The Billionaire's Game: Be a player or be played

"What do you mean by no more allowances?" Ava screamed into the phone. This was the beginning of a nightmare, one she hoped she would wake up from quickly and laugh out loudly at. If she did not address this madness quickly, the world would laugh at her. The tabloids would not be kind; the paparazzi would print out photos of her in rags. Out-of-season clothes, she considered as rags. No designer labels were rags. She would be laughed and mocked at for the rest of her entire broke life. "THE EXTRAVAGANT PRINCESS IS BROKE," she thought of the headlines blazing out in glossy print. Oh no, she wanted to die. "Dad, please tell me this is a lie. I hope none of my silly friends set you up for this prank. I swear, Dad, this isn’t funny in the slightest. You can’t just stop giving me money. What do you suggest that I do?" she let it all out rushed in one breath. Her chest heaving so hard, that she felt she might be going into cardiac arrest. "Don’t be dramatic, Ava. It is not the end of life," her father responded. "What do you mean it is not the end of life? It is the end of my own life, Dad," she said. "I am going to be bullied so much, and I will never recover from it." "I have plans in place, and I would not let you suffer. You’re my ace card, Ava. Everything depends on you now." "What do you mean by that?" she asked, lost in the meaning of what he was saying. This was not the time to speak in parables and start cracking riddles. She needed to start cracking Easter eggs for some designer labels. "I’ll contact you later with the details, Ava. You won’t die from a few weeks of not shopping. Bye-bye, darling." With that, he ended the call. Maybe it was for the best that her dad did not physically deliver this news because some heads might roll. Her day was entirely ruined right now and maybe her life was. "I’m not being dramatic," she said to herself. "Anyone would lose their head if they heard they were going broke soon. Where would she start from?" She went to her closet and flung the door open so hard it could fall off its hinges. Maybe if she sold some last-season clothes, she might have a couple of thousand dollars to tide herself over. She slid down the wall of the closet, sobbing into a Hermes scarf. Ava Lovato doesn’t tide herself over. She spends out of a never-ending honey pot. Speaking of a honey pot, she remembered she was part of some billionaire clubs’ courtesy of stealing her father’s influence. Maybe she might bag one or two billionaires that would fly her out on a Paris weekend. She needed to update her socials; it was long due for some vacation vlog. Racing back to her room, she flopped on the bed and whipped out her phone. She was not the daughter of a rich man for nothing, or at least once a rich man. Accessing the billionaire club site, The Cooking Spot, maybe she might get some dripping honey pot for free, ready to spend some millions on her. Suddenly, the site logged her out. "What the heck," she blurted out loud. This hadn’t happened before. She checked the message that popped out on her screen. ACCESS BLOCKED, EXPIRED SUBSCRIPTION. She let out an annoying groan; a renewal would cost $100,000, and she didn’t even have up to that. She only had $50,000 left, enough to buy a sexy outfit and a ticket to Las Vegas. She was able to catch a glimpse of the flier on the site: WIN $1,000,000 HONEY POT FROM A BILLIONAIRE TONIGHT. She screamed out happily; these games happen from time to time, but she never knew what they entailed. Maybe tonight she might find out in Las Vegas. *** Ava’s pocket was running dry by the time she landed in Vegas. A couple of thousand on a Jimmy Choo, a couple more thousand on a Prada bag, and a sexy, glittery, sequined black gown from Louis Vuitton. Some cheap hundreds on a first-class, and a dime on a five-star hotel. She was a princess, and she knew it, but right now, her pocket was shaking. The honey was starting to run dry. She had banked all she had on winning the million dollars and riding a private jet back to New York City. One cha-ching and all her problems would disappear. She needed to stop worrying and start looking pretty and ready to snatch an oblivious billionaire. "Hey Jimmy, how are you doing this lovely evening?" Ava smiled sweetly at the head bouncer guarding the entrance to the underground club sitting pretty underneath the casino. She stared at the name written glossily above the door: THE COOKING SPOT. What a dumb name for a place like this, she thought. They should have chosen a flattering name to describe the millions spent in the club on every game night. What were they cooking exactly, she thought? A couple of million dollars on games. "I’m sorry, your card declined, Miss Lovato. We can’t renew your subscription," Jimmy said, shaking her out of her reverie. Ava pretended to look shocked, "Oh my! I told my accountant to rectify that. I am moving my money to an Amex Black card, Jimmy. I guess they are not done moving those billions yet," she replied, flipping her hair to the back as she lied through her teeth. "I know you probably don’t know what that means, Jimmy, but I’ll pay for your ignorance." "I don’t understand you, ma’am," he responded. "I have an important meeting, Jimmy. I’ll tip you $10,000 later if you turn a blind eye to this and let me in. You don’t want to stop me and risk losing your job," Ava said, staring at him squarely. She went to Harvard Business School and spent most of her days partying. Her father had given up on grooming her to be the heiress of the family business. She learned one or two things. She may not have graduated first in her class, but she knows how to make muscled guys pee in their pants. Jimmy stared back at her and finally gave in. She was not the first rich asshole who loved to flaunt their money in people’s faces. "WELCOME TO THE BILLIONAIRE’S GAME NIGHT, ma’am. Please pick your choice of mask." Ava smiled seductively at the bouncer and flashed him a million-dollar smile. The air was thick with the scent of money, mingled with the heady fragrance of expensive perfumes and colognes. The club was dimly lit, with pulsating lights casting a hypnotic glow over the crowd. The sound of laughter and chatter filled the air, punctuated by the occasional clink of champagne glasses. Ava felt a surge of adrenaline coursing through her veins as she made her way through the throng of people toward the center of the room. Million-dollar, million-dollar honey pot, here I come, no matter what it takes. She scanned the room, her eyes darting from one handsome billionaire to the next, searching for her ticket to the soft girl life. Suddenly, she spotted him. Christopher Hill. The man who had made her life a living hell during their childhood years. The man she had vowed to never speak to again. And yet, here he was, standing across the room, looking as arrogant and infuriating as ever. Ava’s first instinct was to turn and walk away, to avoid him at all costs. But then she remembered her desperate situation. She needed that money, and if Christopher was her ticket to it, then so be it. Summoning all her courage, Ava sauntered over to where Christopher was standing, a confident smile playing on her lips. She could feel his eyes on her as she approached, and she relished in the knowledge that she still had the power to turn heads. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t Ava Lovato,” Christopher said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “What are you doing here? Looking for your next sugar daddy?”