Chapter 4: The Materialistic Woman Didn’t Get What She Wanted
854 Words
Lina’s cheeks were redder than the Fifth Avenue storefronts. The Cartier diamond bracelet Ethan had given her now felt like a yoke. “Engaged?” Her voice crackled like an old-fashioned champagne glass. “Am I your bachelorette party?”
Ethan led his mother to the couch at B&B Italia and whispered in a practiced Upper East Side cadence, “Mom, that surveillance video can be edited. Be careful about getting engaged to a rich girl.”
Ethan’s mother’s Valentino dress hissed like an angry cobra. “Our Hamptons estate depends on this alliance! Three generations of tax havens, ruined by some people…” Her French manicure swung at Lina. “…Brooklyn gold diggers.”
When Ethan finally remembered Lina’s existence, his Rolex watch gleamed and he punched the elevator button. “We’ll…reschedule.” The closing door cut off his Armani-clad figure.
Central Park West, 11:37 PM
Lina’s Jimmy Choos left a trail of blood on the sidewalk. Uber notifications flickered mockingly—a 2.7x premium. The night smelled of pretzel cars and humiliation.
John could have put his Tesla on autopilot.
Her shaking fingers hovered over John’s contacts. Then her sorority sister’s voice echoed: “In a game of dating poker, never fold first.”
The neon cross of the grocery store gleamed. “Phone charger?” Lina pleaded with the clerk. The dial tone of the burner phone became her lifeline.
“John, I…” Her Prada handbags piled at her feet.
“Contact your sugar daddy.” The click echoed through the East River tunnel.
Upper West Side penthouse, dawn
John stared at the LED countdown above his smart mirror: seven days. His father’s savings card burned through the Bulgari nightstand.
Lucas’s call breaks the silence: “MIT incubator program—Professor Zhang is waiting.”
Inside the brownstone, their former advisor greets them with the disdain of single malt whiskey. “My blockchain startup’s IPO prospectus is gathering dust, and you’re playing house?”
The doorbell rings. A lanky figure in a Patagonia sweater grins: “John Wilson? Campus exam algorithm legend?” Winston Vanlare’s Stanford ring gleams. “Let’s disrupt the gaming industry.”
John’s phone buzzes as they exchange LinkedIn profiles. Contact photos of Lina’s parents gleam—his former prospective parents-in-law, now creditors.
Lina’s studio apartment, 8:15 a.m.
A knock on the door shakes the Ikea frame. Her father’s Timberland boots leave dirt marks on the second-hand Persian rug.
“Your brother’s fiancée wants a Park Slope brownstone dowry.” Her mother’s Macy’s perfume fills the air. “$370,000 short. Call John.”
Lin’s migraine intensified. The return policy for the Chanel bag… Xiao’s black American Express…
“John blocked me,” she whispered.
Her brother’s Supreme hoodie was blurred by tears. “Just marry him again and wait until the wire is done. Divorce him after the deal is done!”
The family stormed off, Lina clutching John’s forgotten Mont Blanc pen. Its platinum nib dangled over a check for $25,000… dated yesterday.
Lina’s mother’s acrylic nails clicked against her Starbucks cup. “Your brother’s fiancée wants a Hampton Beach wedding,” she whispered. “The Campbells want the right social capital. A $370,000 dowry, or their debutante.”
Lina’s brother adjusted his Supreme hat. “Just marry that tech ex-boyfriend. His stock options must have vested by now.”
Lina’s Valentino heels dug into the hardwood floor. John’s Tesla stock…Ethan’s trust fund…her mother’s Michael Kors bag opened like a hungry mouth.
“Three days,” Lina’s parents ordered. “Or we list the apartment on Zillow.”
Upper East Side, 2:17 p.m.
Ethan’s Ferrari whirred outside her walk-up. “Princess,” he said, his Rolex gleaming as he opened the Lamborghini’s door, “let’s sort out yesterday’s…misunderstanding.”
Lina slid into the carbon fiber seat, her Reformation dress clinging to her like desperation. The apology box felt suspiciously light.
“Christian Louboutin’s new fall collection?” Her hopeful fingers revealed a drugstore lipstick. John had given it to La Mer last Tuesday.
Ethan’s smile mirrored that of his hedge fund partner. “The chef at Le Bernardin owes me a favor. We discussed my mother’s…arrangements over oysters.”
The Plaza Hotel Lobby
John adjusted his Allbirds among the marble columns. Familiar laughter pierced the champagne air as his wedding planner’s clipboard listed disastrous expenses.
Lina clutched Ethan’s Brioni sleeve near the oyster bar. “Stalking me won’t raise your pathetic salary,” she hissed.
Ethan’s confident smile widened. "I heard you write Java code? I need a debugger for my mobile game. If you come to Vanlare to work for me, your salary can triple."
"I heard Vanlare has not been acquired or renamed. Can you get a foot in the door at Vanlare?" John countered.
"You... just write code, you wait for the day when I sit on the throne of Vanlare." Ethan was a little exasperated.
John's Apple Watch sounded a Nasdaq alert. "Interesting," he clicked the Vanlare Group logo on the meeting folder, "Their CTO just bought my AI algorithm. It seems I can't wait for you to sit on the throne"
- Writer
