Faking It with the Frenemy

“I’m not eighteen anymore, Mom,” I say, suppressing a long, hard sigh. Only my mother would label being married to a millionaire a struggle. “No billionaire wants a trophy wife over the age of twenty.”

“You’re still pretty enough, but that won’t last forever. Things are different now, so you can hang on to your youth for a little longer—at least facially—with Botox. But your breasts are another matter.”

François disagrees, but I keep that to myself. No need to overexcite Mom. The elusive Frenchman is worth a few million bucks at least. But then again, he’s only worth a few million bucks. Trophy wives seem to be setting their sights higher these days.

She continues, “Can’t Botox your way to perkier boobs, dear. Gravity spares no one.”

Only Mom would think about Botoxing your breasts. I look down at mine and shudder at the thought of injecting them with bubonic plague or whatever the latest anti-aging rage is. They’re perky enough. And when they reach the point of needing injections or implants or whatever…

Well. I’ll just have to find a man who appreciates my gravity-ravaged bosom.

“I simply don’t understand why you aren’t with a rich husband,” she whines. “You’ve been in L.A. for years! You work for one of the richest men in the world!”

Eww. “Mom. Salazar is old enough to be my grandfather.”

And even if he weren’t, I’m not going to live my life like Mom. I’m going to be valued for something other than how young I look or my dress size. Like my brain and personality and professional capabilities.

Mom bulldozes my objection like it’s a milk carton. “A woman’s station in life in determined by the tax bracket of the man she marries. Billionaire, Kim. That’s nine zeros!”

I can’t even bring myself to sigh. “I’ll have my station in life determined by my own hard work, thanks. That way, I hold my fate in my hands.” I’ll be damned if I let some man decide my future happiness and wellbeing, regardless of his tax bracket.

Besides, contrary to her worries, I’ll be financially set within a month. By then, I’ll have been working for Salazar for five years. I’ve never failed to deliver for him, and that means he’s going to give me a five-hundred-thousand-dollar bonus, as per my employment contract. It isn’t enough to set me up for life—not the way my mom’s hoping—but as long as I’m careful and continue to work, I’ll be fine.

Mom makes a sound that’s somewhere between scandalized outrage and a patronizing “there, there.” “You’re so funny.” Her tone says there’s nothing funny about my attitude. “But really, dear. You’re too old to hang on to such an unworkable idea.”

I roll my eyes enough to get slightly dizzy. “It’s because I’m older that I believe it.” I’ve seen my share of gold diggers and parasites. They appear wherever Salazar is. The sad thing is, most don’t end well. They’re discarded like used Kleenex. I, on the other hand, am not only kept, but valued. And it’s because I play a game called “Kim is so awesome at her job, she don’t need no stinkin’ sugar daddy.”

“Maybe one of Salazar’s sons will divorce.” There’s a desperate hope in her voice. “Billionaires often do. You should induce one of them to leave his wife. Someone’s bound to be bored, stuck with the same woman for so long.”

“Okay, stop. I’m not a home wrecker.” She might as well call me a whore. “And even if I were so inclined, they’re so devoted to their wives, it’s unreal. Even if they were to become single again, no. There’s a reason I didn’t date them when they were still available.” For one thing, it would have been way too awkward to continue working for Salazar if things hadn’t worked out.

“Oh, fine.” Her pout is palpable. “You’re so picky. How about Milton or Byron Pearce? Or Edgar Blackwood?”

“Milton and Byron Pearce are not in my social circle.” To be more precise, they aren’t in the Pryces’ circle, so there’s no reason to run into them. “And Edgar Blackwood lives in Louisiana, of all places. I don’t do long-distance relationships.” Besides, I’ve never even met the guy.

“How about David Darling? He’s seriously handsome. If I were forty years younger, I’d go for him. Bet he’s great in bed.”

Something sour floods my mouth. I so do not need to know Mom has a thing for a man young enough to be her son. “Didn’t you hear what I said about long-distance relationships? He lives in Virginia.”

“Not anymore, dear.” Mom’s voice is practically a purr. “Sweet Darlings opened a new office in Los Angeles.”

And what does that have to do with me? But instead of asking that—because I’m sure Mom will come up with some inane logic twister—I reach for my coffee. Caffeine should perk me up, make me ready to continue working on Salazar’s itinerary after this brain-cell-killing call.

“But if you’re feeling too shy to throw yourself at him, how about Wyatt Westland?” Mom asks. “You two were close back in high school, weren’t you?”

I almost spit my coffee, then check to make sure I didn’t spil

l anything on my dress. Crap. That was close. “Wyatt? When did he become rich enough to suit you?”

Wyatt Westland is my nemesis. Maybe the full-blown Antichrist. He’s the reason I couldn’t have nice things back when I was growing up in Corn Meadows. The fact that I was dumb enough to like him and sleep with him still infuriates me. But his family has never been rich. His parents are ordinary middle-class folks, unless their bookkeeping service is really a front for some Mafia money-laundering scheme.

“This year,” Mom crows. “He’s loaded now! He sold some kind of technical thing to a company called Sweet Darlings and made over a billion dollars!” There is reverence in her voice, as though Wyatt ought to be canonized.

Well, that’s some vomit-inducing news. “Isn’t he married?” He dated and then got hitched to my former-best-friend-turned-tormentor, and I’ll never forgive him for that. Not because he married her, but because he dumped me right after taking my virginity in order to be with her. There’s got to be a special, unused corner of hell for that kind of asshole.

And that’s not all. He also ganged up on me with his buddies after Geneva made me trip and fall in science class. I was carrying a beaker, which broke, and the edge sliced my jaw line, leaving me with a permanent and very visible scar. Mom wanted me to have plastic surgery—because men don’t want scarred goods—but I refused, even though Wyatt & Friends started calling me Scarface. Because I knew, even back then, I’d leave the hellhole of Corn Meadows as soon as possible and never look back. I’d forge my own path and surround myself with people who wouldn’t tie my worth to a scar or how perky my boobs were.

“No! He got divorced! He’s eligible! Rich! And perfect!” Mom exclaims with breathless excitement.