Page 17 of Return Billionaire to Sender

“Very good, very good.”

What?

He stands and leans in toward me. I’m aware of him the way I was in the lobby—his size. His heat. He whispers, “I know what you’re doing, of course.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh come off it. This isn’t leadership sensitivity coaching or emotional intelligence training or whatever it’s supposed to be. They mean to fucking torture me.”

I stare at him, stunned. “That’s what you think I’m doing?”

He looks back. “I’d fire my employment law firm for agreeing to this if I didn’t already do it.”

“It’s not torture,” I say. “It’s real.”

5

Malcolm

One of themost diabolical punishments devised by the monsters who ran Soviet-era prison camps was to force an inmate to toil away for days on end digging a massive hole. As soon as the unfortunate prisoner had completed a big, beautiful perfectly-shaped hole, they would force them to fill the hole back in with dirt.

It was an awful punishment because there’s nothing more repugnant to the human soul than wasted labor, squandered time. Time is one’s most precious resource.

It’s clearly this principle that Corman and his lawyers had in mind in devising this. No doubt they worked overtime creating a program that would be as maddeningly useless as possible. God, I can just picture them cackling over scotches.

Stella gives me a blank look and blathers on about 341 West 45th. Yes, I know the address; it’s going to be part of the Square West project.

“Is something funny?” she asks.

“Not in the least,” I say. Ireally do have to hand it to them—the video is nearly unbearable.

But they made one very large mistake: her.

My last coach was a humorless old buzzsaw, but Stella’s hot—especially if you removed the boxy and clearly fake letter carrier uniform, which I would very much enjoy doing.

And what was up with the outfit yesterday? Was that butterfly bow tie part of the show? Or is that what she really wears? Is she an entry-level coach of some sort? A hot rube who took a few seminars? I study her eyes as she goes on about the rooftop, something about flowers on the rooftop.

Her eyes are army green. Army green is technically a drab color, or at least it’s a drab color in fabric, but it’s startlingly beautiful in her eyes. Her butterscotch hair is clipped back on one side with a simple golden clip that allows it to cascade over her shoulders like a quiet waterfall. She really is pretty in an understated way.

Is that part of the torture?

She’s continuing to talk, but I can’t be bothered to listen, though I’m definitely playing the part of a listener.

She won’t stop talking about these people. Did she pre-watch all the videos and get whipped up into a lather? She seems almost passionate about these people’s plight, like some kind of Joan of Arc. A pure and incorruptible warrior. Being riled up really does lend her an extra spark of something…there’s this vibrancy about her.

Is it truly possible she has twenty-one hours of that footage?Twenty-one hours?People have been complaining about the Square West project. Is that where they got this footage? From the gang of people complaining? Corman wasn’t in my real estate group, but I suppose he could’ve heard about the complaints and stumbled upon the footage, and from there, devised this program.

My buzzer goes off. I grab my phone and shut off the alarm. “It’s eleven,” I say. “We need to wrap up for today, much as it pains me.”

“But what do you think?” she asks, eyes wide. “About sparing them. There are other ways to achieve your goal. Why not consider them?”

“Nope,” I say.

“But…if you could achieve your goals while sparing this building…”

“If the rest of your ridiculous program is anything like this little intro, well, I just can’t imagine the fun. I really can’t.” I grab my briefcase. “Poor old Maude whining about her hip. I can’t wait for more of that. Solid gold stuff!”

She stiffens, annoyed. “Her name is Maisey,” she bites out.

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