But what is he hiding?
The doorbell interrupts me. It’s the food Vaughn ordered for me, enough to feed a dozen people. I lock the door behind the delivery guy, and spread it out on the coffee table. It looks delicious, the scent of ginger and garlic hitting me square in the gut. I dig in, suddenly ravenous.
I flick on the old TV, channel-hopping for some distraction, but I keep coming back to the phone call I overheard with Vaughn, the one that made me run.
“I told you, nobody turns me down. She’s begging for it, just like I said she would.”
Even now it hurts to remember, but his explanation makes sense. Bragging to a buddy, guys do it all the time, and although I don’t like it, I can already feel my resolve start to slip.
He said he was sorry. Everyone makes mistakes. We all say things that we later regret.
Do you believe him? a voice argues. Or do you just want him back -- whatever the price?
Either way, I know, it doesn’t matter. Vaughn made it clear, he won’t stay away any longer. He may have given me a temporary reprieve tonight, but I’m under no illusions that this cat and mouse game will end in only one place.
His bedroom.
I shiver, thinking of the last time I was there, just days ago. When he made me get on my knees, and submit to him: do the kind of filthy things I’d only ever dreamed about. I should be ashamed, but instead, my heart is racing, counting down the minutes until I’ll see him again.
Soon, he promised, he would show me what a real man was made of.
Soon can’t come fast enough.
* * *
I spend a sleepless night thinking of Vaughn, tossing and turning in my crappy Craigslist hand-me-down bed.
I wake up with my back aching and yawn. The first thing I do when I get any money is buy a decent mattress. And some pillows. And maybe even some fancy linen sheets...
I stop dead. It hits me for the first time.
I could be rich.
I know I’ve had days to process it, but for some reason, it hasn’t been real. It’s all legal papers and lawyers arguing, but now, right now, I get it.
Five hundred million dollars.
Holy crap.
That’s life-changing money. I could do anything with it. Pay for law school and an army of tutors to get me there. Donate to charity, set up foundations to help under-privileged kids -- and still have more than enough left over for a house, a car, new clothes...
I gulp, overwhelmed. For a blissful few minutes, Vaughn made me forget about Ashcroft and the will, but that time has passed. The real world is still out there, with me dropped bang in the center of a bitter legal battle. And judging by Brent Ashcroft’s angry outbursts in the meeting yesterday, he’s going to fight me to the bitter end.
I drive to work, still thinking about the money. I’m not shallow, but I’ve spent too many years scraping by, paying attention to every dollar not to relish the thought of suddenly being wealthy beyond my wildest dreams.
No more silent prayers that my paycheck will clear before the rent comes due. No more sweltering in the summer heat because I can’t afford AC. No more buying produce at the end of the day when it’s cheaper, or skipping out on dinner plans with friends to avoid the embarrassing moment when the check comes.
My parents never wanted me to live like this. They were the kind of people to plan ahead: they had a modest life insurance policy, and when they died, it seemed like I would be set. But college tuition doesn’t come cheap, and with their credit card debts to clear and a mortgage to pay off, it didn’t last long. I’ve learned to get by with my wages as a paralegal, tutoring a little on the side, but I have to admit, I’ve watched the partners at the firm with envy -- their designer clothes, and expensive dinners, and vacations to exotic foreign cities I’ve never been.
London. Paris. Rome. I feel a shiver of excitement. I could go anywhere, do anything.
But only if it’s really mine.
* * *
The moment I walk into the office, I can tell something’s wrong. People stop to stare as I pass, whispering the minute I’m out of earshot.
I feel a surge of dread.
Justine is over by her office. I walk fast, pulling her aside. “What’s wrong? Why is everyone looking at me?”
She looks around, leaning in to drop her voice. “They know.”
“About Ashcroft?”
She nods. “There was a partner meeting, first thing. I don’t know what happened, everyone’s keeping quiet. But they’re not happy.”
“Oh shit.”
My stomach lurches. I knew it would come out eventually. After all, Hudgens, Cartwright and Abrams were Ashcroft’s lawyers on the case: they prepared the original will, and even if Ashcroft had my name added after without anyone knowing, news like this would travel fast.