Billion Dollar Chance - Linnea May Page 0,19
open their eyes to what’s going on and how they are like… a huge part of the problem! You and me, we’re small, we’re nothing, we’re no one. We are aware of the disaster this planet is heading to, but there’s so little people like us can do. They, however—”
“Alaina, please, that’s not how these things work…” I interrupt her, biting my lip when I realize how much I sounded like Gabe just now. Even the tone of my voice resembled the way he talked to me earlier this week. That irritating know-it-all manner, laced with a hint of appeasement that only achieves the opposite.
“Ugh, you’re such a coward!” Alaina exclaims, sounding defeated. “Here you are, presented with the perfect opportunity to make a statement, maybe even leave a real impression with these people and advocate for the change you claim to have devoted your entire life to—and you just… chicken out.”
“I’m not chickening out,” I object. “On the contrary! I’m going to this stupid circus to fight for our cause, to make things right!”
“Oh yeah, I can see that,” she scoffs, scanning me from head to toe while folding her arms in front of her chest. Her brows arch suggestively as her eyes linger on my cleavage, and I know why.
I’m wearing an embellished cocktail dress that I snatched at a thrift store a few years back. The color, a dark navy blue, goes well with my red hair and I like how the off-shoulder cut accentuates my collarbones—but it is a bit short and too tight, causing my boobs to spill out on top and hugging my waist a little too fierce. I haven’t put it on in a long time and now that I see myself in the mirror, I’m wondering whether this is the right attire for tonight. But what choice do I have, really? This dress is the only gown in my possession that might be remotely suitable for an upper-class fundraiser event.
And the fact that it’s rather revealing could actually work to my advantage. Gabe always liked my boobs, and I wouldn’t be the first woman to take advantage of a man’s desire to get what I want. It feels wrong to even think about this, but I can’t stop the thoughts once I go down that mental lane.
“So, this Gabe guy,” Alaina’s voice pierces through my stream of thought. “He’s like… your college sweetheart or something?”
“Something like that,” I mutter, hoping that she senses the evasive tone in my voice.
Alaina’s curious gaze follows me around the room as I usher from one corner to the next, fixing my hair one last time in a smaller mirror at my desk, fetching my powder compact plus a lipstick and throwing both of them in the clutch—another thrift item—together with my wallet and keys before I squeeze past Alaina to get out of my room.
“You still got the hots for him, huh,” she presumes behind my back as I hurry down the hallway.
“No, I don’t!” I retort a little too loud, turning on my heels to cast her an indignant look. “I broke up with him, remember?”
She rolls her eyes at me. “Yeah, so? No one would blame you if he’s still as irresistibly handsome as you said he was!”
I regard her with a startled look. Irresistibly handsome? Did I really say that? That doesn’t sound like me at all.
“And besides, look at you!” Alaina goes on. “Why would you get all dolled up like this if it weren’t for—”
“It’s a black tie event!”
“That dress is way too short for a black tie event and you know it,” she reprimands me, adding a little wink.
I let out an exasperated sigh. “It’s not like I have many options…”
Alaina shrugs and makes a face as if to add “whatever you say,” but keeps her lips sealed while I slip into the only pair of heels I own. They aren’t Manolo Blahniks or whatever pricey brand may adorn the feet of all other women at that stupid gala, but they’re still the most expensive item of clothing I have ever owned. And, luckily, they pretty much go with everything, even this all-too-revealing cocktail dress.
Just as I grab my coat, almost ready to leave the house, Alaina finds her voice again.
“I don’t understand why you’re so defensive about this,” she says. “It’s not like you have anything to be ashamed about.”
“Who says I’m ashamed?” I retort.
“No one!” she exclaims, lifting her hands in appeasing motion. “I’m just saying… he is