The Paradise Problem (13)

“So, an all-expenses-paid trip and a clothing allowance. Do we have a deal?”

Anna opens her mouth to respond and then closes it again, eyes narrowing shrewdly. “No way. That isn’t enough.”

It isn’t… enough? I look around her apartment like, Are you fucking kidding me?

“Ten thousand dollars after our divorce is fine,” she says, “but I think you should also pay me for my time. This is separate and I’m sure you didn’t think to put this in the contract. I won’t be able to search for a job while we’re on the private island.”

I consider this. “That’s fair. What’s your hourly wage? I’ll double it and pay you for two weeks of work.”

“No, no, no.” Anna sits up and runs her fingers under her eyes, clearing away much of the mascara there. She pulls her ponytail free and reties it. Both actions do wonders for how chaotic she looks. “This is much more demanding. I’ll have to act. I’ll have to learn about everyone I’ll be meeting. I’ll have to manage your complete lack of humor. I’ll have to hobnob. This is an entirely new skill set.”

“Name your price, then.”

She takes a deep breath through her nose, studying me. “Another ten thousand dollars.”

I gust out an involuntary laugh. “Done.”

Her eyes go wide. “That fast? Just”—she snaps—“like that?”

“Yes.”

“Then I want more.”

“Anna. You named a price, and I accepted it. This isn’t how negotiations work.”

“Says who? I could be perfectly happy spending those twelve days eating gummies and watching Conan the Barbarian. I have nothing to lose. Can you say the same?”

“What do you want, then?”

“What number would make you sweat a little?”

“I’m not—I don’t understand.”

“Sure you do,” she says, leaning forward. “Tell me an amount that would be just on the border of you saying no, but you’d still say yes. Is it twenty thousand?”

I try to sound very stressed-out by this. “Yes, that’s a lot of money.”

“You’re a fucking liar. Fifty.”

My jaw twitches. “I’d pay fifty.”

“Then pay me one hundred thousand dollars, West. Plus, a fancy clothing budget.” She holds out her hand for me to shake. “If you can agree to that, then we have a deal.”





Five


ANNA


It’s been five hours since West shook my shaking hand and left my apartment, and I’m not entirely sure what happens now. I still feel like I might vomit. He put his number into my phone—after reminding me that I should already have it—but the way he left things had a very “don’t call me, I’ll call you” vibe, and as my gummy wears off, the sense of oh shit what have I done starts to take hold.

Google tells me that West is the son of a billionaire, and a glance at my banking app tells me I am a thirty-dollaraire. We don’t exist in the same galaxy, let alone metaverse.

I haven’t been to a salon in months, haven’t shaved my legs in weeks, and haven’t carefully looked in a mirror in a few days, unless you count this morning’s passing glance in the toaster. (I do not recommend: Its curves turned my forehead into a sevenhead and stretched my day-old makeup halfway down my face.) Yet somehow, I’m supposed to convince a bunch of one percenters that I’m now one of them—have, in fact, been married to one of them for five years now? Guffaw!

To distract myself from this nebulous waiting game, I take a long shower, put on a hydrating mask I got at the dollar store, and consider painting my toenails before realizing it’s going to take a lot more than some Essie polish to clean me up. I’m going to need someone to come at these feet with pliers and sandpaper.

Panic is starting to really set in, and I reach for my phone, which is down to two percent—absolutely something a billionaire’s wife would never let happen!

Or maybe she would? Maybe the billionaire’s wife version of me is so busy and important I never remember to charge my phone? But more likely I have someone whose entire job it is to make sure my devices stay fully charged? With a groan, I hit Vivi’s profile photo in my contacts.

“Sorry, sorry,” she says as soon as the call connects. “I was going to call you in a few. I talked to Mom about getting you some more shifts and—”

“Viv, no, this isn’t about that.”

“Oh.” I can hear in the resulting silence the way her concern intensifies. Unless something is on fire or I think I’ve just spotted Zac Efron at Target—for the record, it’s never him—I don’t call her. Texts are perfectly fine for civilized people these days. “Oh shit. Is it David?”

I press a shaking hand to my forehead. Of course that’s where her mind went—it’s where mine would go, too. “My bad, no, no. Dad is fine. It’s not that. I agreed to do something and it’s sort of huge and unhinged and I think I need you to talk me out of it. Or into it. I’m undecided.”

“Anything,” she says immediately.

“Can you come over? I need you here.”

An only child raised by a single father, I am stubbornly independent. Vivi has never heard these words from me before.