You know me, Marriott. But for now, just read this. Pay attention to the details. And don’t you dare judge me until you’ve read every single last one of my words.
I’ll start from the beginning.
CHAPTER FOUR
Fourteen Months Before the Ruin
The day was May 22, 2019. That was the day when my plans were truly going to kick in. I had just turned twenty-seven and was ready to conquer the world.
It was hot as hell in downtown Miami, the air thick with humidity and the wind blowing with gusts from the salty ocean.
I collected my bag from the passenger seat—a purple handbag I found on the clearance rack at Target. After applying another coat of lip gloss while looking in my visor mirror, I fingered through my hair to loosen my soft, natural curls and then climbed out of my two-door Honda Civic.
I dressed as flashily as my budget would allow. I’d found a black dress that hugged my waist on the clearance rack at my job at Banana Republic and a pair of open-toed heels from Target. The dress was strapless, and because I had a follow-up appointment, I didn’t need a bra.
I walked up to the door of Maxwell Aesthetics and swung it open. A woman with twists in her hair greeted me behind the counter. “Good morning. How can I help you?”
“I have a follow-up appointment with Dr. Maxwell at ten.”
“And what is your name?” the woman asked, already typing on the keyboard in front of her.
“Ivy Elliot.” My last name wasn’t Elliot, but you know that. That’s my mother’s maiden name.
The woman typed my name on the keyboard and then nodded. “Okay. I’ve got you signed in, Miss. Elliot. Dr. Maxwell will be with you shortly. Would you like a cool beverage while you wait?”
“No, thank you. I appreciate the offer, though.” I took a seat in the waiting area. It had a man’s touch. Upholstered black leather sofas, glass tables with sharp silver corners, and square mirrors on the white walls.
As I waited, I bunched my breasts together and looked down, focusing on my cleavage. I had to get used to that. Dr. Maxwell had done a wonderful job with my breast implants, but it had cost me a pretty damn penny.
I’d saved up all last year to get them specifically from Dr. Maxwell, and also dug into the money I had been saving when I was receiving my government assistance checks to kick-start the fund myself.
You would say this was a waste of money, but . . . well, I considered it necessary for everything I had in store. A little over the top? Yes. But I needed it for many reasons.
My surgery was six weeks before. My breasts were now two sizes bigger and I even had to go up a shirt size. The healing process was a bitch and I had to take off work the first week, but I didn’t mind it. I was tired of being an A-cup anyway.
I’m pretty sure I’ve told you about how annoyed I was with my tiny breasts a time or two. You always told me to love my body. Well, Marriott, no one loved a boy’s body, and now that I knew who Lola was, I found myself regretting the sleeve of tattoos on my left arm that I’d gotten while in college. Ink drawings on my skin of geometric shapes, leaves, roses, and crescent moons. My sleeve took me a year to complete. I was proud of it at one point because it was made of some of my favorite things. Now? Not so much. Rich people—the type in Lola’s world—didn’t have sleeves of tattoos, but perhaps mine would make me stand out more.
“Ivy Elliot.” A deep voice carried through the waiting area, and I picked up my head, spotting the ever-so-handsome Corey Maxwell standing near his office door.
I smiled and stood as elegantly as possible. My chin was raised and my eyes were locked right on his. He smiled at me as I approached.
“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Ivy.” His smile was warm. Infectious. Dimples creased his cheeks. I loved a man with dimples. Did you know dimples are a genetic defect? And yet people with them are much, much cuter than those without. To me, at least.
“Thank you for fitting me into your schedule,” I said, entering his office. “I know how busy you are.”
“It does get busy around here, but you are my client.” He glanced at my chest. “I trust you are enjoying your new luxuries?”
I did the laugh I had practiced in the mirror—the flirtatious giggle that would make him feel good and stroke his ego. I’d once read about flirtatious laughter in a magazine. Men loved when pretty women laughed at their jokes, no matter how corny the jokes were.