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“No, but I’m a fast learner. The only thing is; the going rate for an office bitch these days is a hell of a lot less than a high-class whore.” I really hate using that word, but I needed to get my point across. And I did say ‘high-class’ — it’s not like I’m some cheap broad. Five grand is a lot for one night of debauchery.
He pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s exasperated with me. I know I’m giving him hell, but he deserves it.
“I can’t wait to hear your going rate.”
“Oh, I’m not cheap, Mr. Devereaux. But since you paid for the world's most expensive blowjob, you probably know that already.”
His eyes flash with annoyance and he looks genuinely intrigued when he asks, “Did you buy yourself something nice with my money?”
“Yes, I did. In fact, I think I quite like it.”
“Spending my money?”
Who does this arsehole think he is? God’s gift to women? “Technically, it’s my money. I earned it.”
I’ve got news for him, and it’s all bad.
His lips twitch when he says, “You certainly did.”
I narrow my eyes. “Are you flirting with me?”
His eyes darken. His jaw is set like steel. And his hands are still clenched into fists on the table. One way or the other, I make him nervous. And I don’t think I’ve ever seen Alistair nervous in my entire life. “No, but I think you are.”
He can’t deny the tension between us. I don’t care what he says. And I kinda like the idea of him being my sugar daddy. Why not? People do it all the time.
Granted, they don’t do it with their ex-stepfather, who may very well hate my guts. But no matter, I can’t deny the thrill that I got when I was on the High Street today, spending that money. It made me feel good. It made me feel powerful. It made me feel like I could rule the world. Maybe that’s naive of me to fill the void that I have with ‘things’, but for one indulgent second, I felt completely free. And that’s what money buys you.
“So do we have a deal?”
“I’ll think it over.” At least that’s not a no. Then he surprises me by adding, “While we’re on the subject, I don’t like Blakefield.”
My eyes go slightly round as I take in his words. He sent a car to Blakefield. I doubt the man has set foot in such a place in his entire life. Not with that giant stick shoved up his arse.
“You’ve been there?”
He grunts. “Of course I’ve been there. I had to see where you lived, and might I say, I am not impressed.”
Why does he make me feel like this? Like I’m not enough. Like I’m not good enough. Like I don’t already know that I don’t have money. Just because he has a lot of it, he has to rub it in my face? Well, fuck him.
“Ever heard the expression that money can’t buy happiness? What makes you think I’m unhappy in a place like Blakefield? Is it too lower class for your standards?”
I can tell by the disgruntled look he gives me that it is the reason. It is no secret that Alistair grew up with money. Tons of it. It’s probably the only reason that my grandmother agreed to the union in the first place. That and he also got his inheritance from his own family. Little did my grandmother know it was only so my mother could get her fortune, which she inherently blew on God knows what.
This is why money means so little to me. It’s always been to buy something. Affections. Gain attention. Recognition. But I don’t think anyone has ever bought me anything out of love. And I’m not saying that to sound like a poor, little rich girl; I grew up in the finest of surroundings. We lived very well, even in Australia when my grandma had a huge estate in Canberra. But I learnt from an early age that money definitely doesn’t buy anything except things. Collector’s items. Trophies that go on a shelf to gather dust. Maybe I am materialistic, but can one blame me?
Alistair regards me with a curious look. I’d give anything to know what he’s thinking.
“Frankly, yes. I thought you earned a decent wage at your job.” He pauses. “Your day job, that is.”
“Well, I don’t actually. Hospitality workers are the lowest paid in the UK, if not the world. Maybe think about that the next time you’re ordering your fancy, dirty martinis, and not tipping wait staff what they're worth.”
“Tipping is not really a thing here. But I’ll have you know that I always treat people that serve me well. If I get good service, that is.” There’s something about his words that sound so sexy, as if that last part was meant just for me. Goosebumps rise on my skin. I know I need to stop. I know I need to get out of here and away from this man, but something inside me just won’t let me run. Not until I have my vengeance.
“Let me ask you a question. How many times have you frequented the women at Élégance?” I let the words hang, giving him time to really let it sink in. Maybe I do like rubbing salt in the wounds, but it’s not like he’s given me any reassurance. His way of dealing with things is sweeping them under the carpet.
“That’s none of your concern.”
“But you pay tens of thousands of dollars to be a member?”
