Chapter 4

"Think of the extra money as your severance pay and start looking for a new job," Joseph said.

I hung up and stared at the figure on my phone screen, a chuckle escaping me. Five million dollars. On top of my savings from the last three years, I now had about nine million dollars to my name.

That was enough money for me to set up eight barbecue joints.

I went to the hospital and got three stitches on my arm. After that, I hailed a cab to take me back to the apartment I rented. During the ride home, I booked a flight out to Herstaad that night.

As of this moment, Jeannie and Ian had nothing to do with me anymore. I would be known as "Mr. Larsen", and no longer would I be expected to do anyone's bidding or endure their tantrums.

My phone buzzed thrice while I was packing up my stuff.

Jeannie was calling. I glanced at my phone and switched it off. I saw no point in answering her calls when I was no longer working for her.

I headed for the airport that night, lugging my 20-inch suitcase with nothing but my ID and bank card inside. I didn't even pack my blanket.

I had it all planned out. As soon as I landed in Herstaad, I'd swing by The Allegra for caviar pie, a Whistleton Lake specialty. Then, I'd find a shop where I could set up my first barbecue joint.

I'd been so overjoyed by the thought that I completely forgot about the work handbook I'd left behind in my apartment. Between its pages lay a photo of my friends and me from our holiday in Herstaad, with the address of the shop I'd potentially turn into my barbecue joint scrawled at the back.

It was 3:00 am when I arrived in Herstaad. I found a hotel near the airport and settled in for the night.

The next day, I headed straight for The Allegra to take down one of their caviar pies, then found a spot where I indulged in a shredded beef taco, savoring the flavors and grease as they stained my mouth.

I rented a condominium unit along Whistleton Lake with floor-to-ceiling windows facing the water. When the sun spilled through the glass, I nearly cried.

At last, I no longer had to be on standby 24/7. I wouldn't have to put up with Jeannie's moods or become a human shield whenever she decided to get violent and destroy stuff around her.

I spent half a month enjoying my newfound freedom, having as much fun and food as I wanted. I even set up a 20-thousand-dollar credit account at a massage parlor for foot rubs.

In the middle of my boredom, I suddenly recalled the skill set I'd developed in the last three years. There was no masterclass on how to handle a female CEO with a personality disorder, and I had three years' worth of experience in the area.

I found the little notebook filled with Standard Operating Procedures, snapped a photo, and posted it on Facebook Marketplace with the caption, "How to Handle a Psychotic Female CEO From Elmsdale—a masterclass by a former handler with three years of experience.

"Guaranteed learning. Includes a comprehensive handbook with a complete SOP. Free retakes. Only 998 dollars. Extra charge for one-on-one lessons."

I'd posted it for fun, but someone bid on the offer not three minutes later.

The bidder's profile picture showed a male college student in a basketball jersey with the handle "GigoloWannabe". He wired me 200 dollars via PayPal instantly as a deposit.

"Sir, I'm Tristan Hart from Elmsdale University! They all say I look like Ian Lowry, the female CEO's dead ex-boyfriend. Can you teach me your ways? I'd like a shortcut to retirement!"

I chuckled when I saw the selfie he sent. Indeed, Tristan looked a lot like Ian, even more so than I did. They even had the same eyes.

I sent him my location and told him to meet me in Herstaad. I agreed to cover his lodgings for three days and promised him a refund if I failed to teach him my ways.

Tristan took the express train to Herstaad the next day. He showed up with nothing but a backpack and a notebook, looking like he was taking a class for extra credit.

I kept him cloistered for three days and trained him with what I knew.

The first day, I taught him to notice the symptoms of Jeannie's manic episodes. She'd furrow her brows, start spinning a pen in her right hand, and her breathing would grow labored.

On the second day, I taught him how to comfort her during an episode. He had to hug her from behind, pat her thrice on the back—the first pat heavier than the following two—and stay silent the entire time.

On the third day, I taught him about the after-care services.

Jeannie's iced black coffee had to come with two ice cubes and two and a half teaspoons of syrup. It was his job to give her a piece of orange candy after she lashed out. And after she'd thrown a fit and smashed up objects in her wake, he had to pick up the glass fragments closest to her feet.

Tristan took enough notes to fill up an entire notebook. He was even more serious about this than I'd been about my SATs.

When he'd learned everything, he wired me 2,000 dollars for the rest of the course fees. He also gave me an extra 800 dollars and promised me a bonus once he got the job and earned his first paycheck.

I made him a copy of the Standard Operating Procedures and read every one of Jeannie's likes and preferences out loud to him. Toward the end, I nearly snorted.