One Weekend with the Billionaire
“We live in a small apartment, Mother. It’s in a bad part of town and doesn’t even have a dishwasher. We get by. For two years, he’s been telling me this is the best he can afford on his salary, that Mr. Merriweather doesn’t pay fairly, but now I know that it’s really that Jeff has been spending his money on prostitutes, pornography, and other vile addictions.”
“Oh, dear!” she exclaims, shocked. “You know all of that? For certain?”
“Yes, Mom, but beyond all of that… Jeff doesn’t treat me well. He doesn’t treat me like a person. I’d almost forgotten what it was like to have someone actually care about my thoughts, to want to hear what I have to say. I don’t know how to explain it, Mother, but