Chapter Five
It’s been five hours since West shook my shaking hand and left my apartment, and I’m not entirely sure what happens now. I still feel like I might vomit. He put his number into my phone—after reminding me that I should already have it—but the way he left things had a very “don’t call me, I’ll call you” vibe, and as my gummy wears off, the sense of oh shit what have I done starts to take hold.
Google tells me that West is the son of a billionaire, and a glance at my banking app tells me I am a thirty-dollaraire. We don’t exist in the same galaxy, let alone metaverse.
I haven’t been to a salon in months, haven’t shaved my legs in weeks, and haven’t carefully looked in a mirror in a few days, unless you count this morning’s passing glance in the toaster. (I do not recommend: Its curves turned my forehead into a sevenhead and stretched my day-old makeup halfway down my face.) Yet somehow, I’m supposed to convince a bunch of one percenters that I’m now one of them—have, in fact, been married to one of them for five years now? Guffaw!
To distract myself from this nebulous waiting game, I take a long shower, put on a hydrating mask I got at the dollar store, and consider painting my toenails before realizing it’s going to take a lot more than some Essie polish to clean me up. I’m going to need someone to come at these feet with pliers and sandpaper.
Panic is starting to really set in, and I reach for my phone, which is down to two percent—absolutely something a billionaire’s wife would never let happen!
Or maybe she would? Maybe the billionaire’s wife version of me is so busy and important I never remember to charge my phone? But more likely I have someone whose entire job it is to make sure my devices stay fully charged? With a groan, I hit Vivi’s profile photo in my contacts.
“Sorry, sorry,” she says as soon as the call connects. “I was going to call you in a few. I talked to Mom about getting you some more shifts and—”
“Viv, no, this isn’t about that.”
“Oh.” I can hear in the resulting silence the way her concern intensifies. Unless something is on fire or I think I’ve just spotted Zac Efron at Target—for the record, it’s never him—I don’t call her. Texts are perfectly fine for civilized people these days. “Oh shit. Is it David?”
I press a shaking hand to my forehead. Of course that’s where her mind went—it’s where mine would go, too. “My bad, no, no. Dad is fine. It’s not that. I agreed to do something and it’s sort of huge and unhinged and I think I need you to talk me out of it. Or into it. I’m undecided.”
“Anything,” she says immediately.
“Can you come over? I need you here.”
An only child raised by a single father, I am stubbornly independent. Vivi has never heard these words from me before.
“I’ll be there in thirty.” Vivi’s love language: coming to the rescue. She hangs up without further discussion, and instead of plugging in my phone like a normal person, I toss it to the mattress beside me. Vivi’s coming, I tell myself. Just breathe.
But I can’t. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know if I should. And if I do, I absolutely don’t know how to prepare. Why the hell did I say yes? And how can I ensure that I don’t end up being completely fucked over by a man who has spent his academic life so far learning how money works?
IT TAKES ALL OFfifteen minutes for me to explain the situation to Vivi, but another forty-five for her to stop screaming about how crazy and amazing this all is long enough for her to register that I’m in a blind panic.
“Babe, babe,” she says, cupping my cheeks. “There is no downside here. Are you kidding? This is life-altering good.”
“You don’t see a downside because you love chaos.”
“I do not!” she protests.
This liar. I’ve read that people who grew up in an unstable environment often seek out that unpredictability. This couldn’t be further from the truth with Vivi. Her childhood was idyllic; her parents are actual angels. Personally, I think she loves chaos because she’s a Scorpio.
We both scream when the doorbell rings and stare at each other in shock.
“Is it him?” she whispers.
“I don’t know!” I whisper back.
“Do you think he’s bringing you a briefcase of money?”
My eyes go wide. “Is that really how they do it?”
With glee, I fling the door open. It isn’t West with a suitcase of money. It’s a courier in a blue and yellow uniform.
“Oh,” I say, deflating. “Hello.”
“Name?” he asks, looking down at a clipboard.
“Anna Green.”
Vivi leans over. “I thought it was supposed to be Weston.”
“Right!” I say. “Anna Weston. Wait.” I speak to her out of the side of my mouth. “Would I go Weston? Wouldn’t I firmly stay Green?”
The guy clears his throat and looks at me, flat boredom in his gaze. “Either is fine. I have both here.” He passes over an envelope thickly stuffed with papers. “This is for you. Liam Weston asked that you review and sign. In fact, he said, ‘Tell her to actually review this, and then sign.’?”
“Wow, drag me, West,” I whisper.
“Once you’re done,” the dude says, “come back out. I’ll be over by my van and can bring the rest up.”
I take it with a mumbled thanks and close the door again.
“Holy shit does West Weston love a contract.” I pull out a chair at the kitchen table and sit. “You bet your ass this time I’m going to read every single word of this.” I open the envelope and the thick stack of documents slides heavily onto the tabletop. Staring down at it, I amend, “I’m going to read some of this.”
“What did he mean, ‘bring the rest up’?” Vivi asks, parting the curtains at the front window and peeking out at the parking lot. “Maybe you sign that first and then get the briefcase of money.”
I have no idea what “the rest of it” could possibly be, but there’s no time to think about that now. The top sheet is a nondisclosure agreement stating that I’m not to share the terms of this arrangement or the conditions of our marriage with anyone for all of eternity, otherwise West can sue my face off. Whatever, easy. I just won’t tell him about Vivi, whom I presume is grandfathered in anyway: I haven’t signed anything yet.
But beneath the NDA is a contract detailing what I’ve agreed to do: I’ve agreed to remain married to William Albert Weston until September first of this year or a mutually agreed upon date of our choice, whichever is later. I’ve agreed to come to the wedding of his sister, Charlotte Weston, to a man improbably named Kellan McKellan—I bark out a laugh—on the private island of Pulau Jingga from May first through twelfth. I’ve agreed to play the role of a happily married woman, to engage with all wedding guests appropriately and as needed. The contract states that West will fill me in on the details of what he’s told his family about our life together “no later than May first” which, frankly, makes me very nervous. If there’s so much backstory that he didn’t have time to put it all in the contract, is it really possible for me to remember everything I’m supposed to have been doing for the past five years? I couldn’t even remember to put two dollars in the Pick-It-Up till.
There are a lot of zeros under the “Payment Terms” section, which is pretty exciting, but there are even more stipulations about what actions on my part would forfeit said payment. Some are obvious: Of course, West won’t pay me if I accidentally or intentionally mention that I recently got canned from my convenience store job, or that I reside in a shithole apartment in Northridge, or if I reveal anything that doesn’t align with the details he’ll share with me “no later than May first.”
But other things are in here, too. Requirements about my hair, my makeup, my clothes, my foul language (okay, fair), my use of recreational or illegal drugs (also fair). Each of these clauses is a rubber mallet to my feminist knee-jerk reflex, but simply put, if he doesn’t get his money, neither do I. Scrounging around the kitchen, I find a nearly dry ballpoint pen and sign the contract, reminding myself what a hundred thousand dollars can do.
It can pay off my student loans.
It can allow me to support myself for a little while, so I can paint.
And, most importantly, it can pay for my father’s medical care.
When it comes down to it, there’s absolutely no question. I’ll dress like a Kardashian and act like a fembot in a heartbeat if it means I can take care of my dad.
When I wave to the courier out in the parking lot, he nods and strolls to the back of his van, hauling out a large parcel onto a dolly and wheeling it directly into my living room. It’s even bigger up close.
“Several briefcases could fit in that,” I whisper.
“A body could fit inside that,” Vivi whispers back.
I stare at it. “I’m really hoping there’s not a body in there.”
“Me, too,” our courier says dryly.
I hand him the sealed envelope with the signed NDA and contract and, after a pause, he leaves.
“Shit.” I stare at the closed door, finally translating his hesitation. “Was I supposed to tip him?”
“Let West tip him.”
“But it’s this kind of stuff I don’t even know,” I say. “Like, who gets tipped? That guy? And how much? Is couch change insulting?”
“I think it depends if there’s a dead body in there. We’ll add tipping etiquette to the research you have to do later.”
“Research?”
“Designers, real estate, restaurants, travel.”
“How do you know all of this?” I ask.
Vivi shrugs. “Real Housewives.”
We get to work on the box, coaxing it open with a steak knife and spatula. Inside there is neither a stack of briefcases nor a dead body but another box, this one with an envelope taped to the outside.
The envelope contains a set of papers stapled together and folded into neat thirds, a check for $10,000 (“Initial deposit” it says in the memo section and hello, this feels very Pretty Woman), an American Express black card (holy shit it’s heavy), and a first-class plane ticket on Singapore Airlines.
I need to sit down again.
Vivi takes the metallic credit card from my hand and whistles, tapping it against her manicured nail. “I’ve never even seen one of these. You could buy a house with this card.”
“I know.” I take it back, looking at it. It has my name on it. Goose bumps break out along my arms. “How does he know I won’t use this to buy a giraffe?” Is West this trusting, or this desperate?
We work together to pry open the interior box, which holds a beautiful set of bright blue RIMOWA luggage, complete with personalized luggage tags.
“?‘AGW,’?” I read. “I guess I went with ‘Weston’ after all.”
Vivi runs her hands over the suitcases. “These are the sexiest bags I’ve ever seen.”
“But overboard, maybe?” I stare down at them. They’re gorgeous but come on. “I have luggage.”
“Anna, I’ve seen your luggage. The only thing sadder would be a handkerchief tied to the end of a stick.”
“Okay, but this?” I point to the gleaming hard-sided cubes. “These look like Transformers.”
Vivi ignores this, unfolding the crisp set of papers. “He sent an itinerary.” She whistles. “Girl. There’s a party almost every day.”
My stomach drops. “What? More than just the wedding?”
Vivi openly laughs at me. “Rich people love a party. Oh,” she says, perking up, “there’s a list of the clothing items you’ll need.” Distractedly, while I try to figure out how to set the lock combination on my new robot bags, I listen as she reads the list aloud: “Travel attire, four cocktail dresses, three day-party dresses, a rehearsal dinner gown, wedding guest gown, casual outfits for ten to twelve days, three to four bathing suits, shoes, undergarments, blah blah, upscale loungewear—”
I look up. “What’s ‘upscale loungewear’? Like, yoga pants?”
Vivi stares at me in concern. “No, sweetie. Like, cashmere robes and silk pajamas.”
“Cashmere on an island?”
“I’m pretty sure when you’re this rich you pay somebody else to sweat for you. Besides, I’m just describing the category. He probably means you should have a set of pajamas that perfectly complements your diamond necklace.”
“I don’t have a diamond necklace.”
She holds up an iconic turquoise box. “You do now.”
“Holy shit. Do I open it?”
“Seems the only way you’ll find out what’s inside. I could open it if you wa—”
“Give it to me.” I tug at the white satin ribbon and take off the lid. Inside is another turquoise box, this one velvet and hinged. Inside sits a diamond solitaire pendant on what I assume is a platinum chain. I can barely breathe. “Vivi. This cost him Baby Driver money.”
“I hate you so much right now,” she says. “Are you sure you never banged this guy?”
“I can’t wear that! What if I lose it? What if I’m robbed, or held for ransom?”
“Insurance,” she says. “These people insure everything.” While I continue to stare at the rock, she returns to the list and laughs. “Get this: ‘Anna, please feel free to schedule any hair, nails, spa, or grooming appointments and use the card to pay for those.’?”
It takes a beat for one very specific word to land. “Grooming? Why is that separate from hair, nails, and spa?”
Vivi whistles and motions to my bikini area. “Rich ladies lack wrinkles, self-awareness, and body hair.”
“Oh God.”
Vivi already has her phone out. “I gotta google this guy now.” Three seconds later she’s scrolling wide-eyed through a browser full of Dr. William Westons. “I hope this is him because he is delicious.” She turns the screen to show me a faculty profile. It’s him. In the photo, he’s wearing a suit and tie and has all that luscious hair combed off his forehead. To my shock and delight, there’s something vaguely naughty in his gaze.
“Is West the hot professor?” I ask, taking her phone to look more closely. “Imagine his poor, slobbering students.”
“He’s got the Theo James down-to-fuck look but with those wild butterscotch eyes and a better hairline.” Vivi blows out a breath. “Jesus, Anna. Maybe you should bang him. Make the most of this trip.”
“Despite the vibe of these photos, I’m convinced the man himself only performs perfunctory missionary with his eyes closed.” I’m devastated that I can’t even banter about banging West. I’m starting to get overwhelmed again. I fall back on the couch. “There’s not enough time to prepare for this. I have three and a half days.”
Vivi sits down beside me and opens her Notes app. “Let’s make a plan. We need to shop for all these clothes. You need to get your hair colored, nails done, a pedicure, waxing above and below the hood, and a facial.”
“In three days?”
“Three days is plenty. It’s not like you have a job.”
I press the heels of my hands to my eyes. “I also have to go to Dad’s and let him know that I’ll be gone, pay the balance on his bills, and find someone to check in with him while I’m gone.”
“Me,” Vivi says. “I’ll do that. I also know that you suck at shopping, so I’ll take the list and do that in the next couple days. You just focus on your transformation into a billionaire’s wife.” She leans forward and hugs me. “This is going to be a disaster. I’m so excited!”