CHAPTER 4
1117 Words
So this was rock bottom.
Not what I thought it would be, honestly. Rock bottom had chandeliers. And an open bar. And a woman in a headset telling me to stand up straighter.
I tried not to laugh. Or cry. I hadn't decided which yet.
"Sallie." Chelsea grabbed my wrists. "You are going to be fine."
"I am not fine. No. I'm about to–" I couldn't even say it.
"We can leave right now. I'll drive you home."
I looked at her. "Jordan needs fifty-two thousand dollars for treatment. I have nine hundred dollars in my bank account. So yeah, Chels. I kinda have to do this."
"Don't." Chelsea shook her head. "Don't make this sound noble. You are scared shitless and we both know it."
"If it changes anything, you let me know."
Chelsea folded my hand firmly before letting go. She let out a sharp blow through her nose. "Fine. But you will not go out there with your lip gloss smudged."
I pressed closer to the curtain. I could hear the auctioneer starting up again. "Companion experience." The room probably believed it too. Like we were selling dinner conversation and pleasant company.
Which, technically, we were.
Chelsea had explained it to me three times. The auction was for dates – event companions. Donors bid on an evening out with one of the volunteers. Dinners at nice restaurants. Galas. Charity events. Theater premieres. All public, all documented, all completely above board. The charity vetted every bidder. Background checks. Financial verification. The whole thing.
"One woman raised thirty thousand last year," Chelsea had said. "All she did was attend three galas and a golf tournament. That's it. Just showed up, smiled, made conversation. The donors get a companion for their events, the charity gets the money, everyone wins."
"And the women?" I had asked.
"Get to feel like Pretty Woman without the s*x work."
I hadn't laughed.
But I had agreed to do it anyway because Jordan needed that medicine and I was out of options.
The contract was clear: companionship only. Public venues only. The charity maintained oversight of all arranged dates. If anyone made me "uncomfortable"—their word—I could report them. Sure. Like that would un-uncomfortable me.
It was safe.
It was legitimate.
It was also me standing on a stage letting rich men decide if I was worth their money.
"Ms. Amanda Sterling. Chief Financial Officer of Sterling & Associates, is the next volunteer this evening..."
I pulled the curtain back. Just an inch.
The smell of expensive perfume and fresh lilies hit me first. Then the gold and white light bouncing off crystal. Then the people. So many people.
I had cleaned this hotel before.
Three months ago, night shift. I scrubbed the toilets in that bathroom right there. The marble one with the fancy soap dispensers.
And now I was here in a dress, about to –
"– SOLD for twenty-two thousand dollars!"
Applause. Amanda Sterling walked off stage smiling, waving, completely comfortable.
Of course she was comfortable. She was a CFO. She probably knew half the people in this room.
I taught five-year-olds how to share. I wore a tiara on Saturdays for forty bucks an appearance.
And now this.
What am I doing here?
"You're next," someone whispered. Stage manager? Coordinator? I didn't know.
"Wait – no. There's someone else first. I'm last, Chelsea said I'm last –"
"You're last. But you're on deck. You need to be ready."
Ready.
I wasn't ready.
My phone was in Chelsea's purse. She had taken it from me an hour ago because I kept reading that email. The one from Jordan's pulmonologist.
*Jordan's asthma will only become worse if nothing is done. We're seeing increased frequency of attacks, decreased response to rescue inhalers, and early signs of airway remodeling...*
Airway remodeling. Irreversible lung damage.
"Miss Garcia says I have to stay inside during recess now."
That's what Jordan told me yesterday. He said this the same way he would tell me what he had for snack.
I wanted to scream.
"You're up after this one." The coordinator said.
A woman in red blew kisses to the crowd as bids climbed higher.
I pressed my hand to my mouth. Then I backed away from the curtain.
"Hey Sal."
Chelsea. "Listen to me. You go out there. You smile. You let them bid. You take the money. You save Jordan. That's it."
"What if no one bids?"
"Someone will bid."
"What if they don't?"
"Sallie –"
"What if I walk out there and everyone just sits there?"
"Stop." Chelsea turned me to face her. "Someone will bid. So what if we don't hit fifty something k? Anything is better than nothing. Okay?"
I nodded.
I didn't believe her.
"– SOLD for eighteen thousand dollars!"
The woman in red walked past me, still smiling.
The coordinator touched my arm. "You're on."
This was it.
For Jordan.
For his lungs.
For the way he had looked at me with those big brown eyes and asked when we were going to fix it.
I walked toward the stage.
---
HUDSON
Account #847392-CH → Cayman Shell Corp → Luxembourg Transfer → Brisson Foundation → Mom's Medical Account
I stared at the spreadsheet. The numbers were right there. The flow was clear.
But the amounts didn't match.
$47,000 went into the Cayman account. $45,500 came out the other end into Mom's account.
$1,500 missing.
Transaction fees? No. I pulled up the fee schedule. Maximum $400 for this route.
Where the hell did the other eleven hundred go?
I scrolled through the past transactions. Same pattern. Every single payment, consistently $1,500 short.
Not random. Deliberate.
Someone was skimming. Or someone was using the missing amounts to cover something else.
"Sir, we've arrived."
I barely registered his voice. My finger was already hovering over the next cell, about to click through to the source account.
"Give me five minutes."
I clicked.
*BRISSON FOUNDATION - DONOR ACCOUNT #3829*
Personal account. Not foundation general funds.
Someone's private money, routed through Christina's family foundation to my mother.
Why?
If you want to help someone, you write a check. You call them. You don't create an elaborate shell game through three countries and a charity foundation.
Unless you're hiding something.
Or hiding from someone.
I clicked on the account holder's information.
*DONOR PRIVACY PROTECTED: ACCESS DENIED*
Shit.
But the account number was right there: *#3829*
I pulled up my secondary tracking program. The one I used for the actually difficult cases. Started running the account number through –
My phone buzzed.
Christina: *Where are you?*
The gala. Right. I had promised.
*In the car. Five minutes.*
- Writer
