Trillion

by Renshaw, Winter

  “Fine. But why’d you lie about your name?”

  He’s quiet, contemplative. His hand runs across the center console. “Because I thought it would be a one-time thing. I didn’t plan on seeing you again after tonight. I wanted my one night to feel young again, and then I was going to do the right thing and walk away.”

  My eyes sting. I blink and look away so he can’t see the tears forming. I’ve never felt so used. Not even by the pencil-dicked pricks in my grade.

  “I enjoyed my time with you more than I thought I would,” he says. “There’s something about you, Sophie. I have no idea what it is. But after spending the evening together … I know I shouldn’t, but I want to see you again.”

  My stomach flips against giving him permission. I wish his words didn’t have that effect on me.

  Aside from the fucked-up pockets of this night, his half-truths and messed-up confessions, I enjoyed my time with him too.

  I wouldn’t mind seeing him again …

  And that little thrill that travels up my spine every time I think about how rebellious this is, how it made me feel to step outside my good girl bubble and be someone else for a change, is nothing short of exhilarating.

  “When do you turn eighteen, Soph?” He shortens my name like he knows me. I’m not stupid. He doesn’t know me. Not all the way. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to give him the chance to get to know me ...

  “Next month,” I say, knowing this man will become either the best thing to happen to me … or my greatest undoing. “The seventh.”

  John—Nolan—pulls out his phone and makes a note.

  “Perfect.” His full mouth curls into a half-smirk. “I want to celebrate with you.”

  “I’m probably working that night,” I say, because it falls on a Friday, and I work every Friday.

  Reaching into his wallet, he slips out a small stack of crisp bills and hands them to me. “Not anymore, you’re not.”

  I don’t have to count them to know there’s more than five hundred dollars in my hand.

  “See you in three weeks,” he says.

  The passenger window glides shut. I move to the sidewalk. The engine of his shiny coupe purrs, and the weight of his watchful gaze follows me inside.

  A minute later, I stand outside our apartment door, key in hand, breath held tight in my chest.

  I count the money before I go inside.

  Fifteen hundred dollars.

  “Holy shit,” I mouth before shoving it into my clutch.

  “You’re late.” My mother whispers through the quiet dimness of our living room when I step in. She reaches for the string on the crooked lamp by the corduroy recliner. The dim lights paint dark shadows on her gaunt face, sending ominous vibes to this moment. “You said you’d be home by ten, Sophie. It’s after midnight.”

  “I know. I’m so sorry. We were having such a good time … I wasn’t paying attention …”

  “How long does it take to go out to dinner?” She paces the living room. I should stop her. She shouldn’t be up and around. She should be resting, sleeping. If she wakes up feeling worse tomorrow, it will all be my fault. “Where else did he take you?”

  “Nowhere else. It was just a long dinner. We talked. A lot …”

  “You could have called. You could have texted.” Her words are terse, halfway between a yell and a whisper

  I’m frozen on the entry rug, praying she doesn’t rise and stagger over here because she’ll smell the champagne on my breath—and the champagne on my skin from all the places Nolan kissed me tonight. My neck. The tops of my shoulders. The back of my wrists. Behind my ears.

  He captured every exposed inch of me over the span of five hours.

  “I’m so sorry, Mom,” I apologize again. “It’ll never happen again. I promise.”

  She tries to form a response, but exhaustion colors her expression instead.

  “I’m going to bed.” She shuffles down the hall to her bedroom and closes the door behind her.

  I slide out of my heels, leave them on the rug, flick off the lamp, and make my way to my bedroom in the dark. My sister, Emmeline, is sound asleep, nothing but the hum of the respirator machine that helps her breathe at night. She doesn’t stir as I peel out of my skintight dress and pull an oversized t-shirt over my head.

  A moment later, I lie beneath my paper-thin quilt, staring at the clutch resting on my dresser and wondering why Nolan gave me fifteen hundred dollars when we agreed on five.

  The way he touched me was tender and endearing. For most of the evening, I’d forgotten this was a cash transaction. It felt like a real date, and not once did the age thing bother me—until the end of the night, when he almost seemed disgusted with himself for taking me out.

  I roll to my side, unable to quiet my mind.

  There’s something between us.

  I feel it all the way to my marrow.

  And clearly he feels it too or he wouldn’t have been so conflicted about this. Maybe that’s why he gave me extra money—he felt ashamed.

  I replay the night in my mind a dozen times before finally nodding off with a smile on the very lips Nolan claimed.

  * * *

  When I wake in the morning, I am positive it was all a dream—until I check my clutch and find the crisp green bills still inside. I count them twice. Fifteen in total. It would take me months to make this at the café.

  I trail to the kitchen for a bowl of cereal to fill my growling stomach with hazy, blurry eyes and a dazed mind. And when I’m finished eating, I don’t even remember pouring the milk.

  All I can think about is him.

  I rinse the dishes and wash the others that rest in the left basin so my mom doesn’t have to when she wakes. Besides, Emmeline will be up any minute and Mom will need to tend to her first.

  I don’t know how I’m going to explain the extra cash.

  She’s going to ask why he gave me so much—and I won’t have an answer for her. At least not one she’ll buy. For now, I’ll have to save it. Blend it with my money from the café.

  Nolan implied I wouldn’t need to work anymore, but I love my job too much to quit. I weirdly enjoy waiting tables, even if it isn’t glamorous. I love meeting new people. Catching up with the regulars. The surprise of an unexpected generous tip. Commiserating with my co-workers about the assholes back in the kitchen, out of customers’ earshot. When I’m there, I’m not thinking about the latest drama at school, my sister’s recent test results, or whether or not my mom’s PET scan will come back clear next time.

  Work is my escape.

  I want to tell Nolan he doesn’t have to pay me for my company—I could still work and see him on the side.

  He could be my second escape …

  For the first time in my life, I have something—someone—to be excited about.

  Eight

  Sophie

  Present

  Thirty-four million dollars.

  I blink and re-read that line of the contract again. I thought his initial offer of seventeen million was insane, but this is just absurd. Westcott can have any woman he wants—literally and otherwise.

  Why me?

  I fold the paper and tuck it away in my purse, and then I finish my lunch and log back into the system. I refuse to accept a proposal from a man who doesn’t know me, and my heart isn’t for sale.

  I’ve sold it out before.

  Never again.

  Certain things are invaluable—and they’re only to be earned. Never given freely.

  My heart …

  My mind …

  My soul …

  My love …

  My affections …

  My loyalty …

  I’ve learned this the hard way.

  Besides, I don’t need millions of dollars to be happy. I’d much rather live a life of meaning than one of leisure and luxury. Despite my simplistic lifestyle, I’m relatively fulfilled. I visit my mom and sister a couple of times per week. I have a handful of good friend
s who are near and dear to me. I make a comfortable living which affords me a decent apartment, a nice-enough wardrobe, and enough left over at the end of the month to contribute to my 401k and the local Humane Society.

  I run two of my Friday reports and forward them to my supervisor, despite the fact that she’s out of the office today, as she is most Fridays. And then I check the clock, contemplating whether I should wrap things up over the next hour and call it a week.

  I think I should.

  Clicking send on an email to the rest of my department, I switch on my out-of-office and shut down my computer. I’m gathering my bag and coffee mug when a knock at my door interrupts my early departure.

  Slinging my purse over my shoulder, I yank the door handle open, fully expecting it to be Hadley from next door or perhaps one of the new interns who can’t do a damned thing without asking permission first.

  But it’s not Hadley.

  And it definitely isn’t an intern.

  “Mr. Westcott,” I say, throat tight. His icy gaze washes over me and my body turns to steel. I brace myself for whatever outlandish request is about to leave his full lips. “Hi.”

  “Ms. Bristol. You have a minute?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer before making his way in. I close the door behind him and tighten my grip on my purse strap. His shadowed hazel stare continues to drink me in, practically pinning me in place. “I didn’t realize you were on your way out. Late lunch?”

  I shake my head. “Heading home.”

  He frowns. “Big plans?”

  “Yes, actually,” I say. I could tell him I’ve got plans, that I’m meeting my girlfriends for drinks or something that makes me sound averagely interesting. Or I could tell him the truth. I opt for the latter, seeing how I’ve no need to impress this man. “Going to binge-watch Outlander and polish off a bottle of dessert wine.”

  He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t give a damn.

  “I have reservations at The Black Lotus for seven tonight, but your plans sound better.”

  I can’t help but laugh. “You’re a terrible liar.”

  Are we flirting? If we are, it’s accidental.

  “Am I?” I think he’s teasing.

  I nod. “The worst.”

  I imagine people tell him what he wants to hear all the time. Maybe it wouldn’t kill him to hear the truth once in a while.

  “Why don’t you join me for dinner? This place has got a years’ long wait list,” he adds, as if that might sway me. “I typically prefer to dine alone, but I’d love your company. Besides, I’m sure the wine and Outlander will be waiting for you when you get home.”

  “Tempting,” I say.

  I’ve heard of The Black Lotus. The place is reserved for the wealthiest of the wealthy. Ultra-exclusive. Diamond-encrusted silverware. Antique crystal plates. Michelin-starred. Thousands of dollars a plate. “I’m going to pass. Enjoy your dinner, Mr. Westcott.”

  I try to get around him, but something about the way he looks at me anchors me, keeps me from leaving.

  “Please, call me Trey,” he says.

  I turn to face him.

  His shoulders strain against his navy suit coat, causing me to unintentionally wonder what he looks like beneath his expensive façade. If his chest is smooth or brushed with a masculine spray of hair. If the veins pop from his forearms when he fucks. How the curve of his biceps would feel beneath my palms.

  I push the intrusive thoughts from my head and offer a gracious smile. “Enjoy your dinner, Trey.”

  He’s trying to woo me.

  I’m not an idiot.

  I’ve been pursued before. It’s all smoke and mirrors. A man impresses a girl, makes her feel like it’s a privilege just to be on his arm, and in the end, he takes what he wants and discards the rest. Like a lion devouring a gazelle and leaving nothing but bones before moving onto the next meal.

  “I don’t beg,” Trey says. “Ever—”

  I stop him there. “—don’t go breaking your rules just for me.”

  “One dinner.” He steps closer, a faint hint of his woodsy cologne permeating the air we share.

  “Why?”

  He chuffs, as if my question is preposterous. “Why not?”

  “I’ve already made my decision. It’s not going to change anything because you take me out to dinner.” I tilt my head, steadying my gaze across the room at him, and I try not to be distracted by his dashing, timeless good looks. The way the brill cream in his side-parted hair makes it seem almost shower-wet. The chiseled jaw line with the flash of dimples when he speaks. The stare that cuts through me and simultaneously anchors me in place. “You’re an incredible businessman, Trey. I’m sure there are a lot of women out there who would sell their souls for a lifetime with you. I’m sorry, but I’m not one of them.”

  I leave before he can protest.

  It’s tempting, I’ll admit. I’m only human. And I can only imagine how thirty-four million dollars would change my life—my mother’s and sister’s lives too. All of our futures.

  But I’m not arm candy. I’m not a commodity or a business acquisition.

  I have my reasons.

  And they number in the trillions.

  Nine

  Trey

  Present

  I dine alone at The Black Lotus Friday night, staring at the empty chair where Sophie should be sitting. The woman is proving to be more formidable than I expected, and when it’s all said and done, this deal will go down in the history books as one of the toughest—right alongside Ames Oil and Steel.

  I slice into my filet mignon as the server deposits a fresh Scotch in a glass adorned with a one-carat canary yellow diamond encircled by their logo, and I feast my attention on the sparkling city view.

  Everyone should have a chance to see the world from the hundredth story of a century-old building at least once in their life.

  Unfortunately not everyone will.

  The man and woman at the next table over hold hands, a tall candle flickering between them, throwing reflections in their starry gazes.

  I imagine that’s what love is like—blinded by the warm glow of something both dangerous and beautiful.

  Not that I’d know.

  My parents had that. At least from what I remember and what I’ve read in the dozens of biographies written about them since their passing two decades ago. Edie and Pierce Westcott II were iconic. American as apple pie. Timeless as Chanel. Fascinating as Princess Diana.

  They’d spent most of their lives polishing the Westcott name, building charities, foundations, and futuristic business endeavors for the greater good of humanity—only to have it all cut short when a faulty wire in the engine of their personal jet took them down in fiery flames extinguished by the frigid Atlantic ocean.

  Most of what I know of them came from books and articles written long after their deaths.

  Someone once compared them to Jackie and JFK, minus the infidelity and assassination that colored their early years. My mother was a style trendsetter, with women all across the world mimicking her signature sleek chestnut bob, and my father—in his younger years—graced covers of heartthrob magazines everywhere. He was once named the world’s most eligible bachelor … a title I inherited my first few years out of Harvard Business School.

  My father relished every second of being the eligible bachelor of his day … until my mother came along and swept him off his feet.

  They crossed paths in a Moroccan souk in the early eighties. Legend had it, she was perusing caftans, the sheer, vibrant patterns blowing in the wind, and he spotted her from across the way, instantly smitten the moment they exchanged smiles. When he discovered they were both from the States, he invited her to dine with him that evening. They stayed up all night talking and he declared his affections for her before the sun had a chance to rise the next morning.

  Their love was the thing fairytales are made of, or so I’m told by former staffers who adored them. I knew my parents for fifteen years of my life, but
those memories have faded with time.

  They’ve also made me the man I am today, a man who doesn’t dwell on the past, a man who only moves forward.

  At eighteen, I inherited my parents’ massive estate.

  By twenty-eight, I’d turned the Westcott fortune into over a billion dollars, becoming one of the youngest billionaires in the world.

  Two years ago, my net worth topped a trillion.

  There isn’t a man in the world who needs nor deserves that kind of money, but building wealth, breaking ground, and conquering industries is the only thing I know how to do—and I’m fucking amazing at it.

  “Can I get you anything else, Mr. Westcott?” My server stops by once more.

  “I’ll take the check,” I say, refusing to remove my stare from the twinkling skyline.

  Somewhere out there, Sophie is drinking dessert wine and binge watching some God-awful show—alone.

  I get the sense that maybe she likes to be alone.

  Perhaps we have that in common.

  If we’re going to be alone in this life, perhaps we should be alone … together.

  Ten

  Sophie

  Past

  He grins wide when I climb into his car. “Long time, no see, beautiful.”

  He hasn’t been to the café in the three weeks that have passed since the party, and for a while, I thought I’d never see him again, but he texted me a week ago, reminding me that we were going to celebrate my eighteenth birthday together.

  I almost said no.

  I was certain he’d forgotten about me, that all those things he said in the car that first night were in an attempt to appease a broken heart.

  Curiosity got the best of me.

  That and I missed the way I felt when I was with him—euphoric.

  Everything’s been gray since that night.

  “Happy birthday.” Nolan hands me a box the color of robins’ eggs wrapped in a white satin ribbon.

  “You didn’t have to do this,” I say.