Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 115198 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 576(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115198 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 576(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
But beneath the NDA is a contract detailing what I’ve agreed to do: I’ve agreed to remain married to William Albert Weston until September first of this year or a mutually agreed upon date of our choice, whichever is later. I’ve agreed to come to the wedding of his sister, Charlotte Weston, to a man improbably named Kellan McKellan—I bark out a laugh—on the private island of Pulau Jingga from May first through twelfth. I’ve agreed to play the role of a happily married woman, to engage with all wedding guests appropriately and as needed. The contract states that West will fill me in on the details of what he’s told his family about our life together “no later than May first” which, frankly, makes me very nervous. If there’s so much backstory that he didn’t have time to put it all in the contract, is it really possible for me to remember everything I’m supposed to have been doing for the past five years? I couldn’t even remember to put two dollars in the Pick-It-Up till.
There are a lot of zeros under the “Payment Terms” section, which is pretty exciting, but there are even more stipulations about what actions on my part would forfeit said payment. Some are obvious: Of course, West won’t pay me if I accidentally or intentionally mention that I recently got canned from my convenience store job, or that I reside in a shithole apartment in Northridge, or if I reveal anything that doesn’t align with the details he’ll share with me “no later than May first.”
But other things are in here, too. Requirements about my hair, my makeup, my clothes, my foul language (okay, fair), my use of recreational or illegal drugs (also fair). Each of these clauses is a rubber mallet to my feminist knee-jerk reflex, but simply put, if he doesn’t get his money, neither do I. Scrounging around the kitchen, I find a nearly dry ballpoint pen and sign the contract, reminding myself what a hundred thousand dollars can do.
It can pay off my student loans.
It can allow me to support myself for a little while, so I can paint.
And, most importantly, it can pay for my father’s medical care.
When it comes down to it, there’s absolutely no question. I’ll dress like a Kardashian and act like a fembot in a heartbeat if it means I can take care of my dad.
When I wave to the courier out in the parking lot, he nods and strolls to the back of his van, hauling out a large parcel onto a dolly and wheeling it directly into my living room. It’s even bigger up close.
“Several briefcases could fit in that,” I whisper.
“A body could fit inside that,” Vivi whispers back.
I stare at it. “I’m really hoping there’s not a body in there.”
“Me, too,” our courier says dryly.
I hand him the sealed envelope with the signed NDA and contract and, after a pause, he leaves.
“Shit.” I stare at the closed door, finally translating his hesitation. “Was I supposed to tip him?”
“Let West tip him.”
“But it’s this kind of stuff I don’t even know,” I say. “Like, who gets tipped? That guy? And how much? Is couch change insulting?”
“I think it depends if there’s a dead body in there. We’ll add tipping etiquette to the research you have to do later.”
“Research?”
“Designers, real estate, restaurants, travel.”
“How do you know all of this?” I ask.
Vivi shrugs. “Real Housewives.”
We get to work on the box, coaxing it open with a steak knife and spatula. Inside there is neither a stack of briefcases nor a dead body but another box, this one with an envelope taped to the outside.
The envelope contains a set of papers stapled together and folded into neat thirds, a check for $10,000 (“Initial deposit” it says in the memo section and hello, this feels very Pretty Woman), an American Express black card (holy shit it’s heavy), and a first-class plane ticket on Singapore Airlines.
I need to sit down again.
Vivi takes the metallic credit card from my hand and whistles, tapping it against her manicured nail. “I’ve never even seen one of these. You could buy a house with this card.”
“I know.” I take it back, looking at it. It has my name on it. Goose bumps break out along my arms. “How does he know I won’t use this to buy a giraffe?” Is West this trusting, or this desperate?
We work together to pry open the interior box, which holds a beautiful set of bright blue RIMOWA luggage, complete with personalized luggage tags.
“ ‘AGW,’ ” I read. “I guess I went with ‘Weston’ after all.”
Vivi runs her hands over the suitcases. “These are the sexiest bags I’ve ever seen.”
“But overboard, maybe?” I stare down at them. They’re gorgeous but come on. “I have luggage.”
“Anna, I’ve seen your luggage. The only thing sadder would be a handkerchief tied to the end of a stick.”