Chapter 2 He is a gaming genius
991 Words
The salesman's smile faded. The POS terminal had just flawlessly processed another customer's $15,000 purchase.
Given Lina's VIP status - she buys a new handbag almost every month - payment shouldn't be a problem.
"Let's try our backup terminal," she suggested, masking her irritation.
Lynn re-entered her birthdate PIN with shaking fingers.
Rejected.
"Maybe try another card?" the salesman suggested, while Lina stared at her $4,200-a-month paycheck outfit. "Three more attempts will freeze this Amex card."
Lina fumbled with her wallet. Years of subsidizing her extravagant habits through John's credit had blurred reality. In Manhattan - where the rent for a studio apartment was $4,000 a month - her actual income couldn't sustain a walk down Fifth Avenue.
Shame crept up her neck. He changed the PIN on purpose!
The boutique's thermostatic air conditioning suffocated her. Even the models seemed to be laughing: the gold digger was caught without a shovel.
When John’s iMessage notification popped up, Lena deleted it unread.
Let him grovel a little longer. No more fretting over his every reminder!
Across town, John monitored the beta launch of his startup. Colleagues cheered as user numbers soared, but he was in chaos.
9 days.
412 wedding guests expected to receive roses at Cipriani. The bride didn’t.
Lucas’s call interrupted his thoughts: “Horizon Interactive wants the source code to our game—for $4 million!”
John’s knuckles turned white. That amount of money could buy the Central Park-view penthouse Lena had been complaining about.
“Meet at Smith’s at 7 p.m.,” he hissed. Every algorithm in their demo was carefully engineered. This sale was like auctioning off a firstborn.
John Wilson arrives at The Velvet Rabbit Speakeasy, the shadowy booth where the mayhem began last night.
Lina is stuck in downtown traffic. John sips an Old Fashioned as he makes his way along the velvet-lined seats…
Flashback:
A whiskey-blurred memory of stumbling to the bathroom. Cold marble against his cheek. And then there she is—the dark-haired mystery with Cartier diamonds on his coat.
He pulls the Panthère earrings out of his Tom Ford blazer. Even in the dim light, the 18k gold earrings hold emeralds worth more than his startup’s seed money.
Across the aisle, Lina Bishop slides into a leather booth with her NYU sorority sister, Chloe.
“John’s got the jewelry!” Chloe hisses. “Have him grovelling a little more. Men need investment.”
Lina Bishop sips her Cosmopolitan. “He changed my Amex password. Let him rot.”
Her eyes flickered to Jason’s desk. Those earrings…didn’t she see them at the Van Clare gala? The CEO’s signature Panthère charms?
He liquidated his 401k for me?
Chloe shot back. “Text him, tell him you’re in Balthazar. Let him catch up.”
Meanwhile, John’s MIT ring clinked against the glass. Lucas had finally arrived, reeking of Uber exhaust.
“Horizon’s offer is valid—$4 million for source code.”
John’s fingers, calloused from the code, tensed. “We built this in your dorm room in Cambridge. Let’s scale it up.”
The name of their MIT professor appeared—he was their advisor on their senior thesis on neural networks.
As they left, Lina’s Gucci Marmont bag “accidentally” landed in Jason’s path. He stepped over it without stopping.
Lina paled, and he didn't even notice she was right in front of him!
Chloe snorted, “What’s wrong with Jason? He sulked all night and left without an apology?”
Lena’s knuckles turned white around her martini glass. She’d rehearsed her forgiveness monologue in Uber, only to be snubbed.
“Typical scumbag mind game,” Chloe drawled. “The first one to give in loses.”
Lena nodded and downed her third espresso martini. As they stumbled into the Hudson Heights loft, John’s absence sobered her up.
“John! My Louboutins are killing me!” she yelled at the empty walls.
Silence.
The walk-in closet gaped like a wound—his Tom Ford suit was gone, only the damn Tissot watch she’d given him remained on the dresser.
She slumped down on the couch at Restoration Hardware, the phantom memory of John massaging her feet now drowning in Veuve Clicquot. With tears in her eyes, she texted her college crush:
[To Ethan Shaw]
Are you free tonight? Missing our days at Yale…
His reply clicked immediately:
[Ethan]
Come to my Tribeca penthouse tomorrow. I’ll send a car.
She hesitated. Ethan’s i********: showed too many models in his infinity pool. When his $520 Venmo request popped up with a winking emoji, Lynn retched.
“Even poor John gave Cartier,” she muttered.
LinaBishop’s fingers tremble as she watches Ethan’s i********: story—a 4,000-square-foot Tribeca loft with floor-to-ceiling views of the Chrysler Building. Is this his sign to propose?
She falls asleep, fantasizing about hosting the Met Gala in her silk pajamas.
At The Standard Hotel, John Wilsin searches Zillow for live-work lofts. His burner phone rings. The number is 212-***-0888.
The voice cuts through his jet lag: “Back from Zurich in 48 hours. Decide on your terms.”
Her British accent in the conference room brings me back to the past—her Chanel No. 5 perfume mingles with sweat on her Egyptian cotton sheets.
“No thanks,” he hisses. “I’ll send you the earrings.”
“I’m not a casual woman. I keep my promises.” The line goes dead.
Rain pounded on his windows. John recalls Lena’s “status” after their first s****l encounter:
Co-signing for his Park Avenue apartment
Sending $15,000 to her brother’s trust fund
“I’m not a casual woman.” Lena was like that then, too.
His insomnia deepened.
In Hudson Heights, thunder rattles Lena’s Warhol prints. She fumbles through blank pages—without John’s MIT hoodie hug to dampen the storm.
It’s the first time the hum of the Sub-Zero fridge is louder than her Jimmy Choo collection.
- Writer
