I Won’t Be Stand-In Anymore
My boyfriend pulled in two million a year. He told me that once he'd banked five hundred thousand, he'd invest in my gallery.
Year one, he said the startup was bleeding money; he hadn't saved a cent.
Year two, he needed a new car to keep up appearances; no funds for me.
By year five, he was on his private yacht brokering a major deal and told me not to bother him.
I stood outside the cabin door and listened to the laughter rolling out from inside.
"If Celeste wanted to open a gallery, Eth would write her a million-dollar check without blinking."
"Hell yeah. If Celeste hadn't gone abroad back then, that knockoff he's got now wouldn't even be in the picture."
Ethan's voice drifted through the crack in the door, lazy, dismissive.
"Enough. Emily's been with me five years. I'll still put something in for her."
"She's a free drafting machine. She's not worth five hundred grand. One day's revenue at the firm, maybe. Call it round. Two thousand bucks."
My eyes burned. I pulled out my phone and called the one man Ethan hated most in all of New York, Adrian Sterling.
"Mr. Sterling. That partnership agreement you offered me? I'm signing it first thing tomorrow morning."