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Cleo is probably the only person who truly knows me, and even she doesn’t know everything.
I laugh because she’s right. Yet here I am, taking five million dollars to marry a man I don’t know. I didn’t need that much. One million would have been fine, but I wanted to make him pay for what he did.
“This guy could be a sadist or a psychopath.”
I think back to the alley where all I saw was a vulnerable man at one of the lowest points in his life, in the shower, the way he placed his face against my neck, holding onto me as if I were a buoy in a rolling ocean. It doesn’t make him a good person, in fact he’s deplorable under the circumstances, but he’s not a psychopath.
“He’s an over-privileged rich kid who needs a wife to get his inheritance,” I say absently, having already explained the terms to Cleo. She didn’t like it, still doesn’t, but I think she’s more upset I’m leaving. We’d been living together for a couple years now, and had gotten used to being in each other’s space. With her absence I won’t have my anchor, and maybe she’s worried about the same thing.
“I still can’t believe everything that’s happened. Darren Walker? I didn’t even know who he was until his parents were all over the news,” Cleo admits as she sifts through my clothes, trying her best to fold them while I make my way into the bathroom, grabbing some necessities. “I don’t follow politics,” she adds.
I can’t help but laugh. Most of our clients are politicians.
Darren Walker might not be a politician, but he’s a politician’s son. Whether his parents are gone is irrelevant, because he’ll always be inextricably entwined in a world of war games, and here I am, walking willingly into the fray.
“I can pay for my half of the apartment for the rest of the year,” I offer as I walk back into the bedroom.
She waves me away. “I’m not worried about the money, I’m just worried about you.”
I place the little bag of necessities into my suitcase, tucking it in much longer than needed, smiling at how Cleo has folded my clothing neatly. “I can take care of myself,” I sigh.
Cleo grabs my hand. “I know you can, honey. I just wish, for once, you didn’t have to.”
What she says hits harder than I expected, and tears well in my eyes. I stay bent over the suitcase, pretending to organize my clothes until the tears go away. I close the top and zip it up before swinging it off the bed. It’s very apparent that I don’t have a lot. Cleo was right, money never meant much to me. All of the expensive items I have I received from clients. I’ve left them for Cleo – the coveted Birkin bag I never used, the diamond tennis bracelet I never wore, and a pair of shoes that cost more than my rent.
I didn’t grow up with those things, and I knew better than to get used to them. This kind of life is hand to mouth, and it could all be gone tomorrow – case in point.
I wheel my bag into the living room and stand next to it. “What are you going to do?”
“Oh, you know me,” she smiles, “I’ll figure something out.” She shrugs, causing her fluffy brown hair to bounce which makes me giggle – especially because she’s wearing a pair of unicorn pajamas.
I reach out and run a hand along her arm. I’ve never been an especially emotional person, and I’m definitely not a hugger, but at this moment, I have an overwhelming need to hold on for as long as I can.
When I step off the elevator to the downstairs lobby, at the curb waits a black SUV, the windows tinted so dark I can’t see inside, but I know it’s for me. No one in this building would be picked up by this kind of vehicle unless it was decorated with strobe lights, penises, and the words ‘Fling Before the Ring’ written on the back window. A man dressed in a black suit exits the driver’s side and opens the back door for me.
I can see his strong jaw and pressed lips from the side. Even though he doesn’t look at me, I begin to realize that he looks familiar.
I know him.
I’m sure of it, but even though I stop to look at him before getting in, his eyes never give away that he knows me too.
“Congratulations, Mrs. Walker,” he says with a professional smile, and I think maybe he doesn’t remember me as he takes the handle of my luggage and wheels it to the back of the SUV while I look after him curiously.
I’m about to correct him when I look inside the vehicle and notice Darren sitting in the backseat with a drink in hand, wearing a very nice suit. The white collared shirt is unbuttoned carelessly, and his black suit jacket is open, revealing a trim waist with the shirt tucked in nicely. I had only seen him in dirty jeans and wrinkled shirts, aside from the casual clothes he had on earlier at the diner.
But a suit looks—well, it looks good on him. I take a deep breath.
“What are you wearing?” he asks as I settle into my seat, and the driver closes the door behind me.
“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” I ask in an annoyed tone, looking down at my jeans and sneakers.
The car begins to move, and I watch in the reflection of the window as my apartment shifts out of view.
“You can’t wear jeans to get married,” he scoffs, taking a sip of his drink.
“Does it matter?”
Darren just smiles, tossing the remaining finger of whiskey back, and then sets the glass on the bar next to him. “Of course it does.” He turns his attention to the driver.
