by Amelia Wilde
“Where are you going?” Tom comes over right away after my meeting.
I take my bag and start to put personal things from my desk into it.
“What are you doing? What’s going on, Ellie?”
I shrug.
I don’t want to get into this now in front of everyone.
But I know Tom, he isn’t the type to take a hint or to let something go.
“I just quit,” I say.
Actually, given what happened, I’m not entirely sure how accurate that is.
I mean, I was going to quit in two weeks, but Carrie said I should go right away.
Does that even count like a quit? Or did I just get fired?
I can’t keep track of all the thoughts that are running through my head anymore.
And I definitely don’t have any answers to any of it.
“What? Why?” Tom gasps.
I shrug.
“It was a long time coming,” I say after a moment. “I mean, I can’t really write long advertisements disguised as articles anymore. Or stupid quizzes.”
Tom knows exactly what I’m talking about.
He was a political science major at Yale.
He's a political junkie and, despite the fact that he’s really qualified and engaged to the editor, he still spends most of his days coming up with quizzes like, “Design a dream apartment and we’ll tell you who you are and This Ben & Jerry’s Quiz will tell you which Hogwarts House you belong in.”
After stuffing my purse with almost everything that I brought into the office, I wave good-bye to some of my other colleagues and walk out to the elevators.
I’m not friends with anyone here except for Tom, and we all live nearby so it’s not like I’m not going to run into them again. Tom follows me.
“Ellie, what’s going on?” Tom asks, grabbing my shoulder.
I shrug him off.
“Nothing. It’s just something I’ve been thinking about for a while. I mean, this place is fine, but I just can’t work here anymore.”
“This is one of the top places to work in New York if you want to be a writer,” Tom says. “I mean, I know that Carrie can be a real bitch sometimes. What did she say?”
Did he really just say that about his fiancée? I shake my head.
“It’s not her. It’s everything. I want to write what I want to write, Tom. And I’m sick of being here. My mind is made up.”
We ride down the elevator together in silence.
“But what about money? Do you really want to depend on Mitch for everything again?” he asks.
“Wow, really, Tom? You’re going to bring that up?”
We’ve been friends for a long time.
And, as a result, he is very well familiar with my issues with my stepfather.
I grew up in a very middle-class family that pretty much lived paycheck to paycheck. But after my parents divorced when I was eight, my mom took a job tutoring Mitch Willoughby’s five-year-old daughter.
Mitch was a widower and a vice-president at one of the top investment banks in New York.
They fell in love and married soon after that and they have been happily together for many years now.
I don’t really have any issues with Mitch except that he wants to do a little bit too much for me.
He wants to pay for everything and, sometimes, even takes offense when I want to pay for my own things.
One of the reasons why I really wanted to take this job after graduation was that I wanted to pay my own way, at least as far I could.
He still pays for my share of the apartment that I share with Caroline because there’s no way I could afford it otherwise.
Given the fact that Tom’s dad is also quite wealthy and he lives in a crappy fourth-floor walkup and refuses to take any money from him, I thought that unlike anyone else we know, he would really understand where I’m coming from.
“I just don’t get what you’re doing, Ellie. Suddenly, when things get a little tough, you’re just going to quit? You know you would never really be able to do that if it weren’t for Mitch, right?”
It’s hard to believe that his pride is one of the things that I actually admired about him before.
“Are you really going to make me feel guilty about this?”
“Yes! I mean, no. I don't want to make you feel guilty. I just want you to stay. I mean, you’re like my only friend there.”
“Aren’t you forgetting someone?”
He stares at me.
“Carrie? The editor in chief? Your fiancée?”
“Yes, of course. But you know what I mean. She’s from another world from us. You’re the only one who really gets it.”
Now, I feel insulted.
“The thing is Tom, that you’re from a rich family. Your dad is a famous attorney at one of the most prestigious law firms in Boston. You summered on Cape Cod. You went to Yale. You’re marrying into the Warrenhouse family, which owns half of New England. Mitch might have money, but my real father doesn’t. He’s a teacher. You may sympathize with the poor and live like you are poor, but it’s not real.”
“Fuck you, Ellie. I don’t take any money from my dad. I live on what I make here. And thirty grand doesn’t buy much in New York.”
“No, it doesn’t,” I agree.
“And you don’t think I don't want to quit this? You don't think I don’t want to go on the campaign trail and follow and report on politics as it happens? Of course, I do. But I also want to pay my own way.”
“Well, maybe you shouldn’t,” I say. “I mean, if your dad is willing to pay for you to start your political journalist career, why not let him? He loves you. You’re not getting anywhere just working here, doing what you don't really want.”
“I can’t believe you’re saying this to me,” Tom says.
To be honest, I don’t really believe it much either.
This was definitely not the opinion that I had even last week.
I admired what Tom was doing.
Living life on his own terms.
But now, with almost a quarter million dollars in my bank account, I feel a little different about money.
There’s a freedom that comes with it.
The freedom to not do crap that you don’t want to do.
Now, I don't have to waste my time writing pieces that I don't care about.
I can write what I want to write and really pursue my own dreams.
And getting the money wasn’t all that bad either.
It was actually exciting.
Shivers run up my body as I think back to last weekend.
“Ellie? You’re not listening to me,” Tom says. He has been talking for a bit, but I have no idea what he said.
“Listen, what’s done is done. I’m going to go home now. We can talk about this more if you want later,” I say and walk away from him.
I don’t know if it’s the money or just meeting Mr. Black, but I no longer feel like a love-sick puppy around Tom.
Before last weekend, I’d spend my days waiting for him to come and talk to me at my desk.
I’d live for the moments of banter that we exchanged during lunch or on a coffee break.
I obsessed with his relationship with Carrie and their engagement.
But now, things are different. Tom is still a friend, but the feelings that I had for him seemed to have all but dissipated.
It was like a balloon had popped and all the pressure that was built up inside had vanished.
When I get home, I don’t even bother to unpack my bag, but just drop it to the floor. I sit down in front of my laptop and open a new document.
The story that I start isn’t entirely fully-formed in my head, but I do have the beginning.
I don’t know where it’s headed, but for now I have the insatiable need to write down everything that happened.
It takes me a moment to decide where I want to start: with Caroline getting the invitation to the luxurious yacht party.
I type the title of the
work at the top, Auctioned to Him, and begin.
With that, the words just start to spill out of me. My fingers can’t type fast enough to keep up.
20
Ellie
When I hear his voice again…
I write for close to two hours without taking a break.
The words come and come like a waterfall. I’ve never had this experience before.
Suddenly, my phone rings.
I should've turned it off and go to do just that.
But when I glance at the screen I see that it's a call from him. Him.
Mr. Black.
And it's not just a phone call.
He's calling on FaceTime.
I don't have time to even glance at myself in the mirror, but I decide to answer it anyway.
"Hello, gorgeous," he says in his sultry, deep voice.
I almost forgot how sexy it was, but within a moment it all comes back to me.
He looks breathtaking.
His eyes are deep and wide with long, beautiful eyelashes.
His skin is tan and the way the light falls on it, he looks like he's almost glowing.
"Hey," I whisper.
Unfortunately, I glance at my own reflection in the lower right hand corner of the screen.
Unlike him, I do not present well.
The light here is coming from directly above me, giving me strange long shadows all over my face.
My nose looks to be double the size and don't even get me started on my bigger than usual forehead.
It’s as if I didn't have it tough enough.
"I'm just calling to say hello," he says.
"It's really nice to hear from you," I say. And see you, but I don't add this.
"You seem surprised."
"Actually, I am." He isn't wrong about that.
"Why is that?"
"Well, you know.” I shrug. "Men in New York. They promise to call, but never do. I'm kind of used to it."
I hate how defeated my voice sounds.
It sounds like I'm sitting around and waiting for them call me.
This is not the case.
Well, not in every case.
Agh, I am definitely not putting out a good impression.
“Ellie, you never met a man like me,” he says confidently.
It takes me a moment to catch my breath.
Something within me sighs and surrenders, and my body relaxes with pleasure.
I crave his presence.
I need him to be here, next to me.
I need to press my body against his.
I shudder at the thought.
I’ve never felt like this before.
On the surface, the feeling seems like lust.
But I’ve felt lust before, and it never felt like this.
“What is it?” he asks.
Suddenly, I realize that I haven’t said anything for quite some time.
“Nothing. You just caught me by surprise,” I mumble.
I look at his face more closely.
It’s breathtaking.
His dark hair is lustrous and thick, and imagining running my fingers through it makes me weak at the knees.
“So, the reason I’m calling is that I want to see you again, gorgeous.”
The way he says gorgeous makes both of my cheeks turn bright red.
“Okay. Like on a date?”
“You could say that. Something of an extended date.”
I don’t really know what he means, so he explains.
“I want you to be mine for the week. Just like you were mine for a night. If you agree, you would have to do everything I say, just like before, and drop anything else that you might be doing to be with me.”
I try to hide my excitement at the prospect of this, but I’m not too successful.
A wide smile starts to slip across my face.
“And, of course, you would have to call me Mr. Black again. And Sir. For the whole seven days.”
My throat tightens up and becomes so parched that it feels like I haven’t had a drop to drink in days.
“What do you think about that?”
“I don’t know,” I say, trying to keep my composure. “What’s in it for me?”
“Well, besides the fact that I would pay you handsomely, you’d have the time of your life.”
I don’t want to be so crude, but I do want to know the amount. Little does he know, however, that I want him so much that I would probably do it for free.
“How does three hundred thousand sound?” he asks. “I know that I paid a quarter million for the night, but those were extenuating circumstances, weren’t they?”
I feel the power dynamic between us shifting. He wants me. A lot.
“How about $500,000? That is still quite a discount given how much you paid just for one night.”
“Wow, Ellie.” Mr. Black seems to be taken quite aback by my negotiation skills. “I honestly didn’t expect that. But, you know what? Why not? It’s just money, right?”
I guess, I want to say.
“Okay, then. It’s a deal. Half a million dollars. I’ll pay you half now and half in a week.”
“Sounds good.”
“Now you know, I’m going to have to punish you a little for setting such a high price, right?”
“I’d expect nothing less,” I say with a coy smile.
His eyes roll to the back of his head with pleasure.
My confidence is blowing his mind.
Of course, it’s easier for me to be this confident, outgoing person over video.
He’s not in the room with me.
He’s not making me wet and making my whole body shudder with just one glance.
Let’s see if he will be so impressed when we’re back together again in the same room.
21
Ellie
When I go out with my friend…
Mr. Black transfers a quarter of a million dollars into my bank account within a few hours of our call.
Now, I have half a million dollars in there.
The amount seems mind-boggling and it doesn’t feel real at all.
As for when the week actually starts, Mr. Black wants that to be a surprise.
My job is to go on with my days, doing whatever I was going to do and he is going to surprise me.
He’s going to call me and ask me to meet him somewhere and I have to comply immediately.
The idea of him calling on me, requiring me to be somewhere, is a huge turn-on.
Of course, I would never put up with something like this in a real relationship.
But this isn’t what this is.
This is a game. He wants me on certain terms, and I give myself up to him on certain terms.
As soon as Caroline gets home, she is already planning her night.
It’s a long process that involves an hour long shower and a careful pairing of outfits and shoes.
She usually blasts the music and goes through ten outfits and calling me over and telling me that she has nothing to wear in her whole walk-in closet before deciding on the first dress that she tried on.
“Please, come out today. Pretty please?” Caroline pleads.
“Seriously?” I laugh. “I haven’t heard that expression since the nineties.”
“Well, you know me, I like to roll old school,” she says, taking off a perfectly fine red dress and changing her bra and panties before trying on the next outfit. “But, seriously, just come out tonight. It will be so fun!”
After a few moments of debate, I finally cave.
I haven’t been out to a proper club in a long time.
Caroline goes all the time, but I’m more of a homebody.
That’s probably because her night doesn’t even begin until eleven at night, and I’m usually in bed with a steamy romance on my Kindle by then.
“Yes!” Caroline jumps up and down and gives me a big hug. “I just met these girls today. They came into the gallery and bought a hundred thousand dollar painting for their
new apartment on Park Avenue. They’re loaded, of course.”
Despite how much money Caroline has, she is still properly impressed when other people have money. Seriously, I thought she would be used to it by now.
I head to my own room and rifle through my less than lavish wardrobe to find something suitable to wear.
Unfortunately, I only have two pairs of club-appropriate shoes and two dresses.
I guess I could go for a pair of tight jeans, but the weather is still relatively warm and I want to soak up as much of the warmth as is still available to me before the cold, dark winter descends on Manhattan.
While looking through my clothes, something occurs to me.
I could have actually bought that painting from Caroline as well.
Not that I would spend that much on a painting.
In some parts of the country, a hundred grand buys a nice two bedroom house, but it is still an interesting thought to consider. Wow. Me. Imagine that!
Around ten thirty, Caroline is finally ready.
Waiting for her all evening, I managed to read half of a new hot romance that’s burning up the charts on Amazon.
As an English major, romances are my guilty pleasure.
I love to get lost in the complexity of the relationships and the steamy sex scenes don’t hurt much either.
Caroline doesn’t really get them.
She thinks they’re trash and limits her reading to what the traditional publishers like to refer to as literary fiction.
The only problem with that is that she barely reads at all while I manage to read a few books a week.
We meet Caroline’s new friends at the end of the long line full of hopeful girls dressed in their Saturday night’s best.
They are both blonde and bubbly and masters at walking on four-inch stiletto heels.
I, on the other hand, feel like I’m going to fall over at any moment.
The line is long, but it seems to move swiftly.
The bouncers make their judgments quickly and anyone who isn’t the right size or isn’t dressed well doesn’t get in.
Single men have basically no hope at all.
Personally, I doubt that they’d even let me in if I wasn’t with such a hot crowd.