Hailee
I’ve been at the mansion on Park for almost a week, and I see Alex like he’s a ghost who haunts this place. He takes his meals on the third floor and leaves for the office hours before I even wake up.
I shouldn’t complain, but it makes me feel a little unwelcome. I understand that Alex must find me attractive enough to be a temptation with all his rules, but he doesn’t seem keen to give me the chance to tempt him.
I’ve gotten to know Pierre well. I sit at the stainless-steel island in the industrial kitchen and eat his coq au vin or bouillabaisse while he tells me stories of growing up in the outskirts of Marseille in the sixties.
He’s easy to talk to, and by that, I mean he’s one of those people who prefers you don’t even respond while he tells story after story. He uses the meat cleaver to gesticulate, and his long, jowly face will jiggle with exaggerated emotion.
He’s entertaining company, and I’m glad I’m not totally alone in this place. Cooper the doorman and Clyde my laconic security guard are both exceptionally robotic. They exhibit hardly any emotion and treat my existence and their jobs like gears in a well-oiled machine.
Exploring the many rooms of this mansion lost its novelty after a couple days, and before I knew it, I felt like a prisoner in a palace. It doesn’t help that there have been a few journalists and paparazzi posted up out front since the assassination attempts, and because of it, all the blinds have been drawn.
So, being lonely and isolated, I do something I’m ashamed to admit—I download Tinder.
Redownload, I should also admit. But I never had much success on the app. Five dates and one one-night stand. Those one-in-five odds don’t sound so bad to me now.
It’s Friday, and I have a date. His name is Tom, and he works in… wait for it… finance.
Okay, but he doesn’t look like a generic finance guy.
He has long, flowing brown hair and intense green eyes. I’m not looking for a boyfriend anyway. Just a nice thunderstorm to flood this damn dry spell.
I’m having him meet me at Bellissima’s, my favorite restaurant in the city. It’s a small space in a basement with red-and-white checkered tablecloths, dark lighting, and heaping piles of Italian American spaghetti.
It’s not the kind of place you go if you want an authentic taste of Italian. But if a piece of garlic cheesy bread as heavy as a brick is up your alley, then look no further.
I’ve been at my table for ten minutes now. It’s five past seven. I’m not nervous yet, but I do order a glass of wine so I look a little less awkward while I wait.
“House red for ,” my waiter says, setting the glass down.
It’s Fabio, my favorite server in the city. In fact, he’s one of my favorite people in the city. He’s in his seventies, with hair sticking up wildly like he combs it with a balloon and a thin white mustache. He’s always reminded me of a skinny Einstein.
“Thanks, Fabio.”
“Who is the lucky young man?”
“It’s a blind date, kind of.”
“Oh? You don’t know him?”
“Just from the internet.”
Fabio stops pouring my wine and goes wide-eyed. “The internet? My sister went on an internet date many, many years ago. She said he was five hundred pounds and smelled like gorgonzola.”
“I’m guessing he lied about it.”
“Oh yes. She said he claimed he was three hundred pounds and smelled of fresh mozzarella.” Fabio keeps a straight face as he finishes my pour, and it makes his comment all that much funnier. I’m not even sure he’s kidding. “Let me know if you want me to get rid of him. You need a safe word. If he is bad, tell me you want a side of gorgonzola.”
“I will, Fabio.”
“Very good!” He walks away.
Another five minutes passes without a message, and now I’m getting anxious. I pull up Tom’s profile again. I’m looking at his picture with a new eye—a skeptical one. His eyes are a little too green, like the photo has been edited. Or, I think, stolen from somewhere.
I do what I should have done two hours ago and take a few screenshots of his pictures and put them into reverse image search. I don’t find a Tom. I find an Instagram profile under the name Ryan Hoff.
He’s an amateur model slash semi-professional Australian surfer. All the pictures on Tom’s Tinder have been taken from this Ryan’s Instagram.
Fuck.
I slap my phone down on the table and cross my arms.
I think what bothers me the most about being catfished was how easy it would’ve been to see if the profile was fake. Why didn’t I do this search before?
The answer is depressing—because I was optimistic. Desperate. And it didn’t help that this Tom was a smooth texter, but now for all I know, he was asking an AI chatbot for the best responses to my messages.
Welcome to the world of tomorrow.
I look around the dining room in case my catfish is here, but all the tables are families and couples. I’m the only solo diner. He probably sent a handful of women on fake dates tonight. He probably gets off to the idea of girls getting all dressed up just to get stood up.
Some people’s hobbies.
I’m too defeated to even feel the righteous anger that I should. What is wrong with me? I’ve never gone out with a guy from Tinder without doing more social media research first.
This is something they don’t tell you in Sex Ed. Not getting laid is dangerous, too.
I catch Fabio’s eye and signal him over.
“More wine?”
“No, that’s okay. Just the bill. No date tonight, Fabio.”
“What? He does not show up?”
“He’s not real.”
“What man wouldn’t want to meet you?”
“One who weighs five hundred pounds and smells like cheese, probably.”
“I see. Are you sure you’re not hungry?”
“I should just go home.”
“That was not a no. Do you like our fettuccini alfredo?”
“I love it, but—”
“Say no more!” Fabio takes off before I can protest.
He comes back with a steaming plate of creamy alfredo and another piled with garlic bread so thick with cheese that it oozes off.
“An online order was just canceled,” Fabio says, hovering with the plates. “I talked to the manager, and it’s on the house if you’d like it.”
My stomach grumbles and I literally start to salivate when I smell the steam. I’m not about to pass up a free meal. Even if it is out of pity.
“Thank you so much.”
“Do not thank me.” He sets the plates in front of me. “Thank the girls. They also love fettuccini, but it’ll be Bolognese, tonight.”
By the girls, he means his four dogs. “You feed them scraps from the kitchen?”
“Scraps, for my girls? No, no, no. Full dishes. The extra pizza and pasta and garlic bread. Only the finest for my ladies. Now please.” Fabio walks to a cart and then sets the bottle of house red on the table. He bows his head ever so slightly. “Enjoy your meal.”
“Thanks, Fabio.”
One benefit of not having a hot guy sitting across from me is that I don’t feel like I must hold back with the food. I eat the entire bowl of alfredo, both pieces of garlic bread, and drink a good deal of the wine.
It’s 7:30 when my phone lights up with a Tinder notification. It’s my fake date.
So sorry! Stuck in traffic. Can you wait another half hour for me??
I realize this loser must get off specifically on making girls sit around waiting for someone who never shows. I start typing a rageful response, calling him out on his hobby, when I stop. That’s what he wants, isn’t it?
I get cleverer.
Super sorry! I thought you stood me up. I met a really hot guy here, and we’re going for drinks. Sorry things didn’t work out, but thanks for being my fate.
I add three halo smiley face emojis and hit send. The lie feels a little pathetic until I get his response. It takes five minutes, and not because he wasn’t looking at his phone. It’s a three-paragraph incel manifesto mostly detailing how I’m a slut and not even that hot anyway.
I got him. Maybe not evenly, but at least I swung back.
I finish the rest of the wine with a victorious smirk, report his profile, and tip Fabio a twenty.
Fabio promises he’ll spend it on his girls and tell them it was from me.
I’m in about as good of a mood as I can be after getting catfished. But I still shouldn’t have drunk so much wine. My high is short-lived, and I’m feeling sad that I struck out again when I step back onto the dark city street.
Clyde is waiting for me in a black Mercedes to take me back to Alex’s place on Park.
It’s as late as I’ve gotten back to the house since moving in. Usually, I stay in once I get back from work. Not usually. Always. I haven’t gone out once, and my single attempt was a bust.
I sober up on the drive back, a paparazzi takes a few flash photos of me on the way in, and Cooper opens the door while giving them his best Lurch stare.
I’m still not used to that. Never will be. So far, no pictures of me have ended up being published on social media or a gossip tabloid. There’s surely speculation that I’m seeing Alex, but since I’m not a somebody myself, there’s radio silence.
The heavy oak door shuts, and I jump as I look up. Despite being dulled and half drunk, I’m wide-awake now.
Alex is standing in the foyer with his arms crossed. He’s wearing a sky-blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and black pants. The shirt is unbuttoned enough to show the tan skin of his upper chest.
“Where were you?” he says, his voice deep and husky. He lowers his arms, and I watch the muscles in his big forearms flex.
Where was I? The question catches me off guard. Maybe because my insides are quaking from looking at him and I haven’t even talked to him in days. Still, the accusation in his tone ticks me off. How about a How’ve you been doing? I think.
“What are you? My dad?” The comment comes out feistier than I’d hoped.
“No, but you’re staying under my roof. Bruce said you were going out tonight.”
“Yeah.” I walk into the foyer more. “I had a date.”
Alex’s blue eyes narrow. He’s staring at me like a panther does its prey, and it makes my hair stand on end. It’s not just fear. Anticipation bubbles in my wine-laced blood.
“A date?”
“Yep,” I say with far more confidence than I feel. If he was a panther, he could hear my heart pounding right now.
Alex sticks his hands in his pockets. Again, those forearms. They’re as big around as some men’s biceps. “What did I say about other men?”
“I thought you meant not to bring them here. Am I wrong?”
I watch as Alex’s jaw twitches. I know that’s what he meant. He’s trying to change the rules on me.
“What does it matter to you if I go on a date?”
“There are journalists outside. There’s already speculation in the gossip press that you and I are dating.”
“So doesn’t it make more sense for me to go on a date to dispel those rumors?”
“Who was the man?” Alex ignores my question. Probably because he knows I’m right.
“Nobody. It didn’t go well anyway.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Are you really?”
We stare at each other across the room. It feels like there’s an electric charge building.
“I am,” Alex says finally. “You seem like someone who thinks finding love is important.”
“You mean like a normal human?” I raise a brow to take the edge off the question.
“If that’s a slight at me, I assure you, love just isn’t my thing. No offense to the men and women who have been tricked by Hollywood and marketers to think that it is.”
I feel like I could school him right now. I could tell him how I watched my mom and dad love each other for two decades. How I watched her heart break in two when he died. But to be honest, I’m not angered by this take of his. It’s sad.
“I’m sorry you feel that way about one of the greater things life has to offer.”
Alex shakes his head. “It’s not a matter of feeling. More so belief.”
“Well… if you believe in something enough, it kinda comes true, doesn’t it?”
Got him. Alex only stares at me, and although I feel like I won this little agreement, I can’t maintain eye contact confidently enough to feel victorious.
“Okay, new rule—no going out while you’re still living with me. I’m responsible for your safety, and the last thing I need is to have to break some asshole’s jaw on top of my business worries.”
My face burns with indignation. Rules about his home are one thing, but ones related to my lifestyle are entirely another. “No, that’s controlling. If I can’t go out, then you can’t go out.”
“What?”
“I want an equal standard. Simple as that.”
Alex chews his lip. He doesn’t seem to want to barter with me. “Fine. There’s a fundraiser tomorrow night that I’m attending.”
“Then you’re going to have to—”
“You’re coming with me,” Alex says, cutting me off. “It’s black-tie. I’m busy all day tomorrow, but meet me in the den at seven.”
“O-Okay,” I stutter, but he’s already walking up the steps towards the third floor.
“And rabbit…”
“Yes?” I respond willingly. His little pet name puts rocket thrusters on my heart.
“Don’t be late.”
“I won’t,” I whimper. All my wit feels lost. What’s the point of having the better argument when one glance from Alex, one single word, turns me into a blubbering fool?
I played the tough girl tonight, but as I watch his muscled frame move under his shirt as he ascends the stairs, I don’t know why I argued.
More than most things in this world, I want that man to tell me what to do.