Page 15 of The Paradise Problem

I try to sound very stressed-out by this. “Yes, that’s a lot of money.”

“You’re a fucking liar. Fifty.”

My jaw twitches. “I’d pay fifty.”

“Then pay me one hundred thousand dollars, West. Plus, a fancy clothing budget.” She holds out her hand for me to shake. “If you can agree to that, then we have a deal.”

Five

ANNA

It’s been five hours since West shook my shaking hand and left my apartment, and I’m not entirely sure what happens now. I still feel like I might vomit. He put his number into my phone—after reminding me that I should already have it—but the way he left things had a very “don’t call me, I’ll call you” vibe, and as my gummy wears off, the sense of oh shit what have I done starts to take hold.

Google tells me that West is the son of a billionaire, and a glance at my banking app tells me I am a thirty-dollaraire. We don’t exist in the same galaxy, let alone metaverse.

I haven’t been to a salon in months, haven’t shaved my legs in weeks, and haven’t carefully looked in a mirror in a few days, unless you count this morning’s passing glance in the toaster. (I do not recommend: Its curves turned my forehead into a sevenhead and stretched my day-old makeup halfway down my face.) Yet somehow, I’m supposed to convince a bunch of one percenters that I’m now one of them—have, in fact, been married to one of them for five years now? Guffaw!

To distract myself from this nebulous waiting game, I take a long shower, put on a hydrating mask I got at the dollar store, and consider painting my toenails before realizing it’s going to take a lot more than some Essie polish to clean me up. I’m going to need someone to come at these feet with pliers and sandpaper.

Panic is starting to really set in, and I reach for my phone, which is down to two percent—absolutely something a billionaire’s wife would never let happen!

Or maybe she would? Maybe the billionaire’s wife version of me is so busy and important I never remember to charge my phone? But more likely I have someone whose entire job it is to make sure my devices stay fully charged? With a groan, I hit Vivi’s profile photo in my contacts.

“Sorry, sorry,” she says as soon as the call connects. “I was going to call you in a few. I talked to Mom about getting you some more shifts and—”

“Viv, no, this isn’t about that.”

“Oh.” I can hear in the resulting silence the way her concern intensifies. Unless something is on fire or I think I’ve just spotted Zac Efron at Target—for the record, it’s never him—I don’t call her. Texts are perfectly fine for civilized people these days. “Oh shit. Is it David?”

I press a shaking hand to my forehead. Of course that’s where her mind went—it’s where mine would go, too. “My bad, no, no. Dad is fine. It’s not that. I agreed to do something and it’s sort of huge and unhinged and I think I need you to talk me out of it. Or into it. I’m undecided.”

“Anything,” she says immediately.

“Can you come over? I need you here.”

An only child raised by a single father, I am stubbornly independent. Vivi has never heard these words from me before.

“I’ll be there in thirty.” Vivi’s love language: coming to the rescue. She hangs up without further discussion, and instead of plugging in my phone like a normal person, I toss it to the mattress beside me. Vivi’s coming, I tell myself. Just breathe.

But I can’t. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know if I should. And if I do, I absolutely don’t know how to prepare. Why the hell did I say yes? And how can I ensure that I don’t end up being completely fucked over by a man who has spent his academic life so far learning how money works?

* * *

IT TAKES ALL OF fifteen minutes for me to explain the situation to Vivi, but another forty-five for her to stop screaming about how crazy and amazing this all is long enough for her to register that I’m in a blind panic.

“Babe, babe,” she says, cupping my cheeks. “There is no downside here. Are you kidding? This is life-altering good.”

“You don’t see a downside because you love chaos.”

“I do not!” she protests.

This liar. I’ve read that people who grew up in an unstable environment often seek out that unpredictability. This couldn’t be further from the truth with Vivi. Her childhood was idyllic; her parents are actual angels. Personally, I think she loves chaos because she’s a Scorpio.

We both scream when the doorbell rings and stare at each other in shock.

“Is it him?” she whispers.

“I don’t know!” I whisper back.

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