Page 47 of Preferential Treatment

“Alright, but don’t get my hair wet this time.”

* * *

Kate was in trouble. Feelings were starting to set in. Or maybe they’d been setting in for a long time now and were finally reaching the threshold where her emotionally stunted brain could actually recognize them. She had thousands of dollars in clothes and jewelry and technical gadgets that filled her with a soft golden warmth that had nothing to do with their actual cost or social cachet, but with the irrational sense of safety they imparted. Some days, she just stood in front of her open closet door, admiring the beautiful clothing hanging neatly in a row. The only thing that didn’t give her that feeling was the dutch oven. Every time she tried to use it, she was overwhelmed by the same choking weepiness that had embarrassed her a month ago on Michigan Ave.

And Mikhail kept making it worse. It wasn’t even the money. Kate wasn’t used to being taken care of, and he kept doing little things, things he didn’t even seem to be aware of. Like reaching over to cover the corner of the table when Kate ducked down to retrieve a fallen chess piece so that she didn’t hit her head on it when she sat back up. Or zipping her dress up for her, even after they’d slipped out of the dynamic. Or gently combing his fingers through her hair after sex, assuring her there were no tangles. Or memorizing the exact temperature she liked the shower set to, and stoically enduring it every time.

And listening to her. Just listening, and actually hearing her, and caring about what she had to say. Even on topics she really had no business opining on to the billionaire who was paying her for sex—like capitalism and corporate greed.

“You don’t think I should exist?” Mikhail echoed, bemused.

Kate bit her lip, regretting the words immediately. She’d gotten too comfortable talking to him about anything and everything—favorite TV shows, current events, their shitty childhoods—and had somehow gotten on a roll about poverty and wealth hoarding, and had accidentally blurted out words that, while true, probably were best left unsaid in certain kinds of company. Like the company of actual fucking billionaires.

“I think you, Mikhail Volkov, the human being, have every right to exist. But nobody deserves your level of wealth, especially when so many people around the world have nothing. Hundreds of millions is already excessive. More than a billion is absurd.”

Mikhail rested his chin on his hand, their chess game momentarily forgotten as he considered her, interest and amusement both gleaming in his dark eyes. “So what do you propose, then?”

“Way higher wealth taxes. Higher taxes on capital gains. Taxes on unrealized gains.”

The amused glimmer in his eyes faded. He wasn’t angry or offended, just quietly intent. “How would I pay taxes on unrealized gains, when they exceed the value of my liquid assets?”

“Divest your investments.” She shrugged.

“So I should give up my shares of the company I created in order to pay tax on value that only exists in theory?”

“Everything about money only exists in theory. Currency only has value because we’ve all agreed to the collective delusion that it does. Your ‘theoretical’ money has the same power as ‘real’ money.”

Mikhail tilted his head as he considered that. “I can’t say that you’re entirely wrong,” he conceded. “But I don’t see why I should pay the price for a faulty system. I’m not a trust-fund brat living off of generational wealth. I built my own company with my own skills and knowledge. I had nothing—nothing—to my name, and I was an immigrant on top of it.”

“You had a scholarship to attend school in the U.S., and you were able to immigrate here because schools and workplaces sponsored your visas.”

“Yes, because I had a skill they wanted. It wasn’t a gift, Katya. They were using me to their advantage, just as I used them.”

“Those are still advantages that most people don’t have. Your aptitude for computer science is an advantage. Not everybody has it—not everybody can have it. People have different natural talents and interests. Some people are innately drawn to botany, or art, or teaching. But wealthy countries aren’t falling over themselves to recruit great teachers, even though they’re invaluable to society.”

“This is true,” Mikhail acknowledged, gripping his Marian medallion, thumb stroking pensively over the worn surface. “So what would you have me do, then? Sell my ownership of Domovoy? What does that do to balance the scales? Nothing.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Then what, Katya? What can I, personally, do to alleviate the unfairness of a system I did not build?”

Kate realized she was sweating. How had she gotten into this conversation? Why couldn’t she shut herself up?

“Put your financial support behind legislation that fixes injustices and politicians who’ll pass it. Throw your money at charities that alleviate systemic suffering. Hell, if you just instituted some sort of profit-sharing program at the company, you’d go a long way in changing a lot of people’s lives for the better—and making sure workers are reaping the actual dividends of their labor.”

Mikhail’s dark eyes glittered as he regarded her across the chessboard. “It sounds like an American is lecturing a Russian about communism.”

“Oh, please,” Kate scoffed. “You were like, eight years old when the Soviet Union collapsed. And you’re American now, too. And the Soviet Union wasn’t even actually communist.”

Mikhail tilted his head, considering her. “It sounds like you know a lot about it,” he said skeptically.

“All I know is I grew up with nothing, and it sucked. Childhood should be fun, but mine was awful. If people who have too much—you know, billionaires—could spread the wealth around a little bit, fewer kids would have to live in those conditions.”

“Don’t lecture me about poverty. I had even less than you,” Mikhail said heatedly.

“Then you should understand! You should want to make it so nobody else has to go through that!”

“Why do I have to care, when nobody else does? Why is this on my shoulders?”

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