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If there was one thing wealthy men hated, it was being told that a woman only liked them for their bank balance. It fucked with their ego. It made them feel small. And when men were made to feel small, they got mean.
I couldn’t exactly picture Fenway being mean, but I also didn’t imagine he would be fond of the idea that I was after him for the shopping sprees and the private jets and the yachts.
It would ruin everything if he started to wonder—even if just an infinitesimally small part of him started to wonder—if I was disingenuous.
Frustrated, needing an outlet for it so I could think straight, I took myself down to the pool, doing laps until my arms screamed, until my shoulders burned, until I felt a bone-deep sort of exhaustion settle over me.
I took myself back to the room, changing into shorts and a tee, falling into the bed, curling up under the covers, trying to figure out how to get Fenway in love with me, then secure enough to admit it, before the week was out.
This had to end.
Soon.
Because I was getting invested.
Because I was losing sight of the job.
Because Alvy was suspicious of me.
Because, despite my outburst, I actually didn’t hate that Fenway thought I was beautiful.
I should have.
I always did.
From birth, that was all anyone had to say about me.
It didn’t matter if I was a straight-A student, that I made high honor roll. I even distinctly remembered my seventh grade male English teacher pulling me aside after class when I asked to do an extra book report, and telling me that he was afraid I was taking on too much, that he’d hate to see pretty girls like me getting stressed out over grades.
Because all pretty girls were good for was marrying and pushing out pretty babies, right Mr. Radleigh?
Because I couldn’t possibly have dreams or ambitions.
Every man—and many of the women—I encountered in my life believed my worth started and ended with the way my cells had happened to come together. My accomplishments, my intellect, my wit, the things I had a hand in creating, meant nothing.
I lost my virginity at fifteen to a perv neighbor because he called me clever. Not pretty. Not hot. Clever.
It took a long time for me to be able to work the hand life dealt me, to get what I wanted from men by taking advantage of the fact that no one thought someone like me actually had a head on their shoulders.
I was known for walking away from men at bars who complimented me. It was a running joke in my family.
When pretty became my job—the bait I used to lure in those men who needed to be punished in one way or another—I had learned to detach myself from everything superficial. It helped you feel less slimy when men talked about your eyes, your mouth—(and what they’d like to do to it)—, about your tits, about your ass, about your feet, for the foot fetish guys.
But it didn’t feel slimy when Fenway said those things.
No.
It felt good.
And that was not good.
He couldn’t have that power.
I had to get the hell out of here before it was too late.
“Darling,” Fenway greeted me when I emerged from a self-pitying nap, finding him changed into one of his tan suits, this time with a light blue shirt on underneath. “Whatever did you say to poor Alvy?” he wondered, buttoning his center button, head tilted to the side, watching me.
“Why do you think I said something?”
“Because they tore out of the hotel, telling me to keep an eye on you, and claimed they were going to spend the rest of the week in a different hotel.”
“We had a disagreement,” I admitted, shrugging.
“Might I ask what over?”
“You may ask,” I told him, nodding, “but I told Alvy I would keep it between us.”
“Did they say something about not trusting you?”
“Fenway, I gave them my word.”
His gaze slid away, looking out at the ocean. “I’ve never known Alvy to get involved with my personal affairs.”
“Are you saying you don’t trust me either?” I asked, letting my voice whine, making sure my lips parted, my eyes went rounder.
Fenway’s shoulders slumped, his arms moving outward, hands beckoning.
As I slid my feet across the floor to him, letting his arms wrap me up, pressing my face against his chest, I should have been feeling triumph. But that sinking, swirling sensation in my chest and belly seemed a hell of a lot more like guilt than victory.
“Alvy works too hard. And is very loyal,” Fenway said, rubbing his hand down my spine. “They probably just need a few days away. I’m sure you two will work it out.”
I was just as sure that I wouldn’t be around to do so.
There was a deep, stabbing sensation in my belly at that, something I chose—in that moment—to blame on hunger.
