Trillion

by Renshaw, Winter

  Most people are unaware, but many of the “pieces” in museums are dupes. The real ones are hidden away in humidity-controlled chambers—if they weren’t stolen and quietly replaced. Black market art is a dirty little secret amongst the wealthiest art collectors.

  “I took an art history class in college,” she says, studying an eight by ten Monet painting in a gilded frame—a gift from some French ambassador’s wife to my mother thirty years ago. “I’ve seen some of these before. In textbooks and slides. But up close …”

  She drifts to the next painting—a Pellegrini, before stopping to gape at a Picasso sketch … my childhood favorite.

  “I’ll be completely honest, sometimes I forget this room exists,” I say.

  “Is that supposed to be endearing?” She laughs through her nose. “Because it’s not.”

  “Just being honest,” I say. “That’s what we do …”

  “All right.” She moves to the next one.

  “If you agree to my offer, Sophie, I promise I’ll always be forthright with you,” I say. “About everything.”

  “I’ve heard that line before …”

  “What makes you think it’s a line?”

  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.

  But I still don’t understand him wanting me.

  I rest my phone face down on my nightstand and roll to the side. Eyes squeezed tight, I try to imagine how the next two years would look should I agree to his ridiculous offer. Surely he wasn’t serious when he offered me a billion dollars. Then again, money like that is pocket change to him. It’s a drop of water in the ocean of his wealth. A small price to pay when he wants something more than anything in the world.

  Earlier tonight, he asked me what happiness meant to me.

  I couldn’t answer. And not because I cared what he thought or I was worried he’d use it as leverage. I literally couldn’t answer.

  Everyone wants to be happy.

  Not everyone knows what that looks like.

  Financial stability. A career that doesn’t leave you hating your life forty hours a week. Close friends who remember your birthday and keep your secrets. Family close by. Health. A way to give back to those in need without going broke.

  I have all of those things already.

  Maybe I should’ve asked what happiness means to him? If he fed me something sweet and vulnerable, would I believe it or would it all be a ruse? Then again if he were being honest, I don’t know that his response would change anything.

  My answer’s still no.

  I kick the covers off as my room grows hot, the air too thick to comfortably breathe.

  Dolla
r signs dance in my head as I mentally calculate all the good I could do with that kind of money. And two years is nothing in the grand scheme of things.

  But would he still want me if he knew the truth about my past?

  If he knew what I’ve done?

  Twenty-Four

  Sophie

  Past

  “What do you like about me?” I slip my arm around Nolan and rest my head on his chest. The air conditioner hums and room service will be here in the next ten minutes.

  “What kind of question is that?”

  “Just answer it.” Call me insecure, but ever since my mom found out about us, I’ve been paranoid that he’s pulling away.

  Sneaking around was fun. What if that was the best part for him?

  “Everything, Soph. I like everything about you. There’s nothing I don’t like.”

  Unsatisfied with his answer, I sit up, wrapping the sheet around my bare breasts. “What about me though? I know what I get out of this, but what about you? I don’t have anything to give you. I don’t know anything about the world. I’ve never even left the country before. There are a million beautiful women out there—”

  “Stop,” he says. “Don’t do that.”

  “Don’t do what?”

  “Don’t measure yourself against anyone else. You’re not them. They’re not you,” he says. “And never question your worthiness. Just know that if someone’s giving you their time, it’s because you’re worth it—to them.”

  I laugh through my nose and roll my eyes. “Why does it feel like you’re giving me relationship advice? All I asked was why you liked me …”

  He’s quiet.

  Oh, God. Is he giving me relationship advice?

  “I don’t know how to describe it,” he says. “But when I look at you … it makes me feel a certain way. You make me excited. You make me feel desired. You make me feel younger. And you have this huge heart. A heart that hasn’t been ruined by the real world yet.”

  “And what happens when I’m older? When I’ve got more real-world experience and the excitement has worn off?”

  Nolan gathers my hands in his, kissing the insides of my palms. “One day at a time.”

  I don’t like his answer. There’s no comfort or assurance in it. It’s not like I’m expecting an engagement ring, but a little word of encouragement would be nice. Something that tells me he’s in this for the long haul.

  Lord knows I am.

  A quick knock at the door, followed by a man announcing himself as “room service,” sends me scurrying, naked, to the bathroom. A minute later, Nolan retrieves me. He’s slipped into his black slacks, the belt undone and his smooth chest exposed.

  “Dinner’s here.” He looks me up and down, only now I’m wrapped in a fluffy robe with the hotel monogram on the lapels. “Come eat.”

  We dine in silence.

  My chicken is dry and the vegetables are bland. I shove the food around on my plate so it looks like I’m eating more than I am. I don’t touch the wine he’s poured. Lately I’ve been nauseous, and it only intensifies when I’m having an off day.

  Nerves, mostly likely.

  “You want to rent a movie?” He points to the giant flat-screen TV across the room.

  “Sure.” I force a smile. I just want things to be normal again.

  But I can’t ignore the nagging pull in the deepest part of my chest telling me something’s not right.

  Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but it’s like we’ve been knocked out of our perfect little orbit.

  We finish our meal and burrow beneath the covers. I tell him to pick the movie. I’m probably going to pass out soon anyway—lately I can hardly stay up past nine.

  The credits roll and Nolan pulls me into his arms. “I love you, Soph.”

  “You do?”

  If he only knew that I’ve said those words to him a million times in my head …

  “Don’t act so surprised.” He laughs, cupping my cheek and pressing his mouth against mine. His tongue passes between my lips, and he pulls me into his lap and steers my hand to his hardening cock.

  “I love you too,” I whisper against his inferno-hot mouth.

  “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Don’t doubt that for a second.”

  Despite the swell of nausea in the back of my throat and the overwhelming desire to rest my head on the fluffy pillows beside him and call it a night, I give myself to him again.

  He’s always giving me things: gifts, money, his time, his attention, and now … his love.

  The least I can do is give him a little bit of pleasure in return.

  It’s not like I have anything else to give him …

  Twenty-Five

  Trey

  Present

  “Mr. Westcott, Ms. Bristol is here to see you,” Mona says.

  I was about to take a conference call with our publishing division, but I can spare a few minutes for her. My inbox dings and Broderick’s name fills the screen. Earlier today, I’d asked for an update on Sophie’s dating history. I want to know her type. Any patterns that can be identified. Her longest running relationship. Anything.

  Also, I want to know the name of the public figure who broke her heart …

  “Trying. No info yet. Still digging,” he writes. “Not much to go on.”

  Excuses …

  “Try harder,” I type back in bold, underscored, italicized letters before telling Mona to send Sophie in.

  Three seconds later, the doors swing open. Sophie enters with confident strides, a woman on a mission, hair cascading down her shoulders, lips red as maraschino cherries.

  “Fine,” she says. “I’ll do it.”

  This is completely unexpected.

  I rise, hiding my shock and replacing it with a cocksure smirk. “I knew you’d come to your senses.”

  It had to have been the text last night …

  “But it has to be on my terms,” she says. “I want to keep things private. I don’t want this to be a PR stunt. And I don’t want a billion dollars—I don’t even know what I’d do with a billion dollars. And if we have a child together, it’s on my timeline. When I’m ready.”

  “All right. Aside from a brief media announcement, we can keep things low-key.” Easy enough. “I’ll have Broderick draft the new contract immediately, and I’ll have my assistant locate a mover to place your apartment belongings into storage.”

  “I’m keeping my apartment.”

  “What’s the point in that? It’ll sit empty for years.”

  “I need to have something that’s still mine and only mine,” she says. “I’ll pack a few bags, but everything else stays.”

  “Okay. Anything else?” I slide a notepad from the corner of my desk, grab a silver pen, and take notes.

  “Where will I sleep?”

  “In the master suite. With me. Everything needs to appear authentic, and that includes what happens around my personal staff.”

  She draws a quick breath, as if she’s coming to terms with that part of the arrangement.

  “My mom can’t know about the contract,” she says. “This has to be real to her or it’ll break her heart.”

  “That won’t be an issue. This needs to be real to everyone.” I come around my desk until I stand before her. “When can I meet your family?”

  “Soon.” She wrings her hands, uncharacteristically nervous. Is she having second thoughts? “I want to prep her first. This engagement is going to blindside her.”

  “Do you always walk on eggshells around her?”

  “She’s … different.” Her glance swings to the side. “You’ll see what I mean when you meet her.”

  Sophie’s ocean gaze searches mine.

  “Everything’s going to be fine.” I take her hands, which change to steel as her body braces.

  This might be the first time we’ve ever touched—aside from bumping into each other the day we met. Given the fact that we’re about to be married, I don’t think I’m o
verstepping my boundaries.

  “Take the day. No, take the week,” I tell her. “Go home. Collect your things. Gather your thoughts. Visit your mother and sister. Tell your friends. Tend to your personal affairs. Broderick will email you the final contract.”

  I’ve never shared the Westcott estate with a single soul other than the caretakers who reside in the cottage and the staff that cycle in and out throughout the day who do a top-notch job of making themselves scarce.

  “This will be quite an adjustment for both of us,” I say. “But I think it could be fun—that is, if we make it fun.”

  “Ever the salesman …” Her lips draw into an unexpected smile, half nervous, half flirting. “I’m pretty sure we have different definitions of fun.”

  “Fine. It’ll be an adventure.” Though something tells me she’s not exactly the adventurous type. “There’ll be a learning curve, but I’m confident we’ll figure everything out together. One day at a time.”

  She nods, the pallor of her complexion fairer than when she walked in a few minutes ago. To be honest, she looks like she’s about to lose the contents of her stomach. While she may have agreed to my offer, I’m not sure she’s one hundred percent at peace with her decision.

  “Go, Sophie.” I release her hands. “I’ll see you tonight—at home.”

  When she’s gone, I have Broderick finalize the contract.

  I don’t want to risk a last-minute change of heart.

  Twenty-Six

  Sophie

  Present

  “What’s with you today?” Mom asks that afternoon. “You’re biting your nails. You never bite your nails.” She swats. “Stop that. You’re going to ruin your manicure. Lord knows you pay an arm and a leg for those in the city.”

  I tuck my hands beneath my thighs and take a deep breath. There’s no easy way to preface any of this. Maybe I should’ve told my friends first, practiced on them. But it didn’t seem right to tell my family last.