Page 12 of Fake it With Me

5

LIZA

Istood in the middle of my assigned suite because apparently that was what you called it when your temporary bedroom was larger than my entire apartment. I tried to process what my life had become in the span of forty-eight hours.

I meandered through the space, going to the closet first. It was massive. It looked like a small boutique store. Built-in shelving, a center island with drawers, lighting that automatically turned on when you entered. There was a full-length mirror and a small, upholstered bench, presumably for the exhausting task of putting on shoes.

“Holy shit,” I murmured to no one.

I returned to the room to grab my suitcases and started to unpack my new wardrobe. Well, it wasn’t exactly an entire wardrobe. When a simple day dress cost three hundred bucks, it cut into the budget. I brought my stuff as well, for times I would just be lounging around the house. I didn’t think I would be expected to be “on” every minute of every day.

I walked to the wall of windows that were partly shielded by open blinds. I wanted to see the view better.

“How in the hell am I supposed to open these all the way?”

Who would have a view like this blocked by stupid blinds? I looked around and then spotted a remote control. I had seen these things in the movies.

I pushed a button, and sure enough, the blinds started to rise.

Through the windows, I could see the Atlantic Ocean stretching to the horizon, dotted with sailboats bobbing up and down on the water. The estate had its own private dock, multiple boathouses, and what looked like a small beach. The property seemed to go on forever, rolling lawns and carefully maintained gardens leading down to the water.

I could see a pool that looked like it was inside a greenhouse. But there wasn’t a roof? No, it was retracted. There was a hot tub and a firepit with Adirondack chairs around it.

It all looked very peaceful and park-like, but from the front entrance, she knew the place was surrounded by a huge fence and actual security guards.

Who lived like this? Who needed this level of protection from the outside world?

Was Darek Sullivan a boat builder or a drug dealer? Because this felt excessive for someone who just made yachts, even really nice yachts.

But no, it was apparently just how billionaires lived. Cut off from regular people like kings in their castles, surrounded by walls and guards and enough space that they never had to acknowledge the existence of anyone who couldn’t afford entry into their world.

I didn’t like it.

I’d never been a fan of rich people in general. It was a bias I had developed honestly after years of watching wealth inequality destroy communities. After seeing funding for scientific research dry up while billionaires built vanity projects and bought sports teams. What was the point of having all that money if you weren’t going to make the world a better place? If you weren’t going to use your resources to help people who were struggling, to fund research that mattered, to do literally anything besides accumulate more wealth and build bigger houses?

Darek seemed like a decent guy, sure. He clearly loved his daughter, and the way he’d talked about the custody battle had been genuine, raw with protective fury. But he also lived in a twelve-thousand-square-foot house with two people and saw nothing wrong with that. It was all so he could exist in a bubble of comfort and privilege.

I was being judgmental. I knew I was being judgmental. The man was paying me one hundred and fifty thousand dollars to help him keep custody of his daughter. I had no business critiquing his lifestyle choices or his net worth. He had money. Some people did and some didn’t. It was that simple.

But still. This felt obscene.

I had been unpacking for an hour, trying to make the space feel less like a luxury hotel and more like somewhere I might actually stay for a month. I set up my laptop on the desk, arranged my research notes in neat stacks, plugged in my external hard drive. At least I could get some work done here. The ridiculous high-speed internet would let me download research papers in seconds instead of the glacial pace I was used to.

I was plugging my phone charger in by the bed when I felt it. That prickling sensation on the back of my neck that meant someone was watching me.

Oh, here we go, I thought. Now that the spider has me in his web, he’s going to turn into a pervert. It was exactly what I had been worried about. The moment the true nature of the arrangement was revealed. When I was spinning out last night, I pictured Darek showing up at my door with some excuse about needing to “discuss the terms” while wearing a bathrobe or holding a bottle of wine or doing whatever it is that rich men do when they decide contracts are just suggestions. He’d flash me and expect me to fall to my knees—literally.

No amount of money was worth that.

I turned toward the open doorway, preparing to shut down whatever inappropriate advance was coming. But it wasn’t Darek.

It was a little girl.

She peeked around the doorframe, just her face visible, with dark hair that looked like it had been recently brushed but was already starting to escape from its ponytail. Big eyes—the same unsettling blue as her father’s—staring at me with an expression that was equal parts curious and wary.

Daisie.

“Hey,” I said, trying to sound friendly and nonthreatening. “Hi there.”