Chapter 1 #2
Merritt leans back, reassessing. "Can you fake it?"
"Fake what?"
"Confidence. Experience. The kind of sexual energy that makes a man forget he's about to get married."
I think about the self-defense seminar I took last year where the instructor said confidence is ninety percent posture and ten percent volume.
I think about every rom-com I've ever watched and read where the awkward girl gets a makeover and suddenly knows how to flirt.
I think about the fact that fifty thousand dollars is sitting on the table, and all I have to do is lie convincingly for a week.
"I can fake it," I say.
"You're sure?" Merritt presses.
"I've been faking confidence my entire life," I reply. "This is just a different audience."
Barbie grins. "I like her."
Wait.
Did they just… did they just play me?
I've officially argued myself into a trap. I want out. I want to tell them this is insane.
But I just spent three minutes defending my ability to fake-seduce a billionaire, so backing out now makes me look like a coward and incompetent.
My pride is going to get me arrested.
I stare at Barbie's grin. At the way they're all watching me.
Their satisfied smiles.
Oh. Oh, they're good.
I just got hustled by a bunch of Park Avenue bridesmaids.
Barbie pulls out her phone, tapping rapidly.
"The wedding is January thirty-first. You fly out January twenty-fourth to arrive for the welcome events.
That gives us four days to prep you before you fly out.
Wardrobe fitting. Hair appointment. Etiquette briefing.
Background on the guest list so you don't accidentally reveal you have no idea who anyone is. "
"Four days," I repeat.
"Is that a problem?"
It's not enough time. It's nowhere near enough time to learn how to seduce a man I've never met at a resort I can't afford while pretending to be someone I'm not.
But fifty thousand dollars.
"It's tight," I say carefully. "But I can make it work."
"Good." Barbie stands, and the others follow her lead like synchronized swimmers. "We'll send a car tomorrow at nine. The fitting is at a boutique in Back Bay. Wear something presentable."
"Presentable," I echo.
"Nothing with visible stains," Barbie clarifies. "And for the love of all that's holy, we’ll have to do something about your nails."
I glance down at my ragged cuticles. "Right."
"We'll transfer ten thousand as a deposit," Merritt says. "The remaining forty when you deliver proof of the affair. Photos, video, or a recorded confession. Dealer's choice."
"And if I can't get proof?" I ask.
"Then you keep the deposit for your trouble," Merritt says. "But we're confident you'll succeed. Blake has a wandering eye and an ego the size of Manhattan. He won't be able to resist a beautiful woman throwing herself at him."
The way she says beautiful makes it clear I’m on probation.
Just as Barbie reaches for the door, I clear my throat.
“One last question,” I say. “Is there anything else I should know? Anyone I should… avoid? How low-key should I be?”
That stops them.
Barbie’s smile turns slow and knowing.Sloane’s mouth tightens.Katelyn lets out a small, sympathetic sound.
Merritt turns back, one perfectly groomed brow lifting.“Yes,” she says. “Actually.”
Barbie laughs. “Oh my gosh, him.”
“Absolutely avoid,” Sloane says.
“Who?” I ask.
“West Prescott,” Merritt says. “He’s a groomsman.”
Barbie tilts her head. “Pro hockey. Tall. Broad. Annoyingly charming.”
“And observant,” Sloane adds. “Painfully so.”
“He notices patterns like he reads plays on ice—fast and before you see him coming. He reads people the same way.” Katelyn says.
Merritt steps closer, lowering her voice—not dramatic, just precise.“He’s loyal to Blake. Protective. If something feels off, he’ll start asking questions.”
“So,” I say, “the human equivalent of a security system.”
“Exactly,” Sloane says.
Barbie points a manicured finger at me. “You don’t flirt with him. You don’t confide in him. You don’t give him a reason to remember you.”
“Which is unfair,” Katelyn murmurs, “because he is very attractive.”
Merritt opens the door. “You can’t avoid seeing him,” she says. “But you can avoid engaging.”
Barbie grins over her shoulder. “If he comes your way—turn the other direction.”
“Change conversations,” Sloane adds.
“Disappear,” Katelyn says.
Barbie finishes it, smiling sweetly.“Whatever you do, Jane—don’t let West Prescott get curious about you.”
They leave.
I stare at the closed door.
Isit in silence, staring at the folder.
I flip it open again, studying Blake's photo. The watch on his wrist could probably wipe out Grace’s tuition in a single transaction. His shirt is crisp. His haircut is precise.
I glance down at my chest and experimentally hoist everything up to see what 'pointing at him instead of the floor' even looks like.
Okay. I can see the cleavage appeal.
I set the girls down gently, back to their natural, economically-priced bra situation.
Clearly Blake Hartwell has never seen boobs that haven't been professionally assembled.
With a wry laugh, I close the folder and check my bank account. Negative. Overdraft fees, bounced payments, the kind of red that makes accountants break out in hives. I have $32 in cash. One maxed-out card. And a stack of envelopes marked URGENT.
Grace is the only family I have. Her tuition is due in less than a month. Campus housing right after.
She's twenty-two, brilliant and responsible. Still clawing her way through nursing school.
If she loses her spot, the last two years of scraping and saving and sacrificing are wasted.
She deserves better than a sister who can barely keep the lights on. She deserves a better future than meal-plan roulette and my sad attempts at budgeting.
Fifty grand means Grace gets to stay in school.
All I have to do is seduce a stranger.
I let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and the noise a balloon makes when you let all the air out.
This is, objectively, the dumbest work I’ve ever considered.
I've never successfully seduced anyone. But I’ve also never un-successfully seduced anyone. The sum of my sexual knowledge comes from romantic comedies and one extremely awkward health class in high school where the teacher used a banana to demonstrate condom application.
But I'm good at faking competence.
I’ve been faking it since I was nineteen, when Mom OD’d and I was suddenly the only adult in the room. Grace was a traumatized teenager. The mortgage was already three months behind. I had no idea what I was doing.
I quit college.
I faked my way into becoming Grace’s legal guardian. I faked my way into starting a business I had no qualifications to run. I faked confidence in hundreds of client meetings where I had no idea what I was doing but refused to let anyone see me sweat.I can fake this.
I have to fake this.
I pull out my phone and open a new note, titling it Operation Honeypot because if I'm going to do this, I might as well commit to the theme.
Step 1: Don't get arrested.
Step 2: Don’t fall for the target. (He’s a cheater. This should be the easiest step.)
Step 3: Get proof.
Step 4: Get paid.
Step 5: Never tell Grace about any of this.
I stare at the list. It seems simple when I break it down like that. Straightforward. Achievable.
Then I picture myself flirting with a billionaire at a luxury resort and immediately feel like a raccoon that wandered into a Michelin-star restaurant.
I don’t own a bikini. I walk in heels like a baby giraffe learning about gravity. I can’t tell the difference between expensive wine and the three-dollar bottles I buy for cooking.
I might actually glow in the dark.
But.
Fifty thousand dollars.
I open a new browser tab and type how to seduce a man.
The results are a mix of Cosmo articles and WikiHow guides with illustrations that look like they were drawn by someone who learned about human anatomy from alien autopsy reports.
Make eye contact. Smile. Lean in when he talks. Laugh at his jokes. Touch his arm. Compliment him. Wear red. Wear heels. Wear confidence.
I read through the list, taking notes like I'm cramming for an exam.
Another tab: what to wear to a beach wedding.
Another: how to talk to rich people.
Another: Anguilla travel guide.
Another: is it illegal to seduce someone for money.
That last one pulls up results about prostitution laws, which is not helpful and also mildly terrifying. I close the tab and make a mental note to never google that again from a device that's connected to my name.
My phone buzzes. A text from Grace.
Grace: Did you pay the meal plan yet? They sent another email.
My chest tightens.
Me: Processing it today. Don't worry.
Grace: I’m not worried. You do that for both of us.
Me: Because worrying is my job. You focus on biochem.
Grace: I'm serious. If we need to take out another loan—
Me: We don't. I've got it covered.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Grace: Thank you. I love you.
Me: Love you too. Now go study.
I set the phone down and stare at the folder again.
Blake Hartwell. Billionaire. Cheater. Target.
I've done harder things than this.
I lock up my office and head down the stairs, past the laundromat, where someone’s drying towels that smell like bleach and broken promises.
Outside, the January air bites through my coat, sharp enough to make my eyes water and my resolve wobble.
I pull my coat tighter and start walking toward the train station, mentally calculating how much a manicure costs and whether I can justify the expense as a business investment.
Fifty thousand dollars. One week in paradise. One lying, cheating billionaire.
I square my shoulders and start walking toward the T.
I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing.
Which, historically, has never stopped me before.