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An unexpected twist of suspicion creeps into my head. A car like that isn't something you'd expect someone still in the early stages of their career or training to be driving. And she’s young, probably younger than me.
Young and pretty.
My mind begins to wander down a path I didn't intend to tread. A thought lodges itself firmly in my mind. I doubt that many people do the kind of research that I’ve been doing before deciding to drive all the way over here, simply based on the reputation of the local sensei. This is not one of the wealthiest parts of town, and most people who attend this dojo probably do so because they live nearby. I’m sure the same holds true for her, which means that it’s very unlikely that she bought this car herself. She might not even own it.
The words “gold digger” cross my mind, a term that gets thrown around a lot in this city, and especially in my circle. I frown, frustrated with myself for letting my thoughts wander into such territory. It may not be true, but if it is, she’s already committed to some wealthy douchebag, which would make things a lot harder—but not impossible.
And if it’s not true…
She opens the door to the driver’s seat, and as she’s about to get into the car, I finally make up my mind and set my feet into motion. But just as I finally take action, my phone erupts with a tedious ring and stops me in my tracks.
Diverted, I reach into my pocket and answer the call, while I watch Madison from afar, as she fastens her seatbelt.
Fuck, it’s too late now.
“Man, you wouldn’t believe the shit I have to put up with,” my friend Logan bemoans from the other end of the line. “These Vanguards are a real pain in the ass.”
“Told you! A loaded bank account is not enough to convince those motherfuckers,” I retort absentmindedly, my eyes still locked on her. “I don’t even understand why you’re so desperate to join their dumb club.”
Madison is still getting settled in her car, checking the mirrors and looking down at her phone, before she places it somewhere next to the steering wheel.
“I’m not desperate,” Logan insists.
He has been trying to become a member of an illustrious douchebag club—the Vanguard Society—for ages because he thinks that joining them will clear his name from its association with his family’s dirty business. A business that he never liked to talk about, even among our close group. The Plutus Boys is what we used to call ourselves back in college.
“Even if you do get in, you’ll still be a Reid,” I remind him after listening to another round of his ranting. “Unless you marry and take your wife’s name.”
Logan scoffs, and I think about our little get together a couple of weeks ago. We all met up in Boston to celebrate the thirtieth birthday of Aston, the oldest in our group. The occasion was important to all of us because it marked a major milestone for a goal that each of us declared during college: To become a billionaire by the time we turn thirty years old. We all made it—and then drunkenly made another pact, that might be even more ridiculous.
I can hear Madison starting her car across the parking lot, and her vehicle starts moving a moment later.
“Hey,” I say, “you know what? Why don’t you just do that? Find a wife! You remember our pact, don’t you? Just kill two birds with one stone.”
“Solid advice,” he laments. “But you know I have no intention of hobbling myself with a nagging wife.”
“Get one that doesn’t nag, then!” I reply—as I watch Madison leave the parking lot in her gleaming black Bugatti.
She’d be a nag for sure, and a stubborn one at that. Not wife material, I decide.
Which is fine, because I sure as hell am not looking for a wife, pact or no pact.
Chapter 5
Madison
“See, this is what you need!” Max exclaims, twirling his hand in the air.
The soft glow of the chandeliers casts a warm ambiance over the plush, velvety seats of this place. Mirrored panels reflect the golden hues, creating an illusion of an endless space, and amplifying the sense of luxury. The scent of aged wood and polished brass lingers in the air, mingling with the faint hum of conversations and the gentle clinking of glasses.
Max and I are sitting at the bar, two martinis resting elegantly in front of us, a perfect picture of after-work relaxation—at least he is. Me, not so much. I’m struggling to pull my shoulder down from my ears and relax the tight clamp of stress that’s stifling my body.
“Drinks, atmosphere, me! What more could you want,” Max goes on, raising his martini to me.
We clink glasses and I take a sip of my drink, the crisp taste of the gin offering a momentary distraction from the whirlwind of thoughts that have been racing through my mind all day.
“I’m trying,” I assure him. “I really am… but after the week I’ve had, it’s just…”
“Okay, so, spill,” Max encourages, his tone light and teasing. “What’s got you all riled up now?”
