Page 109 of One Wealthy Wedding

“Oh, come on,” Jonah says.

“What?”

Jonah smiles, the sharp grin he uses when he’s scheming. It’s a little terrifying. “You’re rich as fuck. Use it.”

34

Cat

On Tuesday, I’m slated to give the final presentation to my corporate finance class at 9:20 a.m. I’m after Lindsay Booth and before Daniel Sarkin. An ideal placement, because Professor Singh loves Lindsay with all her color-coded notes and her annoying questions, and he hates Daniel for being a finance bro who comes coked out to night classes.

He feels ambivalent about me, which is, frankly, an improvement over the attitude of my fellow students.

We only have the small group session once a week, so I’ve been treated to eleven occasions of slinking to my seat while my classmates whisper.

You’d think, after eleven weeks of this, they’d be tired of gossiping about me. But no, they aren’t, and I can’t blame them, because I’m far more interesting than corporate finance.

Her father…disowned.

Such a bitch.

I met her at a party once.

Theo Archer…that won’t last.

I take my seat before each class with my face burning and my eyes downcast, but today, I’m determined not to wilt. When Professor Singh calls my name, I smooth my hands down my dress, stand at the front of the class and square my shoulders.

The presentation goes, if we’re being charitable, not well. I accidentally skip a slide, a student asks a question I can’t answer, and the look on Professor Singh’s face gets more and more skeptical, like my presence is making him question why he went into this profession in the first place.

When class is mercifully over, he asks me to stay after, and my palms start to sweat. I press them to the textbook clutched in my arms and wait by his desk. Professor Singh is kind-looking but not kind in personality. He’s sharp and smart and all the things people look for in MBA grads, really. All the things I’m not.

Every time he looks at me with his piercing brown eyes, I feel like I’ve done something bad.

“Ms. Peterson,” he says, rubbing at his brow. “I think you already know what I’m going to tell you.”

I wait, my stomach in freefall.

“You’re failing my class.”

I nod, my throat unaccountably tight.

“You’re still only getting about half the homework right, and that presentation wasn’t up to snuff.” He smiles tiredly but kindly, for the first time ever. “I have to ask you,” he says gently. “Are you sure this is the right place for you?”

No. I’m not sure. In fact, in this moment, I agree with him.

“I’m doing my best,” I say quietly. “I want this degree.”

“All right. And I’m sure you’re aware you have to pass my class to obtain it.”

I nod. Professor Singh’s class is foundational, which means I can’t get my degree without it.

“We have a final exam next month,” he continues. “If you can get at least a B+ on it, you’ll pass. But anything less, and I’m sorry, but I think you’ll need to retake.”

I nod again, numb, and walk out of the building.

I take the subway without thinking about where I’m going. A good thing, I guess, because it means I know the city well enough to have an existential crisis on the six train and still get home in one piece.

Retaking is all well and good. If you have tuition money. If you’re not on a deadline to gain control of Peterson International.

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