Isabella sits in front of the doors to Angelo Lord's office. The waiting room is bright, simple, clean lines with slick, modern furnishings. It is nothing like that which she had envisioned, and nothing like the last time she sat before the doors of an office. That was then, in her student life. Isabella used to wait for appointments to see the principal of Our Lady of Grace Catholic High School. Not because she was a difficult student, of course, but because in those days she was editor of the school newspaper, writer and publisher of the school year book and social media director for the Student Social Justice Committee. She was familiar with begging for permission, or arguing for funding, or pleading an injustice on behalf of others, but preferred to do it in writing. For some reason though, Mr. Caliban, the school principal, would always insist on speaking with her in person.

Some things change very little, she thinks as she looks down at the plaid kilt she is wearing. The kilt was part of her high school uniform at Our Lady of Grace. That was before the school board banned the girls from wearing skirts. The traditional blue and white plaid kilt, white blouse and blue tie was the signature uniform ever since the Jesuit priests founded the school back in the early twentieth century. Somehow, recently, it was decided that the uniform which, for over a century represented tradition and modesty, now stood for sexual temptation. Allegedly, the girls would hike the kilts higher than the permitted length just above the knees, so it was decided that it was the girl's fault that the male teachers were uncomfortable with the skirts, and they were banned—the skirts, not the teachers. Isabella blames it on Britney Spears. She wrote about it in an op-ed piece for the Rochester paper. Still, she got a barely worn kilt out of it, which has come in handy as one of the few skirts she owns.

And now, in this skirt, white blouse and a navy button up sweater, she sits, waiting at the door of Angelo Lord's office, as instructed. And now, when she hears the receptionist's chair move, she begins to feel a burn in her chest. And now, as the tall, slim blonde in a black pencil skirt and heels approaches her, looking more like a hostess at a steakhouse than an office receptionist, Isabella begins to sweat. And now, when the supermodel addresses her, saying, "Mr. Lord will see you," she feels her breath quicken. She dreaded the way Mr. Caliban looked at her back then, and now, she feels as though little has changed, except maybe the furniture. And the supermodel secretary.

Her eyes adjust to the midday light that spills through the wall of glass that overlooks San Francisco Bay. Backlit and shadowed, stands Angelo Lord. His frame is square and strong, like a statue of a Roman God—no, an emperor—in an Armani suit. He poses, legs apart, back to her, towering over his dominion of land and sea. Isabella hears the supermodel close the door behind her.

Without turning, he speaks. "What have you come for, Miss Measures?"

His tone is softer than she expects, yet his words have a bite to them.

"I have come to to see what might—please you, my—I mean Mr. Lord." Her words seem to stumble out. She is trying to be formal, but they come out jumbled, stuttering like she is reading a mangled script. Her words are swallowed by the room. "I mean—"

"What would please me is if you didn't come here to demand that I don't fire your brother." He is speaking to the window.

Now he moves. Angelo, slowly turns, first his head, then his body, to face her. His eyes travel down, then up again. There is no expression on his face, only a stern stare, but she knows there is judgement. He begins to pace, to circle her, his eyes, all the time, roving over her. Isabella maintains her gaze straight ahead, focusing on the scene beyond the glass wall, but she feels his eyes burning into her as he moves past her from behind. To her right now, then, at last, he stands in front of her.

"Miss Measures, let me ask you a question: which is more important, those rules and laws that caused your brother to lose his job, or in order to redeem him, that you give up your body to the same vice as did his lover?"

Isabella is puzzled. She doesn't understand the question, yet doesn't want to come across as being simple.

"Sir, I believe I would rather give up my body than my soul, if that is what you mean."

"I am not talking about your soul. Acts of compulsion don't account as mortal sins. You are not the only one who remembers their catechism lessons." His gaze, clearly, points out that she is dressed like a Catholic schoolgirl.

"What do you mean then?"

"Listen, I am not saying that I necessarily agree with it, but, answer me this: if someone was in a position that required that they sin in order to save another man's life, would that not be considered charity?"

"I guess it wouldn't be a sin, if it were charity."

"I am glad you see it that way. So, an act of compulsion, done in charity, might very well cancel the sinful nature of the act."

Isabella knows she is being led somewhere. She remembers watching a courtroom drama once, where the suave young lawyer skillfully traps the accused to admitting his crime on the stand. This guy is good, she thinks, yet she feels a twinge of excitement. She is starting to enjoy the melee.

"Have a seat, Miss Measures." He points to a chair in front of his desk. As she sits, he moves to the desk and, still standing, towers above her. She has three places to look: down at the floor, ahead at his crotch, or up to his face. All three are acts of submission, she realizes. Isabella turns her head to the left.

"I beg that you keep my brother employed here, and if that is a sin, well, I'll ask for forgiveness when I say my morning prayers." Now she looks up at him.

"Are you being ignorant or sarcastic? Sarcasm won't get you far around here, young lady."

"Then let me be ignorant, Sir." She smirks.

"Then let me explain it to the ignorant: your brother is fired!"

Angelo moves behind his desk, and resting his hands on the desk leans forward, like he is ready to pounce. She waits, watching his neck muscles tighten, his teeth bare. There is something more. He wants her to beg.

So she will play his game, for now. Sit pretty and ask: "is there nothing more that can be done to save his job?"

"If you can admit that there is no other way to save him, then perhaps you can consider this: that you, his sister, have the ability to change my mind, you have the means to save him, the means not available to any man," he stares at her, lets the dramatic pause have its intended effect, then, in a whisper, Angelo Lord says, "if you had to choose to either let me make love to you, or watch Claude suffer. What would you do?"

You dirty dog. So that's what you have up your sleeve. But she doesn't say that, not out loud. She tries  to not show her disgust, tries not to entertain the thought of her in his arms. It is not the the image of their embrace that is disgusting, after all he is an incredibly handsome man, it's the way he is using her, tricking her, bribing her. 

Then she thinks, and it pisses her off that she is even thinking this–but then again, maybe there is a truth here, a reality that she doesn't want to admit. What if it was her, Isabella, that was leading Angelo on? Unintentionally, of course, but what if he misconstrued her intentions as advances? She did, after all, instigate last night's email conversation. It was her, again, who brought up the word 'bribe' in the email. She considers her dress, the schoolgirl uniform look, chosen to represent modesty, so not to, as Lucy suggested, wear the same dress she wore on Friday, the one that caught the CEO's eye in the first place. What if she was the one who was throwing the dog a bone? What if this is all her fault?

"Ah, Sir, I didn't mean to have you think that I—I mean, I didn't want to play upon your weakness." As soon as the word leaves her mouth, she wants to retract it, wants a do-over. Weakness is not a word that one uses to describe Angelo Lord.

But there is no rage, only silence. A stare. From across the desk, still with his eyes fixed on her, he circles. His hands, like a stalking creature that slouches towards her, crawl along the edge of the desk. But in his eyes she sees a tenderness, almost fragile, possibly fear.

"Women are frail too," is his gentle response. He approaches her, and reaches his hand towards her, beckoning.

Isabella quickly stands and moves behind the chair, in what may be her last defence: "Women? Heaven help me! It is men who debase women and yet it is men who profit from us. You call us more frail than a man because we appear soft? Don't be fooled by false impressions."

"Well, I believe you. I believe that you are not a woman to be mistaken as frail. And I believe that you speak the truth. But a man is no stronger as his greatest fault."

Isabella is taken aback by his sudden humility. "I don't understand what you are saying, Mr. Lord. Please, make yourself clear."

"Clearly, I want to make love to you." Angelo steps closer to her again.

Isabella stumbles slightly, trying to take a step back. Here is this man, a man of power and prestige and purpose, and now she sees in his deep, dark eyes, the eyes of a boy, trapped, a prisoner of his longing. But instantly, she snaps back to the moment, thinking that this man can have any woman he desires, that he can't be in love with me, that he doesn't even know me. And what am I, just a little girl, trapped too, looking for an exit.

"My brother loves Juliet, and you tell me he has been fired over it."

"He won't be, Isabella, not if you love me."

"And I am to believe that? You aren't striking me as the most trustworthy person right now."

"Believe me. I have been honest with you by expressing my feelings."

Isabella moves around the office, pacing, looking for the place to make her stand, while Angelo circles her. It is a dance of courtship, of ritual, of dominance.

With her back to the wall, she cries, "you have no honor! I will never believe you! I will tell people about this, about how you are trying to trick me. Sign the papers to cancel Claude's termination, pick up the phone and give the orders, or I will tell the world what kind of man you are!"

Isabella feels her face flush with rage, but the anger is quickly replaced by a slap of regret. She can tell by the manner Angelo's shoulders drop, the way he exhales forcibly, and by the smile which grows across his face, that she has lost the battle. She may have enabled her own exit, but Claude, it seems, has lost.

"You naive little girl," Angelo begins, "you have no idea, do you? Who will believe you Isabella? My name is unsoiled, my life austere, my supporters devoted. It is my word against yours, and, my dear child, your word is nothing. Your accusations will only smell of calumny. No, you can redeem your brother by giving me what I want, or you can choose to help him and his pregnant bride-to-be by packing their bags and giving them a lift to go collect their food stamps. Think about it girl. Answer me by tomorrow, before my passion for you turns to even more anger against your brother."

There must be a remote control for his door, because the moment he finishes his speech, there is a click and the office door begins to open. Isabella is allowed to exit, but not before she hears, "go ahead and say what you want, but remember who you are dealing with. My false outweighs your true."