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Part I: the Deal
Chapter 1: Julia
Seven.
That’s the number of men who have approached me with desirous—and unsettling—expressions on their faces this evening. The count began when I stepped onto the terrace at my family’s estate, and hasn’t subsided even though dinner is scheduled to begin in a few minutes. At some point, I figured they’d get so hungry or drunk that they’d kindly get the fuck away from me. But old, horny men are a bit like Gremlins: If you feed them after midnight, all hell breaks loose. Well, in this case, if you put a beautiful heiress in front of them after eight pm, all hell breaks loose.
Seven of them.
Seven—not counting the ones who have kept their distance, but still stare shamelessly from every dark corner of the terrace, eyeing me over the half-empty drinks clutched in their wrinkly hands. They know I see them. They want me to see them.
Seven.
Based on some rough, back-of-the-napkin math, I figure their average age is around sixty-three years old. Maybe sixty-eight, actually. Walter something-or-other, my father’s accountant, surely notches the mean up by several years. Then again, when old guys hit sixty it’s practically impossible to pinpoint their ages. Old as fuck, let’s say. Their average age is old as fuck.
As I sip my bourbon, trying my best to politely tolerate suitor number seven (who has been droning on about real estate investments for most of this horrendous conversation), I want to throw my drink into the nearby fountain. The thought of screwing one of these ancient men settles uneasily beneath my skin like a parasite. The mere suggestion makes me want to crawl out of my own body—a monumental feat because I happen to love my body.
They’re relentless, willing to rip out each other’s jugulars for a chance with me. In fact, even while number seven is shooting his shot, Walter something-or-other is standing by the bar, constantly glancing in my direction. Despite his delusions of subtlety, he’s unabashed. Creepy. I wonder if he stares because he’s genuinely attracted to me, or if—as my father’s accountant—he knows how much I’ll inherit one day.
I could vomit. Hell, I’ve had better experiences getting a full Brazilian. I’m used to men approaching me, but tonight is different. Tonight they’ve been completely presumptuous—smug because they were invited to my billionaire father’s birthday party. They only care about how lovely I’d look on their arms next to their Rolexes, regardless of anything below the surface.
Revolting.
“You’ve grown up beautifully, Julia,” number seven declares while giving me yet another surveying perusal from head to toe. The gesture is blatant, underpinned by audacity.
On some level, I’m also insulted. What the hell does he mean when he says I’ve ‘grown up beautifully?’ I’ve been beautiful my whole fucking life.
Hungrily, he wets his lower lip with his tongue and continues with, “The last time I saw you, you were—”
“I was too young for you,” I interject, releasing a pointed sigh so he can quickly ascertain that I am not going to tolerate this. “And for what it’s worth, I may be twenty-eight, but I’m still too young for you. I always will be. Here’s a rule of thumb: If a woman was born after the film Forrest Gump released in theaters, she’s too young for you. You know Forrest Gump. It’s the long one with lots of scenes of the Vietnam War. Oh, but you probably don’t know what Vietnam looked like, since you dodged the draft.”
Number seven, whose name is actually Glen, stares at me with his lips parted slightly. A look of confusion quickly melts into indignation.
“I didn’t dodge the draft,” he protests, now pulling his weathered face into a scowl. “I was enrolled at Wharton—”
“Yes, like my father,” I interrupt again before sipping my bourbon. “You Wharton men can’t resist reminding everyone that you’re, in fact, Wharton men. Here’s another helpful rule for you: If the person you’re speaking to didn’t go to Wharton, they don’t care about Wharton.”
Glen’s brow is so tight that new crease lines seem to appear on his face. He begins to shake his head, but stops short like he’s unsure what exactly is going on.
What’s going on? I’m verbally obliterating you.
“Glen, you’re a financial planner,” I continue, ready to end this once and for all. “I’m your client’s daughter. So, unless you have financial advice for me, I would say we’re acquaintances at best and I’m eager to keep it that way. How does that sound?”
“It sounds fine, Julia,” he murmurs, his expression flattening by the second. I can tell he’s dying to retort, but my father is my trump card. Glen isn’t arrogant enough to go toe to toe with the daughter of the sixth richest man in the world.
Plus, I would absolutely destroy him regardless of who my father is—and Glen knows it.
“Great, so no financial advice? Buy low, sell high? Stick with a reliable index fund? Should I short something?” I go on, openly mocking him now.
To Glen’s credit, he doesn’t indulge me with a response. He simply turns and stalks away, straightening his tuxedo while trying to regain the height in his spine.
He didn’t answer me, but I do assume “buy low, sell high” is the way to go.
Exhaling, I sweep my dress’s train to avoid stepping on it, and I head to the large Beauvais fountain on the opposite side of the terrace. There, I balance my drink on the thick stone basin’s ledge and consider how to sit while wearing such a tight dress.
It’s a hideous, gold couture number I’m only wearing because the designer dared me to, and I owed him because he came through with a safety pin when my dress tore at the Met Gala last year. Oh, and he offered me fifteen thousand dollars to post a picture of me wearing it. So, there’s that too.
The bodice isn’t awful, and does the lord’s work on my tits. The skirt, on the other hand, is ridiculous: mermaid cut with a train that trumpets around me while pinching my legs together at the same time.
