Trillion(34)

She spins, inspecting me before returning her attention to an oil painting by an artist whose name escapes me because all I can think about is the mysterious work of art standing before me. Her nonchalant beauty. The layers of personality, all hidden beneath one another. The mysterious past. The quick wit. The spunk. The cautious, guarded heart.

She’s everything I never knew I was missing in my life.

“Because at the end of the day, I have something you need, and you’re going to tell me whatever you think I want to hear until you get it.” She doesn’t mince words—a sexy little quality that would have me eating my fucking fist if we weren’t trying to have a respectful conversation. “I know how men like you operate.”

“Men like me? Care to elaborate?” I keep a straight face, disguising my offense. I’ve spent my entire life ensuring I could never be lumped into categories, and I’m certain I’ve done a damn good job of it.

“Charming. Intelligent. Attractive. Influential. Successful. Driven. Rich …”

“Last I checked, those were excellent qualities to possess,” I say. “I wasn’t aware those were turn offs for you.”

“Depends on the man.”

“I can’t help but assume you’re describing your last boyfriend,” I say. “Whoever he is, I can promise you we’re not the same. I’m my own person. And let me remind you, Sophie, I’m not trying to be your boyfriend.”

I can do sex. I can—on occasion—do something that resembles a relationship. I can do gifts and dinners and lavish trips and once-in-a-lifetime experiences. But I can’t do love.

Love is for the fucking birds.

And love is for my parents.

As far as I’m concerned, if I can’t have anything close to what they had (and I’ve yet to come across that in my thirty-five years), I don’t want it at all.

“And I’m not trying to be your bought-and-paid-for baby mama.” She winks, moving closer to the door. “I appreciate your straightforwardness, Trey. Maybe you’re not like the last one, but I have no intention of finding out, so …”

She shrugs, as if that’s that.

My jaw tenses, but not in anger. Something closer to impatience from these never-ending rounds of mental chess.

Enough with the fucking games.

“Fifty million dollars,” I announce.

She coughs, choking on her response. “What?”

“A hundred million. Is that enough for you?”

“You’re insane.” She doesn’t laugh. Quite the contrary. With stormy blue eyes beneath narrowed brows, she rests her hands on her hips.

“Five hundred million.” My voice is louder. “A billion? What’s it going to take?”

“You’re an asshole.”

“Give me one good reason why you don’t want this,” I say. “Why this couldn’t work?”

“I could give you a trillion reasons—”

“—I don’t need a trillion reasons,” I cut her off. “Only one.”

“Because I don’t want to.” Her shoulders rise and fall. Our deadlocked stares contain words unspoken. “I think we should call it a night.”

We both stand, unmoving.

Does she really want to go?

“I’ll call you a ride.” I walk her to the car port. Neither of us say a word, though maybe there isn’t anything to be said at this time.

I’m not in the mood to beat my head against a wall the rest of the night.

The chauffeur pulls up and gets the rear passenger door. Sophie slides inside, out of sight behind the black tinted windows. I watch them drive off before I head in.

I’m not proud of my little outburst—it’s not my style—and it was born out of an uncharacteristic moment of weakness. But it happened. Wishing it hadn’t won’t change a damn thing.

The more she pulls, the more I’m going to push.

It’s what I do.

I know no other way.

I was twelve when my father shared a piece of advice I’ve carried with me throughout my life: when the day disappoints you, there’s always tomorrow.

Would he have imparted me with that little gem if he’d known he wouldn’t always have tomorrow?

Sliding my phone from my pocket, I fire off a text to Sophie.

ME: Life is really fucking short.

She leaves it on ‘read.’

I head to my bedroom suite and call it a night. My bed has never felt so empty and my mind has never felt so full. I jam a set of Air Pods into my ears and attempt to drown out our final exchange with a podcast on the cerebral merits of pineal-activating meditation. Something bland and unemotional. Rooted in logic.

And I need that: logic.

Because nothing about this makes a damn bit of sense.



Sophie



Present



Life is really fucking short. I read his text again and again, my phone screen glowing so bright in the pitch blackness of my bedroom it stings my eyes. They aren’t the most eloquent of words, but for some reason, they resonate. And it isn’t in what he says but what he implied.

I think of his parents.

While I know loss, Trey knows loss and death.

Maybe there’s more to this arrangement than some business deal. Maybe deep down he wants it? Maybe he’s haunted by his legacy. Who would he leave his trillions to if he had no one? Who would carry on the business he’s worked so hard for? I understand wanting an heir.