Page 31 of The Stipulation
In that moment, I curse Joseph under my breath. Why on earth did he slip that stupid stipulation in? I gave up everything to run his empire. It took up every waking moment of my life. And that was fine with me because it is all I lived for. And he knew that. He also knew I have had no serious relationships in my life for the last two years, and have absolutely no interest in starting a family, at least, for the foreseeable future. Why on earth would he want to saddle me with a family when I’m not ready for it? He was my mentor and a beloved father figure to me, but right now, I feel betrayed by him. If it weren’t for his totally out of character and utterly incomprehensible stipulation about producing an heir by the end of the next year, I wouldn’t be here with Crystal. Or devising ways of how I can rent a womb.
“Makes sense,” I mutter, because Crystal is looking at me expectantly, and I guess it costs me nothing to do so.
I find myself looking around, trying to find a distraction from Crystal. The restaurant is dimly lit and intimate. Low golden lighting glints off polished glass and dark marble. It’s the kind of place where impressive deals are quietly made over a handshake. A string quartet plays softly from somewhere nearthe bar. The maître d’ gave me their best table, and Crystal was visibly impressed. Her friend has eaten here once before, and the food is Instagram-worthy.
“Oh, and then,” she continues, moving onto a whole new subject. “You won’t believe who was at Chelsea’s party last weekend.”
I already don’t care. “Who?”
She gasps, delighted by the invitation to continue. If she were even a tiny bit interesting, I would feel bad for her – she seems desperate for validation. If she didn’t babble on about vapid shit.
“Only Luca Moretti. I swear, he is even more attractive in person. I mean, I wouldn’t date him, obviously. He’s far too dramatic, but still… It’s nice to look.” Her eyes flick over me briefly, and she smiles coyly. “You’re not the jealous type, are you?”
She plays with a strand of her hair, trying to tease me. She knows exactly what she’s doing, and I am in no way getting pulled into it. I hold her gaze evenly.
“Nope.”
She isn’t expecting that level of honesty. For a second, her face drops, then she laughs, slightly too loud. I am extremely protective of anyone I care for, and I won’t tolerate anyone else’s hands on them, but Crystal couldn’t make me jealous if she tried. I couldn’t care less about her.
“Well, good,” she says gaily. “Because I do have a lot of male friends. I just get on better with men, you know? They’re less complicated.”
If irony had mass, it would crush this table. The only thing she doesn’t do is add that girls just don’t like her. Instead, she launches seamlessly into another story, something about a spa weekend in Mykonos.
“Oh my God, Mykonos was insane,” Crystal gushes, her eyes lighting up. “We stayed at this private villa overlooking PsarouBeach. It had an infinity pool obviously, and it was white marble everywhere, the works. Chelsea found it through this members-only concierge thing. You’d love it.”
“I doubt that,” I say mildly.
“No. No, you would,” she insists. “It’s very exclusive. They don’t even list it publicly. You have to know someone who knows someone.” She lowers her voice conspiratorially. “Which obviously we did.”
Obviously.
“And the spa there?” she continues, not waiting for a response. “It is unreal. They do this volcanic ash body wrap that’s meant to detox your aura. I don’t know if it did anything spiritually, but my skin was glowing for days.” She leans forward again. “But the best part was the beach club. Although.” She wrinkles her nose. “There was this whole drama about sun loungers.”
Of course, there was.
“So, we reserved this front row cabana.” She gestures animatedly. “It’s in a prime spot with a direct view of the DJ booth and the sea. But when we got there, this Italian influencer and her boyfriend were already in it. And she pretended she didn’t speak English.”
A tragedy.
“I mean, she absolutely did speak English. She’d just posted stories on Facebook in English like ten minutes earlier. So, Chelsea confronts her, very politely, and the girl just keeps smiling and saying, “No English, sorry’.”
“So, what did you do?” I ask dryly.
“I handled it,” she states proudly. “I called over the manager, the hot one with the sleeve tattoo, and explained the situation. He was mortified. They moved her immediately.”
“Efficient.”
“I know.” She beams. “Honestly, you just have to know how to talk to people.”
I take a measured sip of whiskey. It helps to drown out the incessant talking. Crystal continues with barely a pause.
“And then that night we went to this tequila tasting thing at the villa. Which was a mistake.” She laughs, tossing her hair back. “Chelsea cannot handle tequila.”
“What happened when she drank the tequila? Incapacity? Hospitalization?”
“No.” She giggles. “She just gets dramatic. After two shots, she was crying about her ex. And then she tried to jump into the pool in her dress because she said it was symbolic.”
“Symbolic of what?” I dare to ask.
