Forty Thousand Novels & Stories

Forty people who actually meant something. It turned out—they both noted this independently and then compared notes over dinner—to be a much better list than either of them would have made alone. Alexander's instinct had pruned the list to the essential. Elijah's instinct had ensured the essential included the people with warmth rather than only the people with standing. "Forty is the right number," Alexander said, reviewing the final list. "It's always been the right number," Elijah said. Alexander looked at him. "The foundation gala." "The foundation gala," Elijah confirmed.

“Mum, forty people is not nothing big.” “Forty is intimate, Kira. Do you know what I had for my fiftieth? Two hundred and thirty people and a string quartet. Forty is practically a kitchen supper.” She closed the notepad. “It’s done, it’s booked, your father is very excited and Marcus is already arguing with me about the seating arrangement, so it’s happening.” Kira looked at the ceiling.

"Forty million." Evander responded immediately. "Fifty million." After speaking, his gaze swept across the crowd, briefly and subtly drifting toward the front row. It wasn't a challenge—more like confirmation. Camille finally furrowed her brow and whispered to Archer. It seemed that she was confirming with Archer whether they should stop or not. Fifty million was already far beyond the bounds of reason. Silence settled over the hall as every eye fixed on the silent, imposing figure seated at the center of the front row.

They saw a prize. “Thirty million.” The auctioneer’s grin widened. “Gentlemen, you do not disappoint. But surely, she is worth more. Look at her. Grace, fire, youth. Untouched.” he smirked, the crowd knowing what he meant by untouched “Who will claim her?” The voices tangled, bidding over each other, numbers rising past reason. “Forty million!” Silence fell. The number hung in the air. Forty million. More than most kingdoms could muster.

Sally shook like she might topple over. Hugh's smirk was razor-sharp. "Mr. Dunn, should I spell out the difference between 'handing something over willingly' and 'having it ripped away'?" *** The audio cut out. Silence crashed down. Then the whole room exploded.

Let us say twenty or thirty million? "I will never give it to you"

“One hundred thousand a month.” Fifty thousand was a disgrace for his face.

Hearing my acquiescence, Fabian Gates was overjoyed. “That’s dope! I knew I hadn’t misjudged you! Since I’m being considerate, just get me two brand new Audi R8s. If you’re short on cash, I can hook you up with an absolutely reliable money lender!” R8? Over three million dollars each? What am I, his sugar daddy? I sneered and probed cautiously, “Have you gotten permission from Ms. Jefferson’s husband to marry her?”

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Four million. I couldn't even say that number in my head without it falling apart. I had spent my whole life counting small things. Copper wire by the kilo. Rent by the week. Food by what was left after everything else. Four million wasn't a number in my world. It was a sound. Something people said in films about other people's lives. And he was offering to make it vanish, a rounding error on his end, a footnote on mine. "You want a mechanic from the outer rim to play your wife," I said.