Page 9 of Pretending I'm Yours

But willIregret it, I wonder as the office door opens, startling me out of the memory and banishing worries about how Pudge, my orange tabby, is doing back at the hotel with the clanging pipes.

Twyla Kincaid ambles in, the picture of leonine grace in a perfectly tailored beige suit. Her golden hair falls in shiny waves down to the middle of her back and her makeup is applied with a light touch that leaves her looking natural and effortlessly pulled together.

She’s nothing like what I expected, either.

She looks more like the CEO of a luxury brand than a madam.

She studies me for a moment before offering a crooked grin. “Well, well, I wasn’t sure you’d show, Weaver’s friend. But you did. I’m proud of you. It isn’t easy, taking your destiny into your own hands as a woman, especially when you’re only twenty-three.”

“Twenty-four,” I wheeze, having trouble drawing a full breath. “And my name is Maya.”

Twyla’s smile widens and her hazel eyes dance. “Twenty-four. Wonderful. Twenty-four is the perfect age for a woman to realize she’s the only one who’s going to make her dreams come true.” She clasps her hands together. “Now, let's see what we can do to take care of you, Maya. Tell me exactly what you’re looking for. I want to know all your hopes, dreams, and fantasies. Don’t hold anything back and don’t be embarrassed. This is a safe space, and I promise you, I’ve heard it all before.”

I swallow hard and gather my courage, pushing aside the last of my nerves and doubt.

I’ve come this far.

No turning back now…

three

ANTHONY

From what I’veseen thus far, it’s no wonder The Garden is the hottest ticket in town. It’s not just the top-secret, salacious, borderline-unattainable nature of membership that has the Who’s Who of New York dying to step through those big ebony doors.

The club is simply…perfect.

It somehow manages to be both grand and cozy at the same time. From the jaw-dropping period luxury of the bar to a library fit for a lord’s manor in the Scottish Highlands, I see how it could become a place you would never want to leave.

And I haven’t even been downstairs yet…

Twyla insisted on giving me the full tour herself later this evening, as soon as she finishes an intake appointment with a potential client.

The clientele is as impressive as the club itself. Wall Street movers and shakers mingle with elites from the theater and fashion world, international businessmen and businesswomen, and a handful of socialites. There’s a fair amount of diversity, but all of Twyla’s members have one thing in common—they’re offensively wealthy.

Maybe it isn’t offensive to most people, but for a man raised in Red Hook, Brooklyn, who never knew if there would be money for fruit or a school field trip on a given week, the amount of wealth most of these people haveisobscene. The amount of wealthIhave is obscene, but I do my best to spread my good fortune around.

I’ve worked incredibly hard for everything I have, but I’m not naïve enough to think that hard work is the only reason I achieved success.

I also got very lucky.

I won the genetic lottery in the brains department, had a loving family who stepped in to care for me when my drug addict mother left me on my grandmother’s doorstep, and joined the banking world in between financial crises. I had time to solidify my position when so many other young geniuses were scapegoated when the housing market tanked a few years later.

I’m very aware of my privilege, a thing that sets me apart from many of the people sipping hundred-dollar-per-shot whiskey in oversized tumblers or ordering appetizers off a menu where a fifty-dollar Ceasar salad is the most affordable option.

Still, I’m not a fish out of water.

I’ve been a millionaire for a long time and a billionaire for three mind-boggling years, my net worth ballooning as the longest bull market in recent memory lifted the tech stocks in my portfolio to new heights.

As strange as it seems to the struggling kid still alive inside me, I belong here.

But this girl…

This young woman, with the glossy brown hair partially tied back in a black velvet bow, plush, bow-tie lips, and big blue eyes that dart around the club like she’s looking for snipers hidden in the bookcases…

I have no idea what she’s doing here. Her lightly scuffed shoes and worn vintage dress make it clear she doesn’t have the financial means to be swimming in these waters, but it’s her expression that makes me ache to get her out of here. She looks like a five-year-old on her first day of kindergarten—intimidated, terrified, and certain the older kids are going to eat her for lunch.

I’m making a mental note to ask Twyla to make sure someone looks out for this kid while she’s here, when her wide-eyed gaze shifts my way.

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