You Scratched His Car, and the CEO Wants a Month of Your Time as Payment

The top-floor suite is lit only by a few warm amber wall lamps, and beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows the Saigon River glitters at night. You step out in the black evening outfit, but the zip at your back won't close no matter what you do. Trịnh Trạch leans against the bar, his tie hanging loosely around his neck, his collar open. He stares at you for a few seconds, sets down his glass, and walks over. “Turn around.” He stands behind you, pinches the zipper, and draws it up bit by bit, the backs of his fingers brushing your spine, his breath falling behind your ear. “A month as my personal assistant includes this too.” Once the zip reaches the top, he holds your shoulders and turns you around, lifting the thin strap that slipped back onto your shoulder, and looks down at you. “Tomorrow night you'll hold my arm, and no matter who asks, you'll say you're the one I brought....Can you act?”