One for the Money

Except I refuse.

I’m not going to saddle any woman with my ticking time bomb of a brain. I’m not going to bring another soul into this world with disease embedded in their body. It ends with me. No, I’ll raise my brother. That’s the only legacy I’ll leave behind. The family, the employees, the economy—they’ll have to fend for themselves.

I’m not going to force someone else to maintain the charade that is my life.

It’s all fake, which is perfect for me.

I have a hundred things to do for Hughes Industries tonight before I go to bed. Another hundred things to do starting tomorrow at 5 am. But all I can think about is Eva Morelli.

She is beautiful with those sad eyes and tragic secrets.

I don’t like charming men.

What is she hiding? I have no right to ask, not with my own secrets.

It doesn’t take me long to find her email address. It was already in my inbox, tacked on to a group message from last year to the donors of a Bishop’s Landing fundraiser. Someone forgot to put them in BCC.

Eva,

You. Me. Dinner tomorrow night at 8 o’clock.

–Finn

I’m already knee deep in a balance sheet when I get a ding on my phone.

Finn,

I wasn’t sure you were serious about fake dating.

–Eva

I answer.

Eva,

The first rule of fake dating is you don’t put it in writing.

Also: dead serious.

–Finn

P.S. Tell your mother.

Chapter Seven

Eva

Technically speaking, I have a job.

I’m the Director of the Morelli Fund, an organization dedicated to helping families. You wouldn’t think it was a full-time job to give away millions of dollars every year, but it is. In the wrong hands that money would be wasted, or worse, embezzled. Finding organizations with both the integrity and the framework in place to make use of the money takes time.

And despite taking care of my parents and my siblings, despite the galas and the dinner parties and the brunches, despite the merciless whir of my life, I have time.

Finn said he knows what I’m worth. It’s not a small number. Most of the money comes from my parents in a trust that pays out annually.

More money than I could ever spend.

Then there’s the property. Leo gave me a deed for my nineteenth birthday. It was a rundown duplex, but the start of an empire. He wanted to build it himself, not relying on family money. He gives me property every year.

For my thirty-third birthday he gifted me a cottage in Vail.

The word cottage is a joke. It has an infinity pool and stunning panoramic views. Nestled on top of its own little mountain, it’s worth a cool four million dollars.

I could sell some of the properties, of course. But I don’t. They have sentimental value. Some, like the condo in Reykjavík and the villa on the Amalfi coast, I rent out using a management service. Others, like the cottage, I keep for personal use.

But my loft in New York City came from a different place.

I inherited it when I was nine years old.

My great-aunt was what they called an Original. She was vivacious and unpredictable. I admired her from the time I was born. In a family that valued appearances and morality, she was a breath of fresh air. I would run through her penthouse in Tribeca whenever we visited. Mom would admonish me to be careful. “Don’t break the art,” she said, giving a sideways glance to a white ceramic statue of nymphs cavorting through reeds. It took pride of place beneath a chandelier made of origami cranes. Priceless oriental art nestled among handmade and thrift shop finds. Nothing was labeled. Much of it was strange. And everything was interesting.

When she passed away of cancer, I was heartbroken.

Her loft became my haven.

I maintain my old bedroom in my parents’ house. There’s even a designated suite for me in Leo’s mansion, but this has been my true home since I was a child. It’s where I spend most of my time, even where I do most of my work. The fund has official space within Morelli Holdings, but it’s easier and less intimidating for people to meet with me at home.

Today that includes a pitch from a charity that helps LGBTQ+ youth who are in crisis. Of course the cause is worthy. That’s how they got an appointment with me. My job is to make sure they have the structures in place to provide care. They’ve come with a PowerPoint and a glossy printed plan for how they can spend five million dollars in the next three years.

I narrow my eyes at the final estimates. “What about infrastructure costs?”

The director of the charity frowns down at her chart. “I’m sure that’s covered in the startup analysis. Or maybe somewhere else.”

“I want to see confirmation of that. And a breakdown of that section.”

“Of course, Ms. Morelli. Thank you so much for the opportunity. We’re so grateful for the chance to speak with you. We hope you’ll consider us.”