Lidia looked at Lizzie, confused. “Why washehere?” she asked, venom in her voice, as if he were the reason for this whole ordeal.
“He drove us home,” Lizzie answered, now looking at the hand he’d just held.
I’ll probably never see him again, she thought to herself once more.
“Okay… and Lizzie,” Lidia was looking at her quizzically. “Why are you covered in mud?”
Chapter 16- Two More Weeks
Christmas had always been Lizzie’s favorite holiday. The lights, thecoquito, the chaotic Noche Buena table that never fit all the food—this year, everypastelitofelt like a debt she couldn’t pay.
George had accepted the terms, at least initially.
Pay up by Christmas, or I’ll add $10k in interest. Or maybe I make up the difference on OnlyFans??
She saved the text just in case she’s ever asked for proof.
Lidia lasted exactly one day in sweatpants. By day two, she was ring-light-ready, filming “Get Ready With Me” videos like nothing had happened. She told Lizzie she had to keep busy to cope.
Meanwhile, Lizzie doom-scrolled at 2 a.m., and there was Lydia at Vizcaya, sun-kissed and laughing:Living my best life ?
Lizzie locked her phone and put it under her pillow to keep from throwing it, or the bowl of cereal she was having as dinner at the wall.
Monday back at Pemberley HQ was December on steroids. Although Lizzie’s improvements in customer service were based around tracking customer feedback and task completion, the people she was working with were just so… customer service-y. Everything they said was done in hyperbole, and they weresickeningly positive. It was especially annoying to Lizzie, who was already in a bad mood.
To add to the annoyance, they had jingle bells glued to their headsets. Mariah Carey had taken the playlist hostage. Someone brought cookies shaped like reindeer; someone else started an ugly-sweater contest. Still, Lizzie smiled until her face hurt. She was going to meet them where they were and finish this project off strong.
Carolina appeared like a Christmas villain in red-bottom heels one day to check on her progress.
“Will’s in New York through New Year’s,” she announced, voice dripping honeyed venom. “Some of us still have to run the company while others… play consultant.”
Lizzie gave her the brightest, most fake customer-service smile in her arsenal. “Super duper!”
Carolina’s left eye twitched. Victory.
Friday brought the bonus email.
Subject line: Congratulations to our Top Performers!
For one stupid second, Lizzie’s heart leapt. Then she remembered: contractors don’t get bonuses. Her “bonus” was the commission now earmarked for George Wick’s yacht fund.
Saturday, she finally washed the Redlands mud off her car. The brown streaks came off in slow motion, and every swirl of the sponge took her back: the dance, the dip, Will’s thumb on her stomach, the wordless almost in the hallway.
She was crying before she realized it—ugly, shoulder-shaking sobs that turned the hose water salty. She let herself have exactly five minutes, then shut off the water, wiped her face with the muddy towel, and went inside.
That night, her phone buzzed with a new message from an unknown number.
Tell Lidia the price just went up.
Attached was a screenshot—Lidia’s face clearly visible this time, eyes closed, unmistakable.
Another $150k by Christmas Eve, or these go to every gossip site in Miami. I’m sure her 2M followers would be all too happy with these. Merry Christmas, Liz. —G
Lizzie stared at the ceiling until the numbers stopped making sense. This wasn’t just losing her commission; she didn’t think she could financially recover from this.
Another $150,000 on top of her bonus and exactly fourteen days away from ruin.
Two more weeks.
