My Best Friend Used a Billionaire to Ruin Me

Elyse picked the restaurant. Of course she did. It was a steakhouse in Midtown with dark wood, red leather booths, and lights so low you had to lean in to see anyone's face.

I wore a dove-grey dress. Soft fabric. High neck. Nothing sharp. It was the color of a woman who wouldn't fight back.

Drake was already seated. He didn't stand when I walked over. He looked me up and down, slowly, the way you look at a property listing.

"You're late," he said.

I was two minutes early. I had checked my phone in the cab.

"I'm so sorry," I said softly, and slid into the booth. "I didn't want to keep you waiting."

He smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. Same as the photos.

"I ordered for you. The filet. Medium."

I eat steak medium rare. "That sounds perfect."

The waiter brought his scotch. Neat. Drink one.

He talked, and I listened. He told me about a tower on Fifty-Seventh, a deal he crushed, a city councilman he called "a little man." I asked small questions. "How did you know he'd fold?" He liked that. He leaned forward every time I looked down at my plate. So I looked down a lot.

Drink two.

"Elyse says you work in compliance," he said. "Sounds boring."

"It is." I gave a small laugh. "Nothing like what you do."

"Do you like it?"

A test. I could feel it.

"I like that it's quiet. I'm not good with big personalities." I glanced up, then away. "Except maybe tonight."

His shoulders loosened. He spread his arm along the top of the booth like he owned it.

Drink three came with the dessert menu. The young waiter tipped a little water near Drake's sleeve. Drake went very still. His jaw locked. The waiter froze.

I touched Drake's wrist. Lightly. "Would you pick dessert for me? I can never decide."

The stillness broke. He looked at my hand, then at me. "The chocolate thing," he told the waiter, without looking at him. The waiter fled.

"You're different from what I expected," Drake said.

"What did Elyse tell you?"

"That you were sad. Fragile." He swirled his glass. "That you needed someone to take care of you."

Fragile. She'd sold me like a broken thing on clearance.

"Maybe she was right," I said quietly.

He reached into his jacket. A black card slid across the white tablecloth and stopped beside my fingers.

"Treat yourself this week."

It was heavy metal. Cold under my fingertip.

"Drake, I couldn't—"

"You can. I said so."

Not an offer. A command.

I picked it up. "Thank you," I whispered, and let my eyes go a little wet. "No one's ever done something like this for me."

"Good girl."

My stomach turned. I smiled anyway. In my head, I was already doing math. Mom's balance was $38,412. Ninety days past due. The billing office opened at eight.

---

The billing office smelled like burnt coffee and printer toner. The woman behind the glass knew my face. Usually I was asking for more time.

"Three months?" she said. "All of it?"

"All of it."

The machine beeped. Approved. She looked at the name on the card, then at me. She didn't say anything. Neither did I.

On the way there, I had stopped at a small credit union in Queens. No Kennedy money. No Kennedy board seat. I opened a savings account in my name only. No paper statements.

Mom was sitting up when I walked in. Thinner than last week. An IV taped to the back of her hand. She wore the blue scarf I bought her.

"You look tired," she said.

"You look worse," I said. She laughed, and the laugh turned into a cough.

We talked about the coffee. "It tastes like a radiator," she said. "But it's consistently terrible. I respect that." We talked about the nurse who hummed Motown. About the pigeon on her windowsill she'd named Gerald.

Two hours. Nothing heavy. She stopped asking about Nicholas weeks ago.

When I stood to leave, she caught my hand. Her grip was weaker than before.

"The billing lady stopped by. She said we're all caught up."

"I got a bonus."

She studied my face. Long and quiet, the way she did when I was twelve and lied about a broken lamp.

"Are you taking care of yourself, Mara?"

I smiled. "Yes, Mom."

She let go. She didn't believe me. She loved me enough to pretend.

---

Marcus Webb's office sat above a dry cleaner on West Thirty-Fourth. The stairs smelled like steam and starch. He was in his fifties, with a gray beard and reading glasses on a cord.

I set a folder on his desk. Elyse's full name. Her firm. Her LinkedIn printout. Columbia, Class of 2017. The GMAT score she bragged about at my birthday dinner. Her certifications.

"Who is she to you?" he asked.

"Does it matter?"

"Only if you plan to hurt her. Physically. Then I walk."

"I don't touch people," I said. "I read things."

He nodded slowly. "What do you need?"

"Every credential she's ever claimed. Checked against the original source. Registrar. Testing center. Licensing boards. Not what she says. What's on file."

"That takes time."

"You have three weeks."

He looked at me over his glasses. "Rush costs more."

I put an envelope on the desk. Cash. Pulled from an ATM that morning with a card that wasn't mine. He counted it twice, then slid it into a drawer.

"Three weeks," he said. No more questions.

At the bottom of the stairs, my phone buzzed. Drake.

Where are you?

Not hello. Not how was your day. Just where.

I typed: Running errands. Still thinking about last night.

Then I opened my notebook and wrote one line.

Day one. He checks my location within eighteen hours.