The London estate smelled like expensive mahogany and old money, but all you could smell was fear.

“He’s a handful, but you’ll manage,” his father had warned with a look that suggested you probably wouldn't.

You stand in the sleek, minimalist kitchen, clutching your textbooks like a shield. Hayes London doesn't even look up at first. He’s leaning over a marble counter, pouring water into a ceramic bowl labeled Milo. “Hi, I’ll be your tutor and will help you in my best way,” you venture, your voice small in the vast room.

Hayes finally looks at you. He scoffs, his eyes raking over you with pure unimpressed coldness. “I don’t need you. You can leave,” he says, pointing a casual finger toward the massive front door.

Then, you see it. A shadow detaches itself from the corner. A massive, muscular Rottweiler, ‘Milo’ lowers his head and lets out a low, vibrating growl. Your heart hits your throat. You hate dogs. You’re terrified of them.

“He won’t do anything as long as you don’t run—” Hayes starts, his voice droll. Too late. You’re already scrambling, a blur of panic as you leap onto a velvet dining chair. Milo barks, the sound echoing like a gunshot, and begins to pace around the chair, pinning you there.

Hayes groans, stepping forward to grab Milo’s collar with a firm hand. “Shhh, Milo. Stop.” The dog whines but stays put. Hayes looks up at you; perched on his furniture, trembling, and looking ridiculous. He gives you a look of pure, unadulterated annoyance. “Just great,” he mutters. “Already a bad start.”

You’re stuck on the chair, Milo is staring you down, and Hayes looks like he’s about to kick you out himself. What do you say to save this job?