Page 55 of The Unfluencer

Warner

How about you worry about making yourself useful to Alexis. Go fix some cabinets or check her tire pressure, or something. I’ve got this.

Cord

You know that’s some husband-type shit, right? Lol. Just know I’m already in full spectator mode.

Warner

Good. You’ll have the perfect view to see my plan in action.

Just as soon as I’ve got one.

I swipe out of messages, back to my search results, still taking notes. Still wrapping my head around the idea of sex being just a physical outlet, not an emotional one. Setting clear expectations and boundaries to keep my heart out of my dick’s business. And safety.

Before I forget, since I’ll be prioritizing physical pleasure, I quickly open up a new tab to order a box of condoms, and… Whoa!

Since when did stocking up on protection require a flowchart?

Immediately, I feel the decision paralysis coming down on me.

Latex, non-latex, ribbed for maximum pleasure, I get. Female condoms, sure. Even assorted colors and flavors. But lubricated bare-skin supreme? Ultra-thin, ultra-sensitive, climax delay? Graphene flex condoms? And what in the hell is a Stallion Pleasure Pack? Does it come with extra horsepower? Am I supposed to neigh while we’re coming?

Would Whitney want that?

Oh my Lord. I’m so far out of my comfort zone, it’s not even funny.

I stare at my screen until it dims. My mind drifts far from the condom cornucopia and the starkly lit conference room. I’m not even seeing the assorted bare-skin pixels anymore. Just my reflection, faint and unfocused. Lost.

You can do this, Warn.

Flicking a glance at my team, running the same discussion we’ve been having for weeks into the ground, I tell myself it doesn’t have to be complicated.

Then, without thinking, I wake my screen, blindly circle my finger, then randomly double-tap a bright green box, feeling inspired. As I click buy, I release a relieved sigh.

That’s right, keep it simple.

I’ve already laid the groundwork for my plan. The five-star restaurant’s booked. I’ve got a fresh fade. My suit is already laid out, charcoal with impeccable stitching only a Milanese tailor would obsess over. I’m even dusting off the cuff links and monogrammed money clip a client gave me years ago, back when I was confused by means and meaning. All carefully curated props to sell the “cold cash machine” persona.

That’s what she wants. That’s who she thinks I am, right?

Not too much. Just enough extravagance to bait the hook, to see whether Whitney reaches for the gleam or the man holding it.

Then, over dinner, when it’s just us, one on one, without the gallery crowd and the cameras and the public-facing armor she wears like couture, I’ll hit her with the coup de grâce:

The Clover Cay weekend trip.

It’s the type of offer no true social climber—no ten-day stand—would ever turn down.

With any luck, it’ll be enough to pull back the curtains. One that will undoubtedly reveal a high-level climber?

Boom! My emotional attraction instantly turns off like a switch, just in time for us to get down and dirty once. Maybe twice, if she’s into casual sex.

Honesty is the best policy, right?

I’ll lay out my intentions, get her consent, and emphasize that there’s no commitment or expectation of a relationship. Business handled. Wager won. I move forward clean, unbothered, a man who finally proves to Cord and every other hater that I’m not some hopeless, starry-eyed relationship guy who falls for the first set of dimples that wanders into my orbit.

Just one who’s apparently trying to hit it and quit it.