Page 28 of Return Billionaire to Sender

“It’s them telling how they feel about the building,” she says,stating the obvious.

It switches between people. It’s not bad work, technically. Did the discombobulated residents hire some sort of filmmaker? And then they sent this footage to my real estateacquisitions group and Corman somehow got hold of it? And decided this would be the perfect torture device? And then they found this junior coach to lean on?

That has to be how it came together. Because honestly—what else could explain this?

Twin boys now, with some old man wearing a platoon hat. The boys call him John and tell the unseen camera operator that John taught them both to shave. They live on the same floor.

I groan. Stella—or rather, Elle—shoots me a dirty look, and a strange trill of pleasure moves through me.

After a few more touching Norman Rockwell moments with John the elderly army vet guiding the young boys, we get some twenty-and thirty-something actresses one-upping each other on their love for the place. The women here—good lord! If there was a video presentation tailor-made to annoy me, this is it.

As if on cue, the old lady’s face fills the screen.

“Oh, please, no, not her again,” I say.

“Shh,” Elle scolds delightfully.

Maisey’s telling about how she broke her hip and her neighbors rallied to help her. I try to catch Stella’s eye, but she’s glued to Maisey.

After what feels like ten hours of Maisey and her hip, we return to John and his army-insignia hat. He’s on the roof of the building showing off his crop of flowers, spindly little things that grow out of rusty old coffee cans arranged all in a row.

“Is this being filmed at the Buckingham Palace Garden, then?” I ask.

“Shhh,” Elle hisses, annoyed. It’s positively delicious.

Onscreen, a young actress goes into a long dramatic story about an abusive ex, and how she’d be alone in the world if not for her 341 West 45th family. It’s quite the maudlin little video, all in all.

I study the slope of Elle’s nose, the freckle-dusted curve of her cheekbone, her fine, glossy hair. I imagine removing the clip and sliding a ribbon of that hair through my fingers; it would feel silky to the touch—of that I have no doubt.

It’s actually more honey colored than butterscotch, I decide. And she herself is no confection. She’s straightforward and simple. Technically plain, but quietly beautiful. Most people wouldn’t recognize her quiet beauty, especially not out here with so much flash out there to catch the eye.

Her tentative boldness adds to her attractiveness. The straight-up way she postures herself when she gives a command. How she sometimes seems to marshal forces from deep inside.

I want her to stop the movie and talk.

“Is there…literally four weeks of this footage?” I ask.

She hits pause and turns to me. “We’ll see, won’t we?” she says primly.

“Come on,” I say. “This isn’t real.”

“It’s totally real,” Elle says. “A hundred percent real. That’s the point here. Now please save the rest of your questions for after the presentation.”

“It’s not real,” I continue, “meaning, this is about making the settlement as painful as possible. This is not a real program.”

“No, it is,” Elle says, jutting out her chin. “This is a program about empathy, with human stories about real people. You know, those two-legged things moving about on the streets below?”

A sassy outburst from Elle. Another unexpected treat.

Once again, she hits play.

John is back, talking about how his neighbors remembered his birthday. “I thought my days of people remembering my birthday were behind me,” he says, holding up a brightly wrapped box.

I slide my phone from the table to my lap and scrollthrough my texts. It’s all of five minutes before she notices what I’m doing.

“Hey!”

“What?” I say.

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