Trillion(20)

I grab the remote, cue to Netflix, and settle in on the sofa.

The opening credits of Emmeline’s favorite show—one about a college-aged escort living a secret double life in New York City—begin to play. I don’t know why she loves this show with its cheesy dialogue and second-rate acting, but I suppose we all have those themes that just resonate with us for whatever reason.

That and she loves the male lead. She’s had a mad crush on him ever since I took her to see one of his movies several years ago.

An italic subtitle flashes across the bottom of the screen—produced by Westcott Cinematic Enterprises.

I roll my eyes. How I never noticed that before is beyond me.

The man owns software companies, grocery chains, pharmaceutical companies, newspapers, and the largest e-commerce website in the world. Amongst a million other things. Of course he owns a movie production company.

My sister laughs, and I recall a time not so long ago when that wouldn’t have been possible. I’ll never forget the first time I saw her smile—truly smile—or the first time she was able to brush her own teeth. Or the day we moved her from her expensive motorized wheelchair to one that allowed her more independence because her needs had changed for the better.

I can say many things about Nolan Ames, nearly all of them unfavorable, but at the end of the day, he was the one who put us in touch with the world-renowned physical therapists and physicians who were able to use cutting-edge stem cell treatments and yet-to-be FDA approved medicinal regimens that completely changed Emmeline’s prognosis and quality of life. And he paid for every last cent along the way … he still does.

It didn’t come for free though.

I sold my soul to the devil—though it’s not like I had a choice at the time. And I’m happy for Emmeline, for what she got from the bargain. But he took a piece of me I’ll never get back and left something hollow in its place.

But I’m older now. Wiser.

And I’ll be damned before I let another man put a price on me again.





Thirteen





Sophie



Past



The number of times I’ve lied to my mom I can count on one hand.

Fresh red roses—two dozen of them—perfume the darkened hotel suite we share tonight. In the corner, my boyfriend, Nolan, uncorks a bottle of wine. The curtains are pulled wide behind him, city lights twinkling like something out of a fairytale.

Tonight’s the night.

My mom thinks I’m staying the night at Stacia Hendricks’ house.

She also doesn’t know I’ve been seeing Nolan every weekend for the past two months—or that I quit my job at the café.

Three weeks ago, we found out she’s officially in remission, and she’s been slowly gaining back her strength and energy. But there are good days and bad. And when she’s not caring for Emmeline, she’s sleeping or zoned out in front of the TV.

She’s yet to notice I haven’t come home smelling like French fries and salad dressing—or that the bills that normally pile high on the kitchen table are dwindling one by one as I secretly pay them off.

I don’t think she’d understand this arrangement we have—nor would she understand how much I want to be with him.

“For you.” Nolan hands me a stemless glass filled halfway with white wine. “Shall we toast?”

My stomach flips. We’ve fooled around in his car several times, but we’ve never gotten carried away. He knows I’m a virgin and he knows I want my first time to be special. It’s why he rented this penthouse suite, the highest one in all of Chicago.

In this moment, I’m not wandering the halls of Stillwell High, backpack slung over one shoulder as I count the hours until the final bell. I’m not worrying about my chemistry test or when I’ll have time to write that essay for College Prep Composition.

I’m a woman on the verge of something bigger than she ever imagined.

Nolan taps his glass against mine, his full mouth curving into a smile. “To the best night of our lives.”

My head whirs with anticipation before my lips so much as touch a drop of alcohol. Am I drunk with lust? With want? I don’t know. Heat burns between my legs. My underwear grows wetter by the second.

I take a sip, my gaze locked on him. The wine isn’t as sweet as I expected. And it’s not bubbly like the champagne was. Still, it makes me feel grown.

Gentle and patient, he takes my glass and places it aside, along with his.

The whites of his eyes shine in the dark and the lights of the city envelop his shadowed figure. When he returns, his hand moves to my hip and he steers me closer, until my body is flush against his.

Nolan tips my chin until our faces are perfectly angled, and in an instant, his mouth is on mine.

He takes his time, lifting his hand to cup my cheek as our tongues dance. He devours me soft and slow, savoring every endless second. We exchange the taste of semi-sweet alcohol and the heat of our clothed bodies.

Stumbling backward, we collapse on the oversized bed, the plush bedding catching our fall. Together we sink, still connected at the lips. He tugs the hem of my skirt to my upper thighs before trailing his fingertips down the inside of my left leg.

His hardness presses between my legs, through his suit pants, through my wet panties. My legs wrap around his hips. I’m pinned beneath him yet somehow I’m light as a feather. Lifting my hands to his neck, I run my fingers through his silky dark hair as he grinds against me.