Page 2 of Pucking Billionaire

“I helped your father do all the paperwork. That foundation was created with you in mind.”

My drab surroundings suddenly feel surreal. “If he cared about me so much and had that kind of money, why did I grow up so poor?”

Poor is an understatement. I once got a hand-me-down sock from the tooth fairy.

Mr. Cohen shrugs. “He sent exorbitant amounts of money as child support to your mother.”

My mother. Of course.

I grit my teeth. This explains so much. Like why Mom was so on edge on my eighteenth birthday. She knew my father’s checks, and therefore the drugs, would stop coming in. It must also be why she opened all those credit cards in my name around that time.

Not for the first time, I wonder how different my life would be if I’d managed to crawl out from someone else’s birth canal twenty-four years ago. Relatedly, has Mommie Dearest had free will this whole time—and therefore no excuse for her horrible parenting? Or is free will an illusion, in which case I could maybe give her a break?

“Would you like me to read you the will?” Mr. Cohen gently offers.

Huh. Another kind of will. “Sure.”

So he does, and as I listen, my head spins—especially when he gets to the part about ten million dollars in my trust fund.

I mean, when we met for the first time, my father did take me to a ritzy restaurant and didn’t seem too strapped for cash, but I didn’t realize he was a millionaire with a list of possessions longer than my recent thesis on Kant. It’s so long that I realize I tuned Mr. Cohen out for a few seconds, and he’s still going—which is insane.

“Lastly,” Mr. Cohen continues. “He wanted me to make sure you became caretaker of his house in Westchester, or more specifically, of his beloved turtles that reside there, Donatello and April.”

“Turtles?” I blink at Mr. Cohen, wondering if the reading of the will has short-circuited something in my brain.

“Or tortoises,” he says. “I’m not sure what the difference is.”

“Me neither.” What I do know is that Donatello is the name of one of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, who—as the name implies—aren’t tortoises. On the other hand, April is the name of a human reporter who befriends the Ninja Turtles, so, using the skills I learned in a course on logic, it would follow that I might have human wards crashing at my house, and not reptiles.

“Either way, you might want to visit the house soon and meet with your new charges, as well as the staff there. Also, you might want to think about the financial implications of your new situation.”

Feeling overwhelmed, I nod.

“Call me if you need anything.”

I nod again and stand, knees wobbly.

“Best of luck to you with everything,” he says.

In a haze, I turn to leave.

By all rights, I should be happy to have suddenly become rich, but I feel anything but.

Now that I have irrefutable evidence that my father cared about me, I feel terrible that throughout my entire life, I’ve thought otherwise. If money could buy a time machine, I’d spend any amount to go back and attend my father’s funeral. Better yet, I’d tell my younger self to actually get to know him because now I really wish I had, but it’s too late.

Also, the money I’ve just inherited comes with a lot of responsibility that I don’t feel prepared for—and I don’t just mean Donatello, who may or may not be a turtle who knows ninjutsu, and April, who may or may not be a human female who looks just like Megan Fox. Having always been poor, I worry that I’ll somehow end up squandering my newfound inheritance, like some lottery winners do.

Maybe I should take some classes in the personal finance department? Learn about smart investing?

One thing is for certain: for better or worse, my life has forever changed.

Chapter 2

Mason

“Why didn’t you finish the deal with Theodore before he passed?” Landon asks.

Thank you, Mr. Fucking Obvious. “I was about to. But then his condition suddenly worsened, so there wasn’t an opportunity.”

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