Chapter 1
Olivia
All my life, I’ve known exactly where I wanted to be—living in a damn penthouse overlooking Central Park or married to a rich husband who’d fulfill my every whim. Weekly trips to the salon, manicures, pedicures, a credit card with no limit... But nope, life’s a bitch. When you come from a middle-class family that barely scraped by, even with scholarships, to pay for your education, you’re left with no choice but to ditch everything, chase an opportunity far from home, and end up sharing an apartment in Brooklyn. I’m not complaining, though. I like my roommates. I don’t see them much, and they don’t meddle in my business. I’ll also admit I veered off course when I got here. After a string of catastrophic disasters, I couldn’t find work in my field. Thinking I could get used to it, I started working at a coffee shop where they treat me like family. I even tried dipping into alternative lifestyles, but that wasn’t me. My dream is still to blow money on luxury items I don’t need without a second thought. I’m way too snobby for my life and my bank account.
It’s not that my job pays badly. It’s a decent salary for working at a coffee shop. My problem is I spend my life saving up just to splurge on luxury stuff, which I then have to show off in the right places, keeping my account balance perpetually at rock bottom. The upside? Most of the men I serve are so busy they don’t even notice me, and when I move in their circles, they don’t pay me any mind either. One thing I’ve learned is there’s no such thing as ugly people—just people without money. A tailored suit catches more eyes than a pretty face.
A perfect example is the guy standing at the counter right now. He’s got the attitude of someone ready to take on the world.
“That’ll be four bucks,” I say.
His polished look could make up for his lack of natural good looks. He’s not exactly handsome, about six feet tall, I’d guess over forty, wearing a gray Armani suit. Maybe a broker, judging by his watch. And he’s got hair, which is becoming a rare commodity among businessmen his age. He’s the perfect candidate to enjoy his gifts for a season, but I’m not in the mood to flirt today. I need something new, a step up.
Time drags on today… I can’t wait for my shift to end. I promised Chloé, my roommate, that I’d go to her art exhibit where I can wear my fabulous dresses and sip wine. I’ll rub elbows with moneyed folks and feel like one of them... except when I run into our mutual acquaintances who live like us but make the effort to show up at the gallery to support Chloé.
Chloé’s a whole other story. She’s a daddy’s girl who wants an alternative lifestyle and lives in Brooklyn for the vibe, to feel what she calls “normal.” What her world sees as an act of rebellion, she sees as independence. Tired of living off her father’s money, she moved out and started as an artist, though sometimes she has to attend the events her dad asks her to. I love those because she invites me along, and I get to soak up the lifestyle I crave so badly.
By three in the afternoon, I’m itching to bolt out of here, get home, get dolled up, and slip into that black Versace dress that ate up six months of savings and half my food budget during that time. But it was worth it to have my new baby in my hands. And it looks killer with my Jimmy Choos.
I leave work buzzing with energy, but the subway ride is the worst. You’re crammed in with too many people and too many smells. The car is so packed I feel like a sardine in a can. When I finally get out, all I want is fresh air and a long, restorative bath.
By the time I reach our building, I stumble upon the day’s entertainment. Every day, there’s a new drama around here. Today, the redhead from the third floor is tossing her boyfriend’s—or ex-boyfriend’s, now—stuff out the window. From the things she’s yelling, he must’ve done something pretty awful. I linger to watch as the guy apologizes and begs to talk, but she’s fuming.
Stupid fools, deluding themselves with love.
I shake my head and head up to the fifth floor to get ready. If I keep wasting time on other people’s drama, I won’t have enough to look stunning tonight.
_______
I step into the gallery, scoping out the scene. Maybe my next target is here. I glide through the crowd of snobs who can’t see past their own noses, analyzing who might be an easy, manipulable mark. I spot plenty of men who look loaded, but to my disappointment, most of them are with a woman. Room after room, I scan the crowd until I find Chloé with her dad, who looks incredibly proud. If he weren’t my friend’s father, I’d have already made a move. He’s got great presence for a 56-year-old—tall, broad shoulders, fit, gray hair, a strong square jaw, brown eyes, and overall, a handsome man. He’s dressed in a sharp black suit that contrasts with his daughter’s outfit. My friend Chloé rocks her purple hair with elegance, pairing it with her usual urban-chic style—black beret, retro glasses, all for show.
Chloé’s dad spots me approaching and flashes a wide smile. In the time we’ve known each other, he’s treated me like family and is always kind.
“Well, I was starting to miss you around here. It’s been too quiet without you stirring up trouble,” he says.
“Good evening, Mr. Vansseur.”
“A thousand times, a thousand, I’ve told you to call me Adrien.”
“It’s just that you’re getting up there, and you deserve some respect, Adrien.”
He narrows his eyes and grins.
“I brought a gift, one of those things you like, but you called me old,” he says, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “Maybe I should find a date tonight and give it to the lucky lady instead.”
“Dad, you’re gross. And you, terrible friend, you’re late,” Chloé chimes in.
“The best things are worth waiting for, but…” I grab Mr. Vansseur’s arm. “What’s my gift? If it’s good, I’ll take back the ‘old’ comment.”
“It’s expensive…”
“Go on.”
Anyone who knows me knows my weakness for luxury items. And though Mr. Vansseur doesn’t approve of what I do and feels sorry for me, he always has something for me whenever we see each other.
“Unbelievable. My dad and my friend ignoring me on my big night. Thanks, both of you,” Chloé says, raising her eyebrows so high they disappear under her perfect straight bangs.
“I’m kidding. We’re thrilled to be here. And I can speak for both of us when I say we’re still hoping you sell a ton of paintings so you can pick up the tab for the next dinner,” I say, hugging my best friend.
“It’ll be a hot dog in Central Park,” Chloé quips.
“Pfft, I didn’t raise a daughter for that. Forget it, I’ll keep paying for dinners,” her dad says, pretending to be indignant. But he’s a great guy, always supporting her in everything and never saying no to anything she asks for. They’re both amazing people, and I don’t get how her mom could’ve left them for another man. Above all, they have a bond I envy.
After receiving my gift—a bracelet—Adrien leaves us to mingle with his acquaintances. Once he’s out of earshot, Chloé turns to me.
“Have you scoped out your next target?”
“Nah, I’ve been feeling uninspired lately.”
“You? Uninspired?”
“All the men I see bore me. I’m tired of the same old sugar daddies,” I joke, referring to my clients. “They get clingy, but the younger guys are too sharp. Plus, I want someone with a bit more spending power than what I’m used to.”
“Let’s get one thing straight—my dad is off-limits. And… I don’t know, maybe it’s time you quit this game,” she says, sipping her champagne with her red lips. “Greed breaks the bank, you know.”
“Don’t worry, your dad’s out of the question.” She raises an eyebrow at me. “I’m not saying he’s unattractive—he’s hot for his age—but he’s like a father to me. And you know I don’t want to quit the game. I like being spoiled.”
“You’re messed up.”
“I know.”
Our conversation is interrupted by Mr. Vansseur, who returns with an incredibly good-looking guy. He’s tall, with a well-built frame… and I can’t ignore those piercing green eyes.
“Ladies, it’s my honor to introduce Alexander Moore. Mr. Moore, my daughter Chloé and her friend Olivia Hall.”
The man known as Alexander Moore gives us a nod and murmurs a “pleased to meet you” before Adrien drags him off to another group of acquaintances.
Neither Chloé nor I can take our eyes off him as we sip from our glasses.
“I don’t know how you see it, Oli, but I think he’s the answer to your prayers. Fresh, young meat. Plus, you’ve got his attention,” Chloé says.
It’s true, the guy has glanced our way a couple of times, but…
“Nah, sweetie, this one won’t let himself be played. He’s the type who’s just after sex. I think I’ll go chat with Mr. Smith. He’s always shown interest, and I might be able to get something out of a couple of outings.”
The rest of my night boils down to flirting with Mr. Smith and landing the date he’s been asking for. Yes, a date, not a transaction. That’s how bored I am.
I slip into the second room, where the painting of my silhouette in shades of gray hangs. I study every curve it captures—a shout of beauty and youth, or so the plaque beside it claims. I’ve posed as Chloé’s model countless times. According to her, I’m art, but we all know Olivia is nothing.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” The guy Adrien introduced us to stops beside me, looking at the painting.
“Thanks.” I offer him a sideways smile, which he returns.
“Thanks? As far as I know, the artist is Miss Vansseur.”
“But I’m the model, so it’s like you’re complimenting me.”
He shakes his head with a grin.
“Then I have to say you’re not beautiful.” Ouch, that stung. “You’re gorgeous.” Okay, that’s better…
“Are you flirting with me, Mr. Moore?”
“Maybe…” He shrugs with an innocent look. “We could grab a drink and then head back to my place.”
“Look, Mr. Moore…”
“Alexander.”
“Fine, Alexander. I appreciate the offer, but it’s not happening.”
Before he can say anything else, I turn and walk away. I’m not interested in a one-night stand with someone who won’t give me what I’m after. It’s not that I don’t enjoy casual sex, but I’ve got other plans in mind. Mr. Smith is my target for now.
And even though I feel resigned and it hasn’t been a great night, I’ve got to be happy for my friend, who’s made several sales and is taking me out to celebrate.
True to form, Chloé doesn’t disappoint. She takes me to our favorite bar, where we meet up with her “friend with benefits”—obviously her boyfriend, though she denies it—and the bar’s owner, Deo, along with Kim, our other roommate, and her girlfriend, Clara.
Shots and drinks flow on the house, courtesy of the owner, who’s thrilled for Chloé. Deo, despite being nine years older than us, is part of our inner circle, a trusted shoulder to cry on. At Eonia, we feel right at home.
“Sweetie, I’m so happy for you, but if we keep this up, you’re gonna drain my bar dry,” Deo says.
“Oh, come on, Deo. Not every day your girlfriend makes such a big sale,” Kim complains with all her sass. “One more round.”
“Last one, Kimberly.”
“You’re the best,” Chloé says, planting a kiss on him to silence any protests.
“Yeah, you’re the best, but you’d be even better if you brought us something to snack on,” I add.
“Oli, stop being a freeloader! I’m starting to think you come here just to turn me into one of your flings.”
We all laugh. Maybe it’s the alcohol, but his comment doesn’t bother me.
“If you buy me a Versace and get me a burger, I’m all yours.”
“Get real! I’ve only got eyes for my Chloé.”
The woman in question claims his lips, while the other two at the table have been making out for a while now. As usual, I’m left watching.
I’m jealous. They love and let themselves be loved. I wish I could have that someday. It’s not that I’ve never had relationships, but being in one has never been my thing.
First, there was Ben. Sweet, handsome, treated me like a queen. Everything was great until he confessed he was bisexual and cheating on me with his roommate. I should’ve seen it coming—their bond was way too close. They wanted a polyamorous relationship, but I bolted. I didn’t love him that much.
Then there was Carlos, a charming Argentine with an incredible passion for helping society. He was a bit of a hippie, played guitar for me, and had me head over heels with his ideals. He left me to go dig wells in Africa.
My only two relationships, both failures. Looking at it, you might think it was the polyamory or the wells in Africa that broke us up, but no. It was me. I started losing interest, and it all came down to one thing they had in common: they were broke and ashamed of my love for mingling with the wealthy. Good old Carlos even lectured me about world hunger every time I treated myself, and Ben… well, Ben called me ridiculous.
Anyway, since everyone’s got their own entertainment for the night, I figure it’s best to head out and leave the couples to it. The walk home is short—we live just fifteen minutes from Eonia. The route is the same as always: a club with people smoking outside, shuttered storefronts, the same homeless guy on the corner I toss a coin to.
New York can be beautiful, the city that never sleeps, but I’ve got to sleep. Otherwise, tomorrow, a bunch of rich folks who frequent the district where my coffee shop is will be left without their caffeine fix. If it weren’t for the fact that I only work half a shift on Saturdays and can rest all afternoon, I’d want to kick myself for drinking tonight.