Step 4: Get paid.
Step 5: Never tell Grace about any of this.
I stare at the list. It seems simple when I break it down like that. Straightforward. Achievable.
Then I picture myself flirting with a billionaire at a luxury resort and immediately feel like a raccoon that wandered into a Michelin-star restaurant.
I don’t own a bikini. I walk in heels like a baby giraffe learning about gravity. I can’t tell the difference between expensive wine and the three-dollar bottles I buy for cooking.
I might actually glow in the dark.
But.
Fifty thousand dollars.
I open a new browser tab and typehow to seduce a man.
The results are a mix of Cosmo articles and WikiHow guides with illustrations that look like they were drawn by someone who learned about human anatomy from alien autopsy reports.
Make eye contact. Smile. Lean in when he talks. Laugh at his jokes. Touch his arm. Compliment him. Wear red. Wear heels. Wear confidence.
I read through the list, taking notes like I'm cramming for an exam.
Another tab:what to wear to a beach wedding.
Another:how to talk to rich people.
Another:Anguilla travel guide.
Another:is it illegal to seduce someone for money.
That last one pulls up results about prostitution laws, which is not helpful and also mildly terrifying. I close the tab and make a mental note to never google that again from a device that's connected to my name.
My phone buzzes. A text from Grace.
Grace:Did you pay the meal plan yet? They sent another email.
My chest tightens.
Me:Processing it today. Don't worry.
Grace:I’m not worried. You do that for both of us.
Me:Because worrying is my job. You focus on biochem.
Grace:I'm serious. If we need to take out another loan—
Me:We don't. I've got it covered.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Grace:Thank you. I love you.
Me:Love you too. Now go study.
I set the phone down and stare at the folder again.
Blake Hartwell. Billionaire. Cheater. Target.
