“It’s good to have options,” he says from across my desk.
“Where did you even find these people?” I reach for the top folder, flipping it open to reveal a glossy-haired brunette with double Ds protruding off her bony chest. Her smile easily consumes the lower half of her face, teeth too perfect to be real. And her eyes are sad. God, they’re so fucking sad. I shove that one aside and glance at the next. Not that I’m considering any of them. “This one’s from Serbia. Ames is going to think she’s a fucking mail-order bride.”
“She already has her green card.” He points to a paragraph on the bottom, summarizing her “qualities.”
According to this, her name is Petra and she speaks four languages. She spent eight years in the Moscow Ballet Company, one of them as prima ballerina. Now she practices immigration law pro bono. Honorable, but she’s not the one for me.
The next girl is Tiffin Wisecup Hurstfield.
I know those names: Wisecup and Hurstfield.
She comes from blue-blooded old money. Her mother and father spawn from a long line of thoroughbred breeders and international shipping magnates respectively. If her parents haven’t yet fixed her up with someone in their vast and extensive social circle, she’s likely damaged goods.
Also, her face has had way too much fucking work. Lips like swollen sausages. Chipmunk cheeks. Baby doll lashes down to her nose. Brows lifted to the middle of her forehead so she appears permanently surprised. She looks ten years older than her actual age and plastic as hell.
I’ll be damned if I sire a child with a human fuck doll.
“I don’t know whether to thank you or to be offended,” I tell him. “Clearly you have no idea what I like, and after ten years working for me, I’m not sure what that says about our professional relationship.”
“It’s a start.” He’s unfazed as always.
“It’s not a start, Broderick. It’s a fucking joke is what it is,” I say. “Stop wasting my time and get me Sophie.”
He clears his throat, folds his hands in front of him, expression wiped clean. We’ve worked together long enough that I know he’s about to tell me something I don’t want to hear.
“All due respect, Trey, there’s only so much I can do. I can’t make someone be with you if they don’t want to be with you. Obviously money’s not a motivating factor for this woman if she’s willing to walk away from almost twenty mil. We could double, triple our offer, and I don’t know that it would matter.” He exhales. “Maybe she’s not interested in fake. Maybe she wants real love. A real family—not a contractual agreement.”
I lean back in my chair, my fingers grazing my mouth. It’s easy to forget that some people give a shit about things besides the number of zeroes in their bank account.
“So I’ll give her real.” I don’t know how. I’ve never done real in my life. But I’ll fucking try if it means getting her to sign on the dotted line.
“Too late, don’t you think? You told her you need a wife, someone to give you a child. You told her you were willing to pay a lot of money for that. No offense, but none of that sounds romantic. You start pursuing her, she’s going to see through it.”
I grab the stack of files and page through a few more before discarding them all in the “big fat fucking no” pile. There are perfectly good candidates in here. Educated. Beautiful. Well-traveled. Laundry lists of accolades. Most of them would serve the purpose fine, at least on paper.
But Sophie has something they don’t have—self-respect … the kind of thing you can’t illustrate with honors, awards, and pedigreed names. You can buy fake tits and lip fillers, but you can’t buy self-worth.
It’s priceless.
“I want you to call her into a private meeting this afternoon. Double the offer and give her another twenty-four hours to reconsider,” I say. Most of the time, if you give someone a sharp deadline, it lights a fire.
Urgency is key.
“Tell her she’s the only one I’m considering,” I say. It’s proven that if you know someone is interested in you—romantically, professionally or otherwise—they’ll think about you more. This could soften her resolve, make her reexamine her decision, contemplate what our future could look like.
I slide the stack of file folders into the garbage can beside my desk.
Broderick shows himself out.
When he’s gone, I call my third assistant—the one who handles my social calendar. ”Set up a reservation at The Black Lotus in downtown Chicago for Friday night. And make it for two.”
I’m taking her out.
And then I’m making her mine.
Seven
Sophie
Past
We’re parked outside my apartment, his hand resting dangerously between my knees. My hemline is pulled high, making the exposed flesh of my pale thighs glow in the moonlight. The clock on the dash says it’s after midnight.