Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Jules appears next to me. “Don’t worry, I’ve got this.” She hands the server her card which he swipes through the card machine, and within seconds, it beeps its approval.
I admit, there is a big part of me that wished it declined her card too. It would save me having to face the inevitable.
That something is wrong.
The server smiles smugly at me as he hands her the receipt.
“Well, I guess this is goodbye for now,” Jules says, an awkward expression on her face. “I’ll call you in a few weeks, or a couple of months, whenever this shitstorm has blown over.” She pulls me in for a hug I don’t want. “Take care.”
She releases me and without another word, disappears out of the restaurant.
While I stand dazed and confused in the foyer, wondering what the fuck just happened.
“What do you mean it’s all gone?” I ask, horrified.
I stare at the banking manager sitting behind the desk in front of me and feel the color drain from my face.
“Over the last couple of months, you’ve moved a lot of funds around.”
My stomach knots. I haven’t moved anything around. Harrison takes care of paying my bills. I simply use my credit card and it works.
“May I look at the statement?” I ask.
The banking manager, a woman in her forties with short blonde hair and gold earrings, slides the account statement across the desk so I can look at it.
My heart racing, I read each transaction. Five hundred and fifty dollars to the hair salon. Five thousand to Bentley’s department store for the cute leather tote in the window that I fell for. Three thousand at Louboutin. Sixteen thousand at Prada. Twelve at Gucci. Twenty-three million transferred to an unfamiliar account last week. Another nineteen million moved into the same account yesterday.
Account balance: $1.75
A cold lump forms in my throat.
He stole it all.
“I didn’t do this,” I whisper. “I don’t even know the account the money was moved into. It’s not mine.”
“Your accountant will know. Perhaps bring him down here and we can work it out together.”
“That’s the problem.” I can’t believe this is happening to me. “He seems to have disappeared.”
3
BIANCA
Four weeks later
“Five hundred dollars.”
I stare at Jonah, the woolly haired pawn broker who has been taking advantage of my predicament for weeks. He’s a jerk. But now he’s just upped his status from jerk to major asshole. Sitting between us on the glass counter is a six-thousand-dollar Gucci bag.
“You’re missing a zero on that figure, Jonah. This bag is worth a lot more than five hundred and you know it.”
“Maybe, but I don’t see a lot of people lining up to buy designer bags from me.”
I glance around the store. As far as pawn shops go, this one isn’t too bad.
“I don’t see the Fendi I brought you last week, or the Birken and the Gucci I sold you the week before that, so don’t tell me you haven’t already off-loaded them to your black-market pals.”
“You know, if you don’t like my prices, you could always hold a yard sale,” he says, knowing full well my ego wouldn’t deal with the humiliation of peddling my designer accessories on the front lawn for all the neighbors to see.
“One thousand dollars,” I say, barely getting the words out.
He peels off five one-hundred-dollar bills from a wad of cash he probably earned from selling my stuff to his shady friends for four times the amount he paid for them and drops them on the counter. “Five hundred. That’s my final offer.”
I think about the utility bills and the bright red OVERDUE stamp across the front.
I think about the IRS sweeping through my house three weeks ago and taking almost everything in it, after my sudden loss of millions caught their attention and somehow triggered an investigation that showed an outstanding debt my father never paid.
If I was broke before, I’m now almost destitute. I will have to sell the house soon.
“Fine, five hundred,” I mumble.
He leans down. “You know, I wouldn’t object to throwing in some extra cash for favors.”
I cock an eyebrow at him. “What type of favors?”
His gaze drops to my lips. “The friendly kind.”
Nausea bubbles up from my belly.
“You want me to give you a blowjob for cash?”
“I mean, if you’re offering.”
I grab him by the collar and yank him toward me. “I might need the money, but I’ll never ever be desperate enough to bring my lips anywhere near your festering twig of a penis, so don’t you ever insult me again with the suggestion, do you understand?”
He smirks and I let him go.
“There is a special place in hell for people like you,” I say, snatching the money off the counter and walking toward the door.
“So I’ll see you next week then?” he calls out.
I let the door close with a bang behind me.