Page 186 of The Billionaires

Outside, I spot Champ, who’s probably smoking his second carton of cigarettes at this point.

“Mad Max cosplay?” he asks with a smirk, pointing at my headgear. “You also need a bra with spikes.” With that, he ogles my boobs as if picturing said getup.

“So clever,” I say through gritted teeth. “I almost forgot how stupid Bruce makes me look on these walks.”

“Well, who can blame the guy.” Champ tosses his cigarette on the ground. “If you worked for me, I’d also have you wear special outfits.”

Ew. “Easy there, Champ. Your girlfriend is two feet away.”

“It was just a fucking joke.” Champ stomps on his cigarette, turns around, and skedaddles.

Wow. When Angela said that “like should be with like,” he is who she thinks is her equal?

Colossus walks over to sniff the cigarette butt, so I pull him away in case he decides to eat it.

After the walk, I train Colossus, all the while fighting the giddiness I feel whenever I picture Bruce’s Witcher-themed birthday party. From time to time, Theodora texts to ask me for more detailed suggestions about the theme, and at one point, she informs me of something that I obviously knew long ago—that The Witcher is also a TV show on Netflix, one that stars, and I quote, “the super-scrumptious, super-gorgeous Superman that is Henry Cavill.”

I haven’t seen it yet, I reply.

Maybe you can watch it with Bruce? Theodora suggests.

Who knows? I text back and wonder if she realizes she came very close to suggesting her son and I Netflix and chill.

An hour after lunch, I get one more text from Theodora:

Which of these outfits do you like?

Images flood my phone, and the choices are numerous, but I gravitate toward the black options because that is the color of choice of my favorite female character in the game, Yennefer of Vengerberg.

After a quick deliberation, I text Theodora my selections: tall boots, a cloak, a belt, a pair of long gloves, breeches, a fur collar, and last but not least, a girdle.

What size? she asks.

When I tell her, there’s a pause, and then she replies with:

We’re lucky this place tailors to both adults and kids.

Great. Are we back on the topic of my diminutive size?

To my relief, Theodora leaves me alone after that text, at least until she and Angela return and knock on my bedroom door. When I open it, Theodora thrusts a bunch of shopping bags into my hands.

“How much do I owe you?” I ask.

“Nothing,” Theodora says graciously.

Angela nods. “We love the theme idea so much we feel like we owe you.”

All I did was tell them something they should’ve known, but okay.

“The party will start in three hours, in the ballroom,” Angela says. “I hope that’s enough time for you to get ready.”

Was that a diss in the vein of, “You’re so ugly it will take you extra-long to cover it all up?”

“Just three hours?” Theodora looks at her watch with a horrified expression. “Is it too late to move everything back? There’s no way I’ll be ready in time.”

“No,” Angela says. “Dad has contrived some excuse to bring Bruce into that room at that exact time. If the time changes, Bruce could get suspicious.”

“I’ll have to hurry then,” Theodora says. “See you.”

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