Trillion(9)

“I’m not a pawn, Mr. Westcott,” she says, spoken like a woman who knows her worth. “And I’m not for sale.”

“Of course you aren’t,” I say with the careful negotiating tone I use with anyone sitting on the other end of a business deal. “I’m not buying you, Ms. Bristol. I’m buying into a partnership with you.”

“You’re a good salesman, Mr. Westcott,” she says. “You paint a lovely picture. But things like that—they can never be that simple. Contract or not.”

I chuff. “It’s not like there’s a precedent for this sort of thing. I assure you, anything you want from me will be put in writing. It’ll be a fair agreement. And I’m nothing if not a man of my word.”

She begins to speak but stops.

“I’m in a situation, and I need your help. No, I want your help. And I would help you in return. It’s as simple as that.” And then I add, “I think we can both agree it’s the opportunity of a lifetime.”

“I’m sorry, but no, thank you.” Short and sweet, as if she’s slipping back into her graceful, poised demeanor like a satin jacket.

She doesn’t stick around to even consider the generous offer I’ve made, the easy money, the lifetime of financial freedom with a side of luxury. While the contract would guarantee her seventeen million dollars over the course of two years, the mother of my child would live a life afforded to royalty. I could add a house. Ongoing child support. Every resource she could possibly need or want to maintain a high standard of living.

She’d be set until her dying day.

“Again, Broderick will send you the contract,” I say. “As you read it over, please bear in mind that everything is negotiable.”

Chin tipped forward and gaze locked on me, she asks, “Do I still have a job here or am I fired?”

She doesn’t so much as hint at considering it.

I contemplate the legal ramifications of threatening someone’s job in exchange for a relationship, and I think better of it.

“Of course not,” I say.

Besides, it’ll give us more opportunities to see one another. From here forward, I’ll be making extra trips to her section of the Westcott campus.

My future wife shows herself out without any fanfare, her heels padding silent on the lush carpeting.

I’m sure, once she peruses the paperwork later over a glass of twist-cap five-dollar wine in her humble apartment, she’ll reconsider.

And tonight as she lies in bed, she’ll imagine a life with me. The gravity of my offer will hit her like a wall of regret. Come morning, my phone will ring. And if it doesn’t? I’ll find a way to change her mind.

I always get what I want.

And I want Sophie Bristol.





Five





Sophie



Past



Every time his fingertips graze the small of my back, I feel nauseous—the good kind. Butterflies. Goosebumps. An electric trill running up and down my spine. Total sensory overload.

Everyone at the party is dressed in all black, their faces hidden behind glimmering facades made of silk, satin, leather, or sequins.

They could be anyone. Movie stars. Politicians. No one would know.

The mask he brought for me is covered in dark rhinestones and accentuated with exotic feathers that turn deep purple in certain lighting.

It’s all I can do to think straight with everything going on around me. Even from behind masks, I can tell some of the most beautiful people in the world are in this very room. Celebrities, maybe. I want to take it all in, all at the same time, but whenever I find myself enamored with a beautiful dress or an antique oil painting on the wall, I’ll find myself distracted by something else elegant and otherworldly.

The delicate tinkle of guests toasting with their crystal goblets. The hush of intimate conversation parsed with educated vocabularies and the occasional exotic accent. Wafts of expensive perfume. Glistening diamonds dripping from lithe bodies.

A server in a tuxedo delivers flutes of rose-hued champagne to a cluster of people beside us. When he gets to us, my date hands me one.

My fingers tremble when I accept it.

I’ve never had alcohol before.

Gold flakes float in the bottom of the glass. Is it safe to drink gold? A quick glance around the room tells me it must be fine because everyone else is doing it.

I hesitate, imagining the disappointment in my mother’s eyes if I were to come home smelling like this, imagining the words she wouldn’t have the energy to say.

“It’s okay, Sophie,” he says, his full lips curling into a mischievous smile that makes my insides somersault. “I won’t tell, if you don’t.”

His hand finds my lower back again, and I bring the glass to my lips. One couldn’t hurt. The liquid is bubbly on my tongue, tickling my throat as it glides down effortlessly. Sweet but not too sweet. It tastes like privilege and glamour.

He leans in.

“You like?” His voice is low and vibrates off my ear drum.

I nod and take another sip.

“You’re going to like it here,” he says, scanning the large room. We’re in the living room of someone’s palatial penthouse, that’s about all I know. “I can tell already. You fit right in.” Leaning in again, he points to a group of suited men chatting near a lit fireplace. “See those sorry bastards over there? They’ve been staring at you since we walked in the door tonight.”