The next morning, Frank threw a black credit card onto the kitchen table. It slid across the wood and stopped in front of my plate of dry toast.
"Get her something that doesn't look like it came from a dumpster," he told Brenda. "But keep it under budget. We need the cash for the settlement."
Brenda snatched the card up. "Come on," she barked at me. "And put a hat on. I don't want the neighbors seeing your roots."
We went to the mall. Not the high-end boutiques on Fifth Avenue, but a sprawling outlet center on the edge of the island. Kayla came with us, wearing dark sunglasses to hide her hangover, her wrist wrapped in an Ace bandage she didn't need.
Brenda dragged me into a store that smelled of cheap polyester and desperation. She started pulling things off the racks. Bright pinks, neon greens, animal prints. Clothes that screamed "new money" and "no taste."
"Try this," she said, shoving a tight, sequined cocktail dress at me. It looked like something a disco ball would wear to a funeral.
I went into the changing room. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. I pulled the dress on. It was itchy. It was tight in the wrong places. It was perfect for the role.
I stepped out. I let my shoulders slump. I chewed the gum I had popped into my mouth earlier with my mouth open. I walked awkwardly, stumbling a little in the heels they had given me.
Kayla snickered. She had her phone out, snapping pictures. "Look at her," she whispered to Brenda. "She looks like a hooker on clearance."
Brenda nodded, satisfied. "It fits her personality. We'll take it."
I saw the salesgirl watching us. She had a look of pure disdain on her face. Poor white trash trying to play dress-up, her eyes said.
I caught Kayla's reflection in the mirror. She was typing furiously on her phone, posting the photo to her private group chat. "Wait until you see what my cousin is wearing to meet the Sterlings. #CharityCase."
I made a mental note of the timestamp. That photo would be useful later. Evidence of their cruelty, if I ever needed to burn them down publicly.
After the shopping, there was the hair salon. Brenda instructed the stylist to bleach my hair platinum blonde. Not a nice, honey blonde. Platinum. White. Fried.
"Make it bright," Brenda said. "She needs to pop."
The stylist looked at my hair, which was healthy despite the bad dye job I'd given it myself for cover. "Are you sure? This will damage the cuticle..."
"Just do it," Brenda snapped.
Two hours later, my scalp was burning, and my hair felt like straw. I looked in the mirror. I looked exactly like the stereotype they wanted me to be. A gold-digger. A bimbo.
The final stop was a "manners consultant" Frank had hired for a two-hour crash course. Mrs. Gable was a stern woman with a British accent that sounded fake.
She tried to teach me how to walk with a book on my head.
"Chin up, shoulders back," she commanded.
I took two steps and let the book slide off. I bent down to pick it up, bending at the waist instead of the knees, giving Mrs. Gable a view of my underwear.
She gasped. "Oh, good heavens! No!"
I did it again. And again. I spilled tea. I used the salad fork for the cake. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.
By the end of the hour, Mrs. Gable looked ready to retire.
"Mr. Vance," she told Frank, who had come to pick us up. "She is... unteachable. She is a liability."
Frank looked at me with pure hatred. "She's not going there to talk politics, Mrs. Gable. She's going there to sign papers and breed."
I stood there, popping my gum, looking vacant. Inside, I was smiling. They thought I was stupid. Stupidity was the best camouflage in the world.
I needed to use the restroom before we left. I went into the stall and locked the door. A moment later, I heard Brenda and Kayla enter.
"I can't believe we have to give that idiot two million dollars," Kayla complained. "That's my inheritance, Mom."
"Shh," Brenda said. "It's a signing bonus. Frank has to transfer it to get her to sign the prenup. But don't worry. Once she's in that house, once the trust fund is unlocked for us... who cares what happens to her?"
"But two million?"
"She won't live long enough to spend it, honey. You know what they say about Julian. He's killed two nurses already. Why do you think they're accepting her? They need a body count that doesn't sue."
I sat on the toilet lid, my breath held. Two million.
They were going to pay me two million dollars to walk into a trap.
I waited until they left. I walked out of the stall and washed my hands. I looked at the platinum blonde stranger in the mirror.
Two million dollars. That would buy a lot of neurotoxin antidote on the black market.
I dried my hands. I wasn't just going to survive Julian Sterling. I was going to use their own blood money to save him.
