Net Worth by Amelia Wilde

8

Charlotte

The package is waitingfor me on the polished console table in the foyer. It’s one of the few remaining pieces of furniture. My mother refused to part with it. Friday afternoon, and if I stand close enough to the table, I can imagine nothing has changed.

But then there’s the package.

Thick, white paper. My name in a neat, black print on the front.

“How was work today, sweetheart?”

My father’s voice floats out from his office, and my stomach clenches. “It was good,” I call back.

“Come talk to me where I can see you.”

We’ve been avoiding each other since Mason came into the house. He spends most of his time in his office with the door closed. I stay late at work and then stay busy in my room. The three of us stopped eating together months ago, so I’m not missed at dinner.

I put the box down before I get to the open door of his office. “Hi, Daddy.”

“I’ve heard things are picking up at the office. You’ve done a good job running things there.”

Not really, but I’m not going to pick a fight with him about it. “Things are picking up, yeah. We’re getting back on track with Cornerstone.”

I brought on one new person and two people who had been laid off today. What Mason said at the site has been rolling around in my head since Wednesday. Those people will need something to do when Cornerstone is done whether we sell it or not. I’d bet anything Mason’s company is all lined up to manage the property in the event it doesn’t sell, so…

“You think you’re ready to take the reins full time?”

Um.

“What do you mean, Daddy?” For one thing, I’ve been full time at Van Kempt for over a year.

He narrows his eyes at me. The glass on his desk catches the light from the window. No more than one drink at a time. It doesn’t matter that he’s been refilling it for hours. He used to wait until after lunch to drink. Now he starts as soon as he wakes up. That glass is always there. “We always knew you’d take over the company one day. I think it’s time you made it official.”

A laugh bursts out of me. My dad scowls, and I cut off the rest of it. “I’m so—I’m so glad you’re happy with what I’ve done, but, Daddy, there’s no way I can take over at Van Kempt. I don’t know the first thing about starting new projects.”

He waves it off. “That’s what your executive team is for.”

There is no executive team at Van Kempt. There used to be, when my dad still went to the office, but they all bailed quietly, one by one, until there was no one left. It’s not worth it for anyone to guide a company that has no money. That’s running itself into the ground.

That was running itself into the ground until Mason took over.

“I’m not sure that’s what I want to be doing,” I admit, trying to soften the blow. When did he get this idea into his head? I’ve always wanted to go into fashion. I was going to study in Paris after I graduated high school. Two weeks before my flight, I got an email from the apprenticeship program. It was the first FINAL NOTICE letter I’d ever received in my life. Fifty thousand dollars by the end of the week, the full cost of tuition and housing and access to the best designers in the world.

So.

That didn’t happen.

“What do you mean?” My dad picks up the glass but doesn’t drink from it. “This has been the plan all along. You’ve proven yourself over the last year. It’s time for you to take your place.”

“Daddy, this hasn’t been the plan.”

He scoffs. “Of course it has. That’s why you build a family business, Charlotte. To pass it on. Not to let it rot. Which you’re going to do, if you don’t start putting some real effort into it. You’ll go in on Monday and tell them you’ll be taking over.”

I stare at him across the carpet.

My father’s office is the only room in the house that’s remained intact. All the books on the shelves. The furniture. The rug. Not a single piece has been sold from here. He’s kept his little life around him while I worked my ass off to keep the bills close enough to paid. Every dollar I make goes to keeping my family alive and in the house. With food and electricity.

And on top of that, I’ve had to keep up with the minimum social obligations. Tickets to gala events, like the benefit coming up at the botanical gardens. Appearances at dinners in the city. Not because we can afford it—we definitely cannot—but because my mother begs. With tears in her eyes. She thinks it’s the only way to save us. To keep showing up.

To say that I’ve been putting no effort into this—

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t stand there with your mouth open, Charlotte. You look like a gasping fish.”

His insult hits me square in the gut, taking me backward a step. He’s drunk. He’s been drinking. That’s why he’s like this. He doesn’t mean a word he says, and listening to him isn’t going to help. It won’t help anyone.

I back out of the room and keep going. “I have an appointment,” I say to no one.

No one answers. The box waits for me outside the door. It comes up to my room with me.

Beneath the white paper is a black box, cool and silky to the touch. The kind of box that used to arrive from boutiques on a regular basis. I pull the top off. It clings to the bottom half a little and pops off with a breath of something that hints at flowers.

White tissue paper. A white note rests on top. I abandon the top of the box and take the note in my hand.

Nothing underneath.

–Mason

P.S. Meet me at the Middlegame.

Oh, Jesus. My face is an inferno at his neat writing. Two words in the privacy of my own bedroom, and the heat slips down over my neck. My breasts. All the way between my legs. Nothing underneath. He’ll check to make sure I’ve followed instructions. He’ll do it in the bar in the lobby of his building.

Fear follows. He hasn’t really touched me. Not yet. Kissed me, yes. Put his hand on my hip, yes. The small of my back, yes.

Nothing else.

One deep breath and I flip back the tissue paper.

One more and I have the dress out of the box, holding it in the air in front of me.

I thought the dress I made was a power move. I was wrong. This piece of clothing is a clear demonstration of Mason’s power. He’s not even here, and I feel his hands on me.

He’ll have full access in this slip of silk blend. Mason will be able to tell instantly if I have anything underneath. It’s incredibly short. It’s also incredibly backless.

Okay.

I clutch it close to me, partly to hide it from view and partly because it does feel good in my hands, despite not being very substantial.

I’m terrified.

Because he’s going to touch me.

No—that’s not true. It’s not true, and it causes a fresh wave of embarrassment.

I’m afraid he’s not going to touch me.

I’m afraid that I don’t want it.

I’m afraid that I do.

There’s something else in the box.

I step forward and peer over the edge like I’m looking down into darkness. Like anything could leap out at me. But there’s no monster at the bottom of the box.

It’s a brand-new pair of Louboutins.

I’ve never been much of an actress, but I have to be one to walk through the archway at the Middlegame.

I’m pretending to be clothed.

I feel naked.

There’s so much flesh exposed to the air that I feel every change in the heat. Every whisper of cool air. Every brush of my thighs. The complete, utter lack of undergarments.

Mason’s mean like that. He gives me an order and then makes me follow it. This dress can’t be worn with panties and a bra. They would show.

One man sits at the bar, his jacket slung over one of the padded stools. I keep walking. I have a plan. I will order a Diet Coke. No one will ask me any questions. No one will say anything. He won’t look up from his drink and see me wearing this.

No such luck. He glances up from his bottle as soon as my fingertips meet the polished surface of the bar, his eyes glittering. “Make her a whiskey sour,” he says to the bartender. “Extra sugar.”

“Oh, no—no, thank you. I’m meeting someone here.”

“Sure you are, honey.” One hand wraps around the bottle, and he leans over. “How much for the night?”

My mouth drops open.

He thinks I’m a prostitute.

“No.” My voice begins to rise. “No.”

The man shrugs, a grin on his face like he doesn’t believe me. He takes a bill from his wallet and tosses it onto the bar. Grabs his suit jacket. Leaves.

I don’t know if I’ll ever leave here again. I think I’ve spontaneously combusted from all the embarrassment pulsing through my veins.

“He couldn’t afford a night of your time.”

Mason’s voice comes from directly off my elbow. His scent wraps around me from behind. It’s not because he wears too much cologne. It’s like my senses are always looking for him. Wanting him.

“My time isn’t for sale anyway.” It sounds less confident than I wanted because of the shake in my voice.

He laughs, and I feel the air change. I feel how it gets darker. Heavier. “Not tonight. You already sold that to me.”

A hand at the small of my back turns me toward him. Right. Yes. You’re not going to look at the ground when you speak to me. I’m not going to watch an empty barstool, either.

I look into Mason’s eyes.

Where I’m required to look.

It takes my breath away.

There are layers to this breathlessness, the same way there are layers to a well-made garment. On the outside is shock at how gorgeous his eyes are. Low mood lighting in the bar makes them seem even more mysterious. Even more complicated. I already know how the sunlight outside throws all the colors into sharp relief.

One layer in is the fear.

The fear extends beyond my inability to breathe. Mason’s entire expression is dark. My heart feels like a thrashing tree. Irritation, edging toward anger, is in the set of his jaw. There’s no hint of the man who was patient with me at Cornerstone two days ago. No hint of him. He’s a towering thundercloud.

But it’s not simple, this feeling. No coin with two sides. No dress with an easy lining. There’s a third.

Desire. Or arousal. It’s a terrible sensation. Forbidden. Wrong to feel any kind of attraction. It’s only right that I should hate this, and hate him, and never want him close to me. I never want my body to respond to him. I don’t want him to have any effect on me.

He does.

His eyes drop from mine.

I keep looking.

I’m supposed to keep looking, I think, and even if I wasn’t supposed to, I’d want to look at him. He’s that arresting. That beautiful. The way he considers the dress feels like a physical touch. As if he’s dragged his finger beneath the low neckline. Pulled it away from my skin to see underneath. I can feel every place the fabric touches my skin.

I can feel every place it doesn’t.

And I can feel the heat of his gaze.

Mason snaps his eyes back up to mine. I startle like he’s slammed a door. Scramble for control of myself. “Upstairs, you sweet little thing. I want to get my money’s worth.”