All six numbers match exactly. I won.
I won?
“No,” I say out loud to my empty apartment. “No way. No freaking way.”
But the numbers are still there, mocking me with their perfect alignment. Six tiny digits that apparently equal tonight’s jackpot of two million dollars. My pulse is thudding in my ears, my palms are slick against the paper, and there’s this fizzy, electric rush in my chest that makes me feel like I might actually launch off the couch.
Two million dollars.
I stare at the ticket like it might burst into flames or reveal itself to be an elaborate prank. This kind of thing doesn’t happen to people like me. This kind of thing happens to people in movies, or urban legends, or very special episodes of TV shows where they teach you about the corrupting power of money.
I grab my phone to call Lisa, then remember she’s probably elbow-deep in packing and family chaos. Besides, what would I even say? “Hey, remember how we always joked about winningthe lottery? Well, I just did, and now I have to figure out what to do with more money than I’ve ever seen in my entire life, and also I’m pretty sure this is going to change everything, and I’m kind of terrified?”
Yeah, that’s definitely not a conversation for tonight.
Instead, I just sit there, clutching the ticket and trying to wrap my brain around what this means. No more worrying about rent. No more choosing between groceries and gas. No more watching other people live the kinds of lives I only dreamed about.
And suddenly, a completely crazy idea hits me.
Barbados. Not the budget version Lisa and I had been planning, with shared hotel rooms and carefully counted meals. The real version. The kind where you fly first class and stay somewhere with room service and infinity pools and people whose only job is to bring you drinks with little umbrellas in them.
Can this be real? Is this my actual life right now?
I fire up my laptop before I can talk myself out of it, and start browsing luxury resort websites like I actually belong there. First-class tickets that cost more than my car is worth. Hotel suites with private balconies and ocean views. Spa treatments with names I can’t pronounce.
This is insane. This is completely, totally insane.
But fuck it. I’m absolutely doing this.
CHAPTER 3
ALEC
Two weeks of blood tests, EKGs, and a new daily regimen of blood pressure medication later, I’m finally taking that doctor-prescribed vacation. Since I had no idea where to go, my assistant, Martha, made all the arrangements for me. One full week in Barbados. I’m already bored out of my skull and itching to be back in my office.
Unfortunately, my escape vehicle to the tropics is a commercial airline instead of my usual private jet, which is currently being upgraded with new avionics. Just one more way the universe seems determined to fuck my life over lately. It’s been years since I’ve flown commercial, and now I remember why. Apparently “first class” means slightly more comfortable than flying in the cargo hold.
At least I have my hotel accommodations in Barbados to look forward to. Martha did some finagling and was able to book me at one of the best resorts in their largest, most luxurious suite. I plan to spend my week of forced relaxation enjoying the privacy of two-thousand square feet of solitude and tropical breezes. I just need to get there first.
The Miami layover from LaGuardia was a nightmare of delayed connections and gate changes, but at least now I’msettled into seat 2A on the final leg to Bridgetown. My laptop sits closed on the pull-out table like a digital siren song, surrounded by the HoloTech cybersecurity penetration test results I’m absolutely not supposed to be reading. I had to sneak the computer out of my office when Martha wasn’t looking. Dr. Vaughn’s orders were crystal clear: complete break from work, dramatic stress reduction, or risk “much more serious health consequences.”
The problem is,notworking feels more stressful than working.
The meditation app Dr. Vaughn insisted I download is burning a hole in my phone like a guilty conscience.Mindful Moments—Christ, even the name makes me want to punch something. But the alternative is another lecture about “cardiac events” and “lifestyle modifications,” so I suppose I should make an effort.
I plug in my earbuds and select whatever bullshit session promises to make me a more Zen human being. The narrator has the kind of voice that belongs in a funeral home—all hushed reverence and artificial calm.
“Close your eyes and allow yourself to settle. Clear your mind. Thaaat’s it… Now, imagine a place of comfort and calm. A place where you are utterly relaxed… perhaps a childhood memory, a favorite retreat, somewhere that brings you peace.”
I wait for something to materialize in my head. Anything. My mother’s kitchen? No, that place was always filled with the stress of unpaid bills. My corner office? That’s the opposite of calm. The house in the Hamptons I bought last year? I’ve been there exactly twice, both times for client dinners.
The silence in my skull is deafening.
“Let yourself sink into this peaceful sanctuary,” the narrator continues, apparently operating under the delusion that I’vesuccessfully conjured some sort of mental spa retreat. “What do you see? What do you?—”
“Whew! That was close. I almost missed the flight!”
A melodic, far-too-cheerful voice cuts through my attempted meditation like a buzzsaw through tissue paper. I crack one eye open to see a dark-haired woman in a light cotton sundress hovering in the aisle next to me—all curves and bounce and the kind of megawatt smile that should come with a warning label about potential retinal damage.
