Chapter 2

So.

A few hours after signing a prenup faster than I can microwave ramen noodles, I now find myself standing inside the most obscenely luxurious penthouse I’ve ever seen in my entire, tragically modest, possibly cursed life.

Like, picture the inside of a palace, a five-star hotel, a celebrity’s private suite, and the one overachieving Pinterest board all fused together, injected with gold trimmings, minimalist art, carpet so expensive that I swear it screamed RICH, and mood lighting that probably costs more than my organs on the black market.

I didn't walk in.

I floated in—like Cinderella if she skipped the ball and got fast-tracked into a prenup with a billionaire she’s never had a full conversation with.

My heels clacked against the polished dark marble floor. My neck hurt from looking up at the chandelier. Yes, the chandelier. Singular. Massive. Majestic. It looked like it belonged in a ballroom inside the royal castle, not in a living room with a panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline.

“Sweetheart, come in! No need to hover at the door like a lost puppy, this is one of my penthouses.” Mrs. William—sorry, Granny Lillian—chirped, gliding through the space like she was born on a silk cloud. She had changed into a lavender cashmere set and looked completely at ease, like this was just another Tuesday for her.

I, meanwhile, had stopped blinking.

“I—I think I'm still hallucinating,” I mumbled, touching a marble pillar. “Did I die and get adopted by a rich fairy godmother?”

Granny chuckled as she reached for a glass of something sparkling and expensive. “Don't be silly. You’re alive, married to my Artie, and wildly underdressed for this penthouse.”

Agree, but before I could voice a word, she added,. “Don’t worry, dear; everything is handled accordingly.”

I stared down at the cream silk dress she gave me, which, by the way, was probably worth more than my entire wardrobe. “I look like a vintage Barbie.”

“Exactly,” she said brightly, sipping her drink. “Classic. Elegant. Kind. Slightly confused. Not bad for my Artie.”

Slightly? I was one inhaled breath away from a nervous breakdown.

She motioned to the massive velvet couch that was probably made from baby angels' wings and unicorn wool. “Sit, darling. Breathe. Okay? You have a long few days ahead of you.”

Eh?

“Shopping, more shopping, and makeovers.”

I sat.

Or, more accurately, collapsed. “I…don't even know where to start, Granny. Everything is so fast. I need to make things slow so I can breathe.”

“Don't worry, darling, I'll handle everything, or rather my assistant Alvin will.”

“I—I don't know, um, why am I even here? Where are my things? How do you know where I live? Why is your assistant looking at me like I owe him one of my kidneys?”

The assistant—Alvin, who had the posture of a vulture and the judgmental air of a man who could bankrupt you with a glance—raised one immaculate eyebrow. His suit probably cost more than my college tuition.

“Everything’s been handled, Mrs. William,” Alvin said crisply. “Her belongings are en route and will arrive tomorrow afternoon.”

I blinked. “I—I didn't even tell you my address.”

Granny waved a manicured hand. “Darling, if I can get a heart surgeon and the most famous lawyer on the line in under thirty seconds, I can find a twenty-three-year-old who rents a one-bedroom apartment above a Korean coffee shop in Marble Hill.”

Of course, I gawked. “HOW—?”

“Don't ask,” she said, winking. “Alvin has his methods.”

Alvin nodded solemnly. “Google.”

I doubt it.

I opened my mouth to protest, but honestly? I was scared he might know what I had for lunch last Wednesday.

“And,” Granny continued breezily, “I transferred three million dollars to your bank account.”

“WHAT?!”

She sipped her drink again, like this was no big deal, but three million freaking dollars?

“Yes. It's already there.”

“How do you even have my bank account number?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” she purred, leaning forward like the godmother of secret espionage. “I'm rich. And I asked nicely.”

I couldn't even form words. I just sat there, blinking rapidly, my mouth opening and closing like I was trying to reenact my pet goldfish Goldy, gasping at the surface.

Goldy.

My eyes widened. “Wait. My fish. My poor fish. He’s all alone! He’s probably staring at the door wondering where I've gone!”

Granny chuckled. “Don't worry. We’re sending a team tomorrow to pick up your things. Goldy will be personally escorted to the penthouse. Alvin already added a premium tank to the guest room.”

This is too fast…my brain is certainly not braining now.

Alvin nodded again, solemnly. “Saltwater grade. Fully filtered. Heated. Mood lighting.”

I actually started tearing up.

“Oh my god. He’s going to be living better than I ever have.”

Granny patted my hand, then handed me a velvet box. “And here’s your new phone. It's an iPhone. Top-of-the-line. I had my tech guy move everything from your old one.”

What? How on earth did that happen?

Inside was a sleek silver special edition iPhone with a gold glittering case. I tapped the screen—and nearly threw it across the room.

“WHY is Art’s number saved here?!”

“Of course it is, you’re his wife, dear,” she said, as if I was asking if the sky was cloudy. “It's his private number. He doesn't give it to anyone. Not even his mistresses.”

“Great. I feel honored.”

Granny kissed my cheek, winked again, and stood up. “My number is there too. If you need someone to talk to…or ask about the new Hermes.”

“Wait,” I said. “Where are you going?!”

“I've done my part. I arranged the marriage, paid off your student loans, handed you a small fortune, and gave you access to the penthouse. Time to let the young couple bond.”

“But—Granny, I—I haven't even talked to Art since the courthouse! He just kissed me like I had the flu and left!”

“Oh, he does that. He's very busy. And emotionally repressed.”

“But—”

“And don't worry about shopping,” she cut in smoothly, grabbing her purse. “My dear friend Mirabelle, fashion genius, already took your measurements. She’s picking out everything. Dinner gowns, day dresses, honeymoon lingerie—”

“WHAT?!”

“—shoes too. Makeups and purses. So many purses.”

I stood up. “Wait, wait, Granny, we didn't talk about any—did you say honeymoon?!”

Shen paused at the door. “Oh yes. You leave in few days. Italy. His own private villa. Romantic sunsets. Cheese. Possible scandal and soon…little Artie. I'm excited.”

“I—I don't even like the sun!”

She blew me a kiss. “Too bad, dear. You’re married now. Figure it out. Besides, you need a little tanning; you’re too pale, darling.”

And then?

Alvin winked at me and then closed the door after him.

They left.

Just like that.

Leaving me in a penthouse with velvet couches, gold fixtures, and a phone that had my husband's number saved as “Handsome Grumpy Hubby.”

And now I stood in the middle of a bedroom the size of a basketball court, wearing silk I didn't pay for, with three million dollars in my bank account, a fancy iPhone in my hand, and my brain melting like an expensive grilled cheese in June.

I looked around the room. “Oh hell, Goldy would never believe this.”

Then I flopped onto the bed, screaming into a white pillow, and considered Googling “what to do when you accidentally marry a billionaire.”

Spoiler alert: Google didn't help.