Most Eligible Billionaire CEO, page 30
Cassie called, wanting to talk—something monumental. I invited her over to my place. Even though it’s Saturday, Bryce had to go into the office for a few hours. He suggested I invite Cassie to his place, but I’m not comfortable with that.
So, we’re having Saturday brunch in the Bronx.
She grabs another bagel from the pimped out bagel board, spread some cream cheese on it, and tops it with smoke salmon, red onions, and dill.
Her hands tremble.
I don’t rush her.
I pluck a baby tomato from the board, dunk it into the dill and chive Greek yogurt dip, and pop it into my mouth. I follow that with a piece of bacon.
God, I love food boards.
“What if I fall flat on my face?” she asks around a bite of bagel.
“Cassie, you have savings as a cushion and your YouTube channel surpassed your earnings as an escort. Two months in a row. And you’re making a killing as an escort. That says a lot.”
“I know.” Her green eyes lift to the ceiling and exhales a breath. “It’s just I know what to expect as an escort. This whole entrepreneurship-slash-boss-lady gig is outside my comfort zone.”
“But you’re already doing it.”
She shakes her head. “My DIY decor YouTube channel was supposed to be an outlet. I never had any expectations. I’m petrified. I’ve gained two million followers this month because of my 30 days of IKEA hacks series.”
“This tells you people want more of what you’re offering.”
“I’ve never been good in school. What if I fuck this up?”
“Cassie, you’re already doing it—”
“If I do this full-time, I know longer have the security at the escort gig.”
“True. You can keep doing both since you don’t show your face on your YouTube videos—”
“But at the same time,” she says, interrupting me, “if I chicken out, I miss the chance to prove to myself I can be more than a pussy for hire.”
I swat her arm. “Why would you say that about yourself?”
“I’m twenty-five, and I’ve been an escort for the past three years. Other than working fast food joints in high school and retail stores after that, I have zero job experience. Working for you was short-lived, I didn’t have time to gain any new skills.”
“Do you want to be an escort for the next three –or ten—years of your life?”
Her green eyes stare at me for a long beat.
“I did a thing…”
I frown. “What kind of thing?”
“I was at a gala with a client four months ago, and we happen to be sitting at the same table as a site broker—”
“What’s that?”
“A person who buys and sells websites.”
“I didn’t even know that was a profession.”
“It is. And it’s lucrative,” Cassie says. “He handed his card to everyone at the table. I slid it in the pocket of my clutch. A month ago, I used it while I was out with another client. Before storing it, I checked the pocket and found the card. Intrigued, I powered up my laptop and visited the guy’s website. I’ve been on it every day in the past thirty days. A couple days ago, I might have stumbled on an app I’d like to buy. It would be a great complement to what I’m already doing with my YouTube channel.”
“What kind of app?”
“A 3-D home staging app. Home stagers cost an arm and a leg in New York. And even when their fees aren’t astronomical, for a lot of home sellers, it’s not part of the budget. The same for people renting an apartment—not everyone can afford a decorator and not everyone knows how to maximize a space.”
“That sounds exciting! Did you put in a bid?”
“Not yet. I’m still thinking about it.”
“What’s holding you back?”
“The same thing that’s holding me back from becoming a full-time YouTuber?”
“You can do this on your own, Cassie.”
Her lips part into a warm smile. “Or I can do it with a good friend.”
I flinch.
“Translation work doesn’t make your heart sing, Sofia. If I had a wingman, it would give me wings.”
I shoot her a dubious side gaze. “Did you just become Shakespeare on my ass?”
“Is that your way of saying you’ll become my business partner?” She reaches for my hands. “Sofia come on. Let’s do this together!”
“You’re crazy.”
“But you haven’t said no.”
I shake my head. “You—”
The doorbell rings.
“It must be Ciara,” I say. “It’s not unlike her to drop by on Saturday mornings for a late breakfast. I’ll be right back.”
I get up and run to the door.
When I open it, I freeze.
“What are you doing here?” I ask Bryce.
“I bought some dessert for you and Cassie,” he says, lifting a bag.
I scrunch up my nose. “You came all the way from Brooklyn to drop off dessert for my brunch with my girlfriend? You win Best Boyfriend of The Year Award.” I laugh.
He doesn’t.
“What’s going on?”
“Can I come in?”
Tension radiates off him.
“Of course.”
I close the door behind him.
Bryce follows me to the kitchen.
“Suzette— I mean, Cassandra,” he says.
She gets up and strides towards him. “It’s Cassie to my friends.”
“It’s a pleasure to officially meet you.”
“Same here, Bryce.”
All this nicety is civil, but why the hell is he here?
“You wanted to talk?” I ask Bryce.
Bryce drops the bag on the kitchen counter. “It’s about Brad.”
“Let me get out of your hair—”
“You don’t have to, Cassie,” I say. “There isn’t anything about Brad’s sordid tale you don’t already know.
Her green eyes swing to Bryce’s blue ones.
“I don’t have a problem with you staying. Nothing I have to share is confidential.”
“All right,” she says taking her seat.
Chapter 43
Bryce
After serving Cassie and me a latte, Sofia takes a seat.
Her eyes meet mine. “It’s as if you bought the heavy artillery—aka dulce de leche stuffed cookies—I’m weary of what you have to say.”
The cookies were to aid this difficult conversation, but we all decided to wait.
“Did the Croatian police finally arrest Brad’s sorry ass?” Cassie asks.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
My fingers drum against the wood table as I gather my thoughts.
“When we left my brother’s place a week and a half ago, I expected this to be a slam dunk.” I let out an audible exhale. “Brad’s past is like a Matryoshka doll.”
Sofia’s face falls. “You still haven’t found him? What about his wife?”
“I still can’t believe he was seeing someone serious enough to marry her,” Cassie says. “There was always a crowd of groupies at the end of his events, asking extra questions. He seemed to be doing the rounds,” she says in air quotes. “He had hooked up with one of them? Huh!”
“I was also clueless,” Sofia says.
“Brad was smart in not showing his cards,” I say.
“He was,” Sofia says.
“Fraudster.” Cassie sneers.
“Said fraudster had a three-month head start on my team. There was a lot to uncover about the asshole—the use of two different names, him bouncing around the planet, and him getting married in Bulgaria to his Russian girlfriend.”
Sofia’s brows dip. “Did you discover something new about him?”
“The Croatian police found him—”
“Finally!” Sofia cheers at the same time as Cassie pumps her fist in the air, “Yes! One less scumbag conning people!”
“To your point, Brad will never defraud another human being ever—”
“I hope they give them life behind bars,” Cassie says.
“Brad won’t be going to prison—”
“Why?” Sofia asks at the same time as Cassie asks, “What?”
Sofia glares at me. “How can that be?”
“Brad is dead.”
Sofia and Cassie gasp.
For a long beat, they stare at me in shock.
“What about the money he stole?” Cassie asks.
My girl is still too shocked to speak.
I sigh. “The jig is up—”
“He spent it all?” Cassie throws another question at me.
“No, he didn’t he spent a bit of it, but he’s been conservative since he left New York.”
Sofia finds her voice. “Where is the money?”
“In Russia,” I say. “In an account under his wife’s name.”
“Can we go after her?” Sofia asks.
“When my team leader informed me about Brad, I called my brother. The money—four million dollars Brad stole plus another eight million, amounting to a grand total of twelve million dollars—was sitting in an offshore account until he left Mexico. We searched encrypted messaging sites criminals in the underworld use to communicate to see if anything on Brad would come up to explain the origin of the eight million dollars, but nothing came up. That remains a puzzle.”
“Twelve million dollars.” Cassie shakes her head. “That’s a lot of money.”
I nod. “It is. Even without concrete proof, I’m willing to bet the eight million is dirty money.”
“No doubt,” Cassie says.
I keep updating them. “Brad distributed the money into seven fictitious numbered holding companies––so, a company that uses a number instead of a name. Three days after he got married in Bulgaria, the money was transferred to a bank in Russia.” I take in my girlfriend’s somber expression. “We’d have to prove the money in Russia is the same money Brad stole. This could take months. Several months. Even with all that effort, we’d still hit a wall.”
“What do you mean?” Sofia asks.
“There isn’t an extradition agreement between Russia and the United States—”
“There isn’t?”
“No.”
“Just great.” Sofia’s brow puckers with annoyance, matching her tone.
“It would be difficult to force the Russians to extradite Brad’s wife. It’s the same for the money. We can’t force her to hand it over without solid proof she was Brad’s partner in crime or at the very least, she knows of the origin of the money. I’m sure in Russia anyone can hide behind plausible deniability. And even then, it would cost an obscene amount of money for us to go after her.”
A long silence ensues.
“Does the police know who killed Brad?” Sofia asks.
I shake my head. “Not yet. They found him in an alley last night. He bled to death from his knife wounds.”
“God!” Sofia gasps.
“Jesus,” Cassie mumbles.
“There were other horrific injuries to his body, but I’ll spare you,” I say.
“It could’ve been his wife so she could get her hands on the money.” Cassie says. “What if she hired a hitman? With Brad out of the picture, she doesn’t have to share. She’s a rich widow. That’s motivation.”
“Or it could have been any of the long list of people Brad conned,” I say. “We don’t know how he got his hands on the eight million dollars.”
Sofia crosses her arms over her chest. “A part of me wants to say he won, but he’s six feet under.”
“He didn’t win,” Cassie says, “neither did all the people he defrauded. His Russian wife, on the other hand, won the jackpot.” Sarcasm drips from her words.
A sardonic smile touches Sofia’s lips. “Case closed. Brad’s Russian wife gets to enjoy the fruit of the labor of people who trusted her asshole husband.” Resentment pours off her in waves.
“Sadly, yes.” My hand balls into a fist. “Greed is this second of the seven deadly sins. Brad Hyler paid with his life. If his wife’s hands are dirty… karma is a bitch. She’ll get what’s coming to her.”
Chapter 44
Bryce
Two months later
I lift my champagne flute.
Sofia does the same.
“Here’s to me returning to my roots!” I say.
“Here’s to you moving back to NYC!” Sofia cheers. “And here’s to your new kickass Upper East Side penthouse! And here’s to my first experience of visiting a Fifth Avenue luxury apartment, with a stunning view of Central Park!”
“After a month of renovations, I can finally call this place, home.”
“I hope you’re okay if I come visit often.”
I chuckle. “The door is always open for you.”
“I’ll take you up on that, Mr. Billionaire.”
“I’ll count on it,” I say. “But we’re not done with the cheers.”
She frowns.
“Lift your glass a little higher,” I say.
She does.
“Here’s to you getting your reputation back!”
“Without you, I would’ve never been able to clear my name. Thank you, Bryce.”
“The publicity firm I hired was worth every last penny.”
“Even the media outlets who doubted my innocence and wrote slanted articles of my supposed involvement with Crooked Brad ended up writing a retraction article, exonerating me of all the sins they had accused me of.”
“You were a victim, and now the world knows about it. No one will ever doubt you again.”
“If I bump into anyone I know from my real estate agent days, I can walk past them with my head held high. I no longer have to carry the shame of being plagued with the nasty syndrome of guilt by association.” She pinches her lips together. “I’m still incensed the money Brad stole is still locked up in his Russian wife’s bank account. It pisses me off she gets to keep money that’s not only tainted, but doesn’t belong to her.”
“One thing the PR campaign was able to achieve was shine the spotlight on her,” I say. “Her face and name are now public. The world knows she’s been enjoying the money her dead husband left her. For the rest of her life, she’ll have to look over her shoulder. Even in Russia. And even after the money runs out, which at this rate, she’ll burn through it pretty quickly.”
“It’s a small consolation,” she says.
“¡Basta! El pendejo de Brad y su puta esposa rusa no valen la pena.” I’m pretty sure I butchered that sentence.
Translation: Enough! Asshole Brad and his whore of a Russian wife aren’t worth it!
“Pretty good,” she says.
“Sunday dinner with your family doubles as a Spanish language class.”
“And you’re a great student.”
I wink. “Let’s move down the list of things to cheer.”
“There’s more?”
“Don’t look so exasperated.”
She sits straighter in her seat and lifts her glass. “I’m ready.”
“Here’s to you becoming a boss lady. Again!”
“You mean, here’s to me partnering up with a person who has a helluva better moral compass than Brad Hyler?”
“Live and learn,” I say.
“Live and learn,” she echoes.
“You and Cassie are going to take on the DIY décor world by storm.”
She brushes a lock of her dark brown hair behind her ear.
She came to my place fresh from the salon. She’s back to her roots. She surprised me with the change.
Staring at me from under her lashes, she pulls her lower lip between her teeth.
Uncertainty radiates off her.
“You got this,” I add.
“Thanks for believing in us.”
“You say that as if someone was holding a gun to my head, forcing me to say something I don’t mean. You ladies are destined for greatness.”
“I’ll drink to that!”
We clink glasses and take a long sip of champagne.
“Wow!” Sofia holds the glass at eye level. “This is exceptional! It’s the best champagne I’ve ever had in my life.”
“Dom Perignon never disappoints.”
“And the bottle design is so… sexy.”
“I agree.”
“Dad’s birthday is coming up soon. I should get him a bottle,” she says, taking another sip. “Even if it sets me back a little bit. His forty-nineth birthday is a big deal.”
“Chances are you won’t be able to find it. This particular cuvée—”
“Look at you speaking French.”
“I wouldn’t go that far. It’s only one word.”
“You get an A+ for effort.”
“As I was saying, this particular cuvée is a limited release. One of my clients has ins with Dom Perignon’s US distributor. I was only allowed to purchase three bottles.”
“Well, that sucks,” she says. “Thanks for sharing a bottle with little ol’ me.” She takes another sip.
“I’d only ever share this,” I point to the bottle, “with someone who’s worth it.”
“Awww. You’re the best.”
“At two thousand five hundred dollars a bottle, you don’t want to serve it to the riffraff.”
She chokes and launches into a coughing fit.
I drop my flute on the table and grab her glass from her trembling hands.
“Two thousand five hundred dollars?” she croaks.
I nod. “Yes.”
“Is this the most expensive champagne out there?”
“No.”
“There’s more expensive than that?”
“There’s a Dom Perignon cuvée that costs fifty thousand dollars. Some fancy bottles, encrusted with jewels, can cost as much as two million dollars.”
She stares at me, incredulous.
“That’s… insane.” Her expression of shock is comical.
“If you have the money…”
“I wouldn’t know.”
I tap the tip of her nose. “The tide is turning for you, Miss Herrera.”
“True, but this kind of luxury isn’t in my future anytime soon.”
I shoulder bump her. “Keep hanging out with me, kid.”
“I might take you up on your offer.”
“You like the view?”
So, we’re having Saturday brunch in the Bronx.
She grabs another bagel from the pimped out bagel board, spread some cream cheese on it, and tops it with smoke salmon, red onions, and dill.
Her hands tremble.
I don’t rush her.
I pluck a baby tomato from the board, dunk it into the dill and chive Greek yogurt dip, and pop it into my mouth. I follow that with a piece of bacon.
God, I love food boards.
“What if I fall flat on my face?” she asks around a bite of bagel.
“Cassie, you have savings as a cushion and your YouTube channel surpassed your earnings as an escort. Two months in a row. And you’re making a killing as an escort. That says a lot.”
“I know.” Her green eyes lift to the ceiling and exhales a breath. “It’s just I know what to expect as an escort. This whole entrepreneurship-slash-boss-lady gig is outside my comfort zone.”
“But you’re already doing it.”
She shakes her head. “My DIY decor YouTube channel was supposed to be an outlet. I never had any expectations. I’m petrified. I’ve gained two million followers this month because of my 30 days of IKEA hacks series.”
“This tells you people want more of what you’re offering.”
“I’ve never been good in school. What if I fuck this up?”
“Cassie, you’re already doing it—”
“If I do this full-time, I know longer have the security at the escort gig.”
“True. You can keep doing both since you don’t show your face on your YouTube videos—”
“But at the same time,” she says, interrupting me, “if I chicken out, I miss the chance to prove to myself I can be more than a pussy for hire.”
I swat her arm. “Why would you say that about yourself?”
“I’m twenty-five, and I’ve been an escort for the past three years. Other than working fast food joints in high school and retail stores after that, I have zero job experience. Working for you was short-lived, I didn’t have time to gain any new skills.”
“Do you want to be an escort for the next three –or ten—years of your life?”
Her green eyes stare at me for a long beat.
“I did a thing…”
I frown. “What kind of thing?”
“I was at a gala with a client four months ago, and we happen to be sitting at the same table as a site broker—”
“What’s that?”
“A person who buys and sells websites.”
“I didn’t even know that was a profession.”
“It is. And it’s lucrative,” Cassie says. “He handed his card to everyone at the table. I slid it in the pocket of my clutch. A month ago, I used it while I was out with another client. Before storing it, I checked the pocket and found the card. Intrigued, I powered up my laptop and visited the guy’s website. I’ve been on it every day in the past thirty days. A couple days ago, I might have stumbled on an app I’d like to buy. It would be a great complement to what I’m already doing with my YouTube channel.”
“What kind of app?”
“A 3-D home staging app. Home stagers cost an arm and a leg in New York. And even when their fees aren’t astronomical, for a lot of home sellers, it’s not part of the budget. The same for people renting an apartment—not everyone can afford a decorator and not everyone knows how to maximize a space.”
“That sounds exciting! Did you put in a bid?”
“Not yet. I’m still thinking about it.”
“What’s holding you back?”
“The same thing that’s holding me back from becoming a full-time YouTuber?”
“You can do this on your own, Cassie.”
Her lips part into a warm smile. “Or I can do it with a good friend.”
I flinch.
“Translation work doesn’t make your heart sing, Sofia. If I had a wingman, it would give me wings.”
I shoot her a dubious side gaze. “Did you just become Shakespeare on my ass?”
“Is that your way of saying you’ll become my business partner?” She reaches for my hands. “Sofia come on. Let’s do this together!”
“You’re crazy.”
“But you haven’t said no.”
I shake my head. “You—”
The doorbell rings.
“It must be Ciara,” I say. “It’s not unlike her to drop by on Saturday mornings for a late breakfast. I’ll be right back.”
I get up and run to the door.
When I open it, I freeze.
“What are you doing here?” I ask Bryce.
“I bought some dessert for you and Cassie,” he says, lifting a bag.
I scrunch up my nose. “You came all the way from Brooklyn to drop off dessert for my brunch with my girlfriend? You win Best Boyfriend of The Year Award.” I laugh.
He doesn’t.
“What’s going on?”
“Can I come in?”
Tension radiates off him.
“Of course.”
I close the door behind him.
Bryce follows me to the kitchen.
“Suzette— I mean, Cassandra,” he says.
She gets up and strides towards him. “It’s Cassie to my friends.”
“It’s a pleasure to officially meet you.”
“Same here, Bryce.”
All this nicety is civil, but why the hell is he here?
“You wanted to talk?” I ask Bryce.
Bryce drops the bag on the kitchen counter. “It’s about Brad.”
“Let me get out of your hair—”
“You don’t have to, Cassie,” I say. “There isn’t anything about Brad’s sordid tale you don’t already know.
Her green eyes swing to Bryce’s blue ones.
“I don’t have a problem with you staying. Nothing I have to share is confidential.”
“All right,” she says taking her seat.
Chapter 43
Bryce
After serving Cassie and me a latte, Sofia takes a seat.
Her eyes meet mine. “It’s as if you bought the heavy artillery—aka dulce de leche stuffed cookies—I’m weary of what you have to say.”
The cookies were to aid this difficult conversation, but we all decided to wait.
“Did the Croatian police finally arrest Brad’s sorry ass?” Cassie asks.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
My fingers drum against the wood table as I gather my thoughts.
“When we left my brother’s place a week and a half ago, I expected this to be a slam dunk.” I let out an audible exhale. “Brad’s past is like a Matryoshka doll.”
Sofia’s face falls. “You still haven’t found him? What about his wife?”
“I still can’t believe he was seeing someone serious enough to marry her,” Cassie says. “There was always a crowd of groupies at the end of his events, asking extra questions. He seemed to be doing the rounds,” she says in air quotes. “He had hooked up with one of them? Huh!”
“I was also clueless,” Sofia says.
“Brad was smart in not showing his cards,” I say.
“He was,” Sofia says.
“Fraudster.” Cassie sneers.
“Said fraudster had a three-month head start on my team. There was a lot to uncover about the asshole—the use of two different names, him bouncing around the planet, and him getting married in Bulgaria to his Russian girlfriend.”
Sofia’s brows dip. “Did you discover something new about him?”
“The Croatian police found him—”
“Finally!” Sofia cheers at the same time as Cassie pumps her fist in the air, “Yes! One less scumbag conning people!”
“To your point, Brad will never defraud another human being ever—”
“I hope they give them life behind bars,” Cassie says.
“Brad won’t be going to prison—”
“Why?” Sofia asks at the same time as Cassie asks, “What?”
Sofia glares at me. “How can that be?”
“Brad is dead.”
Sofia and Cassie gasp.
For a long beat, they stare at me in shock.
“What about the money he stole?” Cassie asks.
My girl is still too shocked to speak.
I sigh. “The jig is up—”
“He spent it all?” Cassie throws another question at me.
“No, he didn’t he spent a bit of it, but he’s been conservative since he left New York.”
Sofia finds her voice. “Where is the money?”
“In Russia,” I say. “In an account under his wife’s name.”
“Can we go after her?” Sofia asks.
“When my team leader informed me about Brad, I called my brother. The money—four million dollars Brad stole plus another eight million, amounting to a grand total of twelve million dollars—was sitting in an offshore account until he left Mexico. We searched encrypted messaging sites criminals in the underworld use to communicate to see if anything on Brad would come up to explain the origin of the eight million dollars, but nothing came up. That remains a puzzle.”
“Twelve million dollars.” Cassie shakes her head. “That’s a lot of money.”
I nod. “It is. Even without concrete proof, I’m willing to bet the eight million is dirty money.”
“No doubt,” Cassie says.
I keep updating them. “Brad distributed the money into seven fictitious numbered holding companies––so, a company that uses a number instead of a name. Three days after he got married in Bulgaria, the money was transferred to a bank in Russia.” I take in my girlfriend’s somber expression. “We’d have to prove the money in Russia is the same money Brad stole. This could take months. Several months. Even with all that effort, we’d still hit a wall.”
“What do you mean?” Sofia asks.
“There isn’t an extradition agreement between Russia and the United States—”
“There isn’t?”
“No.”
“Just great.” Sofia’s brow puckers with annoyance, matching her tone.
“It would be difficult to force the Russians to extradite Brad’s wife. It’s the same for the money. We can’t force her to hand it over without solid proof she was Brad’s partner in crime or at the very least, she knows of the origin of the money. I’m sure in Russia anyone can hide behind plausible deniability. And even then, it would cost an obscene amount of money for us to go after her.”
A long silence ensues.
“Does the police know who killed Brad?” Sofia asks.
I shake my head. “Not yet. They found him in an alley last night. He bled to death from his knife wounds.”
“God!” Sofia gasps.
“Jesus,” Cassie mumbles.
“There were other horrific injuries to his body, but I’ll spare you,” I say.
“It could’ve been his wife so she could get her hands on the money.” Cassie says. “What if she hired a hitman? With Brad out of the picture, she doesn’t have to share. She’s a rich widow. That’s motivation.”
“Or it could have been any of the long list of people Brad conned,” I say. “We don’t know how he got his hands on the eight million dollars.”
Sofia crosses her arms over her chest. “A part of me wants to say he won, but he’s six feet under.”
“He didn’t win,” Cassie says, “neither did all the people he defrauded. His Russian wife, on the other hand, won the jackpot.” Sarcasm drips from her words.
A sardonic smile touches Sofia’s lips. “Case closed. Brad’s Russian wife gets to enjoy the fruit of the labor of people who trusted her asshole husband.” Resentment pours off her in waves.
“Sadly, yes.” My hand balls into a fist. “Greed is this second of the seven deadly sins. Brad Hyler paid with his life. If his wife’s hands are dirty… karma is a bitch. She’ll get what’s coming to her.”
Chapter 44
Bryce
Two months later
I lift my champagne flute.
Sofia does the same.
“Here’s to me returning to my roots!” I say.
“Here’s to you moving back to NYC!” Sofia cheers. “And here’s to your new kickass Upper East Side penthouse! And here’s to my first experience of visiting a Fifth Avenue luxury apartment, with a stunning view of Central Park!”
“After a month of renovations, I can finally call this place, home.”
“I hope you’re okay if I come visit often.”
I chuckle. “The door is always open for you.”
“I’ll take you up on that, Mr. Billionaire.”
“I’ll count on it,” I say. “But we’re not done with the cheers.”
She frowns.
“Lift your glass a little higher,” I say.
She does.
“Here’s to you getting your reputation back!”
“Without you, I would’ve never been able to clear my name. Thank you, Bryce.”
“The publicity firm I hired was worth every last penny.”
“Even the media outlets who doubted my innocence and wrote slanted articles of my supposed involvement with Crooked Brad ended up writing a retraction article, exonerating me of all the sins they had accused me of.”
“You were a victim, and now the world knows about it. No one will ever doubt you again.”
“If I bump into anyone I know from my real estate agent days, I can walk past them with my head held high. I no longer have to carry the shame of being plagued with the nasty syndrome of guilt by association.” She pinches her lips together. “I’m still incensed the money Brad stole is still locked up in his Russian wife’s bank account. It pisses me off she gets to keep money that’s not only tainted, but doesn’t belong to her.”
“One thing the PR campaign was able to achieve was shine the spotlight on her,” I say. “Her face and name are now public. The world knows she’s been enjoying the money her dead husband left her. For the rest of her life, she’ll have to look over her shoulder. Even in Russia. And even after the money runs out, which at this rate, she’ll burn through it pretty quickly.”
“It’s a small consolation,” she says.
“¡Basta! El pendejo de Brad y su puta esposa rusa no valen la pena.” I’m pretty sure I butchered that sentence.
Translation: Enough! Asshole Brad and his whore of a Russian wife aren’t worth it!
“Pretty good,” she says.
“Sunday dinner with your family doubles as a Spanish language class.”
“And you’re a great student.”
I wink. “Let’s move down the list of things to cheer.”
“There’s more?”
“Don’t look so exasperated.”
She sits straighter in her seat and lifts her glass. “I’m ready.”
“Here’s to you becoming a boss lady. Again!”
“You mean, here’s to me partnering up with a person who has a helluva better moral compass than Brad Hyler?”
“Live and learn,” I say.
“Live and learn,” she echoes.
“You and Cassie are going to take on the DIY décor world by storm.”
She brushes a lock of her dark brown hair behind her ear.
She came to my place fresh from the salon. She’s back to her roots. She surprised me with the change.
Staring at me from under her lashes, she pulls her lower lip between her teeth.
Uncertainty radiates off her.
“You got this,” I add.
“Thanks for believing in us.”
“You say that as if someone was holding a gun to my head, forcing me to say something I don’t mean. You ladies are destined for greatness.”
“I’ll drink to that!”
We clink glasses and take a long sip of champagne.
“Wow!” Sofia holds the glass at eye level. “This is exceptional! It’s the best champagne I’ve ever had in my life.”
“Dom Perignon never disappoints.”
“And the bottle design is so… sexy.”
“I agree.”
“Dad’s birthday is coming up soon. I should get him a bottle,” she says, taking another sip. “Even if it sets me back a little bit. His forty-nineth birthday is a big deal.”
“Chances are you won’t be able to find it. This particular cuvée—”
“Look at you speaking French.”
“I wouldn’t go that far. It’s only one word.”
“You get an A+ for effort.”
“As I was saying, this particular cuvée is a limited release. One of my clients has ins with Dom Perignon’s US distributor. I was only allowed to purchase three bottles.”
“Well, that sucks,” she says. “Thanks for sharing a bottle with little ol’ me.” She takes another sip.
“I’d only ever share this,” I point to the bottle, “with someone who’s worth it.”
“Awww. You’re the best.”
“At two thousand five hundred dollars a bottle, you don’t want to serve it to the riffraff.”
She chokes and launches into a coughing fit.
I drop my flute on the table and grab her glass from her trembling hands.
“Two thousand five hundred dollars?” she croaks.
I nod. “Yes.”
“Is this the most expensive champagne out there?”
“No.”
“There’s more expensive than that?”
“There’s a Dom Perignon cuvée that costs fifty thousand dollars. Some fancy bottles, encrusted with jewels, can cost as much as two million dollars.”
She stares at me, incredulous.
“That’s… insane.” Her expression of shock is comical.
“If you have the money…”
“I wouldn’t know.”
I tap the tip of her nose. “The tide is turning for you, Miss Herrera.”
“True, but this kind of luxury isn’t in my future anytime soon.”
I shoulder bump her. “Keep hanging out with me, kid.”
“I might take you up on your offer.”
“You like the view?”
