Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 115198 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 576(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115198 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 576(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
“Excuse me, Mr. Weston, not everyone gets to live off their grandparents’ money for the rest of their lives. Working for a living is hard. Sometimes we sullied masses will make mistakes and take a pack of gum!”
I don’t love the implication that I don’t work, that I’m trying to breeze through life on my inheritance, but I understand why she sees it that way. The truth behind everything isn’t important right now, and if this goes the way I hope it will, this will be an easy twelve days together and then we’ll never have to see each other again. “Anna, are you available to do this? Please. I will pay all your expenses. I will even give you some money if you need to buy clothes.”
She sits up, self-consciously straightening her ancient T-shirt with its frayed hem. “I have clothes.”
I’m skeptical that we mean the same thing. She’s removed the Froot Loop from her breast, but the ketchup stain on the collar remains.
Anna points at me again. “Okay, I see that look, and so let me ask: what manner of clothes are required on this trip?”
I sigh. “My mother keeps a pair of Gucci slides by the back door to wear to take the recycling out.”
“I’m proud of her for not making the butler do it.”
“He gets off work at six.”
Her expression deflates. “Oh.”
“So, an all-expenses-paid trip and a clothing allowance. Do we have a deal?”
Anna opens her mouth to respond and then closes it again, eyes narrowing shrewdly. “No way. That isn’t enough.”
It isn’t… enough? I look around her apartment like, Are you fucking kidding me?
“Ten thousand dollars after our divorce is fine,” she says, “but I think you should also pay me for my time. This is separate and I’m sure you didn’t think to put this in the contract. I won’t be able to search for a job while we’re on the private island.”
I consider this. “That’s fair. What’s your hourly wage? I’ll double it and pay you for two weeks of work.”
“No, no, no.” Anna sits up and runs her fingers under her eyes, clearing away much of the mascara there. She pulls her ponytail free and reties it. Both actions do wonders for how chaotic she looks. “This is much more demanding. I’ll have to act. I’ll have to learn about everyone I’ll be meeting. I’ll have to manage your complete lack of humor. I’ll have to hobnob. This is an entirely new skill set.”
“Name your price, then.”
She takes a deep breath through her nose, studying me. “Another ten thousand dollars.”
I gust out an involuntary laugh. “Done.”
Her eyes go wide. “That fast? Just”—she snaps—“like that?”
“Yes.”
“Then I want more.”
“Anna. You named a price, and I accepted it. This isn’t how negotiations work.”
“Says who? I could be perfectly happy spending those twelve days eating gummies and watching Conan the Barbarian. I have nothing to lose. Can you say the same?”
“What do you want, then?”
“What number would make you sweat a little?”
“I’m not—I don’t understand.”
“Sure you do,” she says, leaning forward. “Tell me an amount that would be just on the border of you saying no, but you’d still say yes. Is it twenty thousand?”
I try to sound very stressed-out by this. “Yes, that’s a lot of money.”
“You’re a fucking liar. Fifty.”
My jaw twitches. “I’d pay fifty.”
“Then pay me one hundred thousand dollars, West. Plus, a fancy clothing budget.” She holds out her hand for me to shake. “If you can agree to that, then we have a deal.”
Five
ANNA
It’s been five hours since West shook my shaking hand and left my apartment, and I’m not entirely sure what happens now. I still feel like I might vomit. He put his number into my phone—after reminding me that I should already have it—but the way he left things had a very “don’t call me, I’ll call you” vibe, and as my gummy wears off, the sense of oh shit what have I done starts to take hold.
Google tells me that West is the son of a billionaire, and a glance at my banking app tells me I am a thirty-dollaraire. We don’t exist in the same galaxy, let alone metaverse.
I haven’t been to a salon in months, haven’t shaved my legs in weeks, and haven’t carefully looked in a mirror in a few days, unless you count this morning’s passing glance in the toaster. (I do not recommend: Its curves turned my forehead into a sevenhead and stretched my day-old makeup halfway down my face.) Yet somehow, I’m supposed to convince a bunch of one percenters that I’m now one of them—have, in fact, been married to one of them for five years now? Guffaw!
To distract myself from this nebulous waiting game, I take a long shower, put on a hydrating mask I got at the dollar store, and consider painting my toenails before realizing it’s going to take a lot more than some Essie polish to clean me up. I’m going to need someone to come at these feet with pliers and sandpaper.