful taste you've been forcing me to take, then yes,” her voice was as old as herself, she sounded like an old, worn record. Her granddaughter's lips moved into a quirk involuntarily.
***
Jordan or Jordan Phillips, was the only son and will soon replace his father; George Phillips, founder and CEO of the largest exporter of California wines; Phillips Wine Estate. He had been linked to several of the most attractive and stunning women in the industry. But not a single one of them he had promised a commitment. Despite the knowledge of Jordan being a womanizer and acclaimed playboy, women never learn to turn away from him. At least the very truth, they couldn't. He was the type of man who could make all the women to their knees. Physically fit. Oval-shaped dark eyes. Rich, tall, a face and a jawline that almost portrayed one of those Greek gods, and having such a body and talent to pleasure women. Most of the employees in the company call him 'Big boss'. Not only because of the idea of him inheriting such wealth but also because he was ruthless and unsympathetic to those who cross his border.
…
The white Rolls-Royce Phantom VIII pulled to a stop in front of a somewhat vast field. There were five houses there and the owners got outside to look. The chauffeur respectably got out of the vehicle and went over to the back. He opened the door and Jordan Phillips climbed down from his seat. He was wearing a four hundred dollar Chopard sunglass and a black Oxxford suit which only those who are financially uprising can ever afford. He fixed his suit luxuriously. The chauffeur quickly but carefully slipped the Arturo Fuente cigar to Jordan's soft but manly lips. And he then lit the edge of it. Jordan let out a curly smoke before he went down to the people with the chauffeur covering him with an umbrella.
The smiling short and bald European man greeted him and the other families began to cluster.
“Signore Phillips,” the ambiguous nature of his accent made him more of an Italian himself.
“Can I help you?”
Jordan puffs his cigar and he felt like he had the Los Angeles skyline wafting up into his eyeballs.
“I don't know, can you help yourselves?” he asked coldly.
"Pardon?” The guy's eyes narrowed.
“I'll be straightforward,” His tone was impersonal.
“My father decided to make this place a vineyard, so I want you and your families to depart from here.”
The families made voices in a low, almost inaudible tone, expressing their dissatisfaction.
“Signore Phillips, I am aware that your family owns this place and we're just tenants,” The guy said before a pause.
“But I'm also aware that you can't just evict us easily, or if we were to be evicted, it wouldn't take a day.”
He was speaking calmly, informally as if Jordan was an ordinary man. Jordan bent down, his hand flicked the spent ashes into a small hard stone.
He erected his body eventually.
“I didn't mention, you, leaving now.”
Without looking, he handed his cigar back to his driver and he slipped it inside the box.
“You have thirty days,” he uttered and turned around, the chauffeur following him, tensed. The families murmured once again before they called for Jordan.
“But what about our homes, Signore Phillips?” His voice sounded croaky.
Jordan pivoted his body to look back at him.
“Don't worry, we'll demolish it later,” he said coldly and continued walking toward the vehicle.
“But where are we gonna live?” he asked once again. The chauffeur opened the door. Jordan remained standing with a strange smile on him.
“That's not my problem, is it?”
Then he climbed in. Though he was already inside the car, he could still hear the cursing and rumbling voices of the families
“Merda! quel monello vanaglorioso,” one of the tenants said. She was small, fat, and probably in her forties. The car started and it drove away, leaving the angry and rumbling tenants.
A guest of the tenant, Jordan had talked to, moved quietly toward him.
“Who was that?” the guy asked.
“Jordan…Phillips,” the tenant uttered, pausing momentarily after each word.
“The Big Boss.”
***
Sydney Hepburn stood still and formally in front of a camera. It was her last scene and last line of a documentary. After that, she would be leaving for a date with her boyfriend who also works as a journalist. The cameraman gestured from a fist to an open hand.
“Whenever there's life, there's also death, indeed that is true. But we shouldn't forget that we, mere humans, have no right to kill each other. Innocent or guilty, Saint or sinner, killings shouldn't be considered as normal” said Sydney.
“This is Sydney Hepburn and I will see you next time, only here in Suing Suspects with Sydney Hepburn. Good night.”
“And cut!” the director said loudly. Then a makeup artist went towards Sydney, brushing her face.
“Good work Hepburn,” the director complimented her. Sydney smiled genuinely.
“Thank you,” she replied.
Her slender arms exceeded the standards of stereotypical femininity. Medium-sized breast with a body that almost imitated the body of an hourglass glass. Her hair almost reached the middle part of her back. For the past three years, Sydney has always been seen in the media. From her show to other related news. Yet, surprisingly, she still didn't seem that happy. Though everyone looks up at her with high respect, she still feels like sitting in a room at night by herself, like she was all alone. Her parents died in a car accident ten years ago and her younger sister was abroad. The only person that somehow made her feel less lonely was her boyfriend; Frankie Jones, who was also a reporter and a journalist. She was originally from a small village in North Carolina. Back in her town, she was seemingly more of a social person than when she transferred to New York City. Sydney had a lot of friends and companions back then when she was fifteen. They believe that Sydney was the most charitable and affectionate person they have ever knew, and she never failed to maintain that reputation.
***
Finding a restaurant with proper food, a nice atmosphere, and a hospitable staff was always a challenge for the couple. But Piccola Cucina Osteria was an exception. It was intimate and elegant; a less dim-lit space filled with tables varying from two-seater to a family. There were lights with the most exquisite designs. The decorations were perhaps the most creative thing Sydney had ever seen in her whole life.
They were sitting in a small booth and Frankie immediately asked for water to drink.
The hospitable Italian-looking came back, carefully holding the glass of water so it wouldn't spill. Then he passed them the black large one-sheet menu. They eventually handed it to the waiter.
“So how's your work?” she asked softly, silently reminiscing about the time they were still dating.
“As usual, exhausting,” he replied. “You?”
“It was moderate. I finished another episode and somehow it was pretty damn draining and filling at the same time,”said Sydney, an arm bent, her hand supporting her jaw.
“I interviewed Barbara Lang,” he said. His face was hiding his urge to burst in happiness.
“Really?” Sydney exclaimed. Barbara Lang was whom Sydney held high regards. Not only because she was beautiful but also she was kind and had helped people with physical needs.
“Did you ask for a picture?” Sydney asked. Frankie nodded silently, a strange smile on his lips.
“Oh my God!” she exclaimed once again, beaming and can no longer contain her happiness.
“She said she still couldn't figure out what her feelings are towards Jordan Phillips,” said Frankie. Her face shifted from happiness to great distress and she had never felt betrayed her whole life.
“You mean that Jordan Phillips?” she asked in a low voice.
“The one and only,”
“Shit!”
“I know you would say that,” Frankie chuckled. The waiter appeared with the bottle of wine and a plate of their desired dish. Sydney's face revealed how hungry she was, and it was obvious despite the dim light. Her eyes against the meaty Bistecca alla Fiorentina. She was about to shove into the meat but she realized how she would look less elegant and professional.
“This is good,” said Sydney, savoring the aftertaste.
“I feel like I can eat an entire meat of this.”
There was no one Sydney despised the most but Jordan Phillips. His reputation of being a despoiler of women was simply enough. She also heard rumors that the soon-to-be CEO was violent and hot-tempered. A braggart and full of pride. She never truly understands most of the girls; why they always choose those who have the most corrupted heart. Unlike the brat, Frankie, for her was the exact opposite. Gentle, kind, although a prideful partner, but his good qualities overthrow his bad.
***
Alone in his unit in the Westmont which made the whole city with live glowing dots, Jordan contemplated the view. His right hand holding a glass of martini. Then the doorbell rang. When Jordan opened the door, he found Barbara Lang, wearing a red lingerie nightgown. She glanced at the glass he was holding.
“Cold booze?” she asked, smiling as she straightened her spine to accentuate her breasts. Her eyes became moist as though she's been enchanted, which made her gaze more radiant. She began licking her vivid red lower lip from left to right, and every move she made was an indication of flirting. Jordan smirked at her and nodded.
“Do you want a cold one after?” she asked, raising the lower tip of her garment so he could see her thighs.
“Come in,” said Jordan, smiling. Baraba then moved and slipped into the small space that the door and Jordan's body had left. He then closed the door behind him and the next thing he could ever hear was her intimate moans and groans.
I have changed the male protagonist's name for a personal reason. Sorry for the inconvenience. I hope you understand. Enjoy!
