9. Ray

The thick, heavy weight of embarrassment sat on my shoulders as I stared at Wade's stupid compendium. I knew he could see me, and I could've shut the blinds if I wanted to, but I couldn't bring myself to get out of my seat after what I'd just practically begged him for. The only thing I wanted to do was put my head down, scream into a pillow, and cry.

"Bunny" after bunny, I read their bios. The only positive I would give him was that he hadn't explained their bodies in graphic detail for his own pleasure. It was purely who they were, what they did, and what they liked. It was still mind-numbing though. Managing his women was the worst part of my day, and now it was my entireday.

It seemed like every day was getting harder and harder. Wade was infuriating, and although he'd granted me a request I greatly appreciated, he was still an ass. A difficult man, obsessed with his own looks and how many women he could bed, making my role as his assistant nearly unbearable.

I knew I couldn't do this long term. It was sucking the life out of me so much so that when I got home every day and relieved the nurse I didn't have the energy or mental capacity to care for Mom properly. She shouldn't have to suffer just because I was.

I need a new job.

Just the idea of it was exhausting to admit. This job was arguably perfect in every way—great pay, great flexibility. But if it was going to beat me down this much within the first few weeks, I couldn't afford to keep it. I couldn't afford to burn out.

Forcing myself to look away from his god-awful bunny roster, I pulled out Chloe's binder and opened up my email instead. The least I could do was sort out a few things for her, and it wouldn't be such a horrible task for me. These were the kinds of things I was used to doing—liaising with vendors and staff, scheduling, booking out rooms and hiring people. Not picking out a woman for my boss to sleep with for the next five weeks.

A few vendors had returned my emails requesting quotes for the wedding. All of them were ones Chloe had highlighted in her binder, and upon looking at the astronomical price tag of some of them, the air left my lungs. Did she have any idea how much they charged? Six figures for the dinner had to be a joke, right?

Hastily, I flipped through the pages of the binder, desperately searching for something that highlighted a budget. Photos of wedding dresses, layouts for tables, guest lists. Page after page of nothing helpful for the situation.

Fuck it.

I stood, pushing my chair behind me, and walked out of my office, turning sharply to shove Wade's door open—screw knocking. I needed an answer if I was going to do this properly, and he was the only one who had the ability to help.

He looked up from his desk with wide eyes, halfway through a sentence over a video meeting, and what I had done slowly washed over me.

"One second," he said to the camera. I watched as he slid the mouse, clicking what I could only assume was the mute button for his microphone. "I thought you were a knocker, Ray."

"What the fuck is the budget for Chloe's wedding?" I blurted, taking a step toward him. "I'm getting quotes back from vendors and they are astronomically high?—"

"There isn't one."

I froze, staring him dead in the eyes. I couldn't fathom someone dropping seven figures on a wedding. Considering the sheer volume of vendors quoting in the upper five-figures to low six figures range, it would easily tip over a million dollars. "You have to be joking."

"There's not a budget. Can I get back to my meeting now?"

"Do you realize I'm getting quotes from vendors ranging from eighty-thousand to three-hundred-thousand?" I pressed. The figures themselves were mind-boggling when added up. Sure, celebrities that had millions or billions of dollars would drop that much, but a ski resort owner? Surely that had to be the majority of his money.

Wade leaned forward as he turned his screen away from him, rubbing at his temples as if I were the insane one in the situation. "That is perfectly fine. Just agree to the quotes they're giving, Ray."

Wade suddenly seemed far away, like I was locked in some kind of daze and unable to fully understand. How was this okay and not a horrifying realization for him? "It'll be well over a million, added up," I breathed. I looked him dead in the eye, the only thing grounding me. Everything else felt like it was turning on an axis.

"Ray," he sighed. "I understand that amount seems like a lot to you?—"

"Seems like a lot?" I snapped. "Spending that kind of money just doesn't make sense. How can food cost two hundred thousand dollars for one hundred people? How can flowers cost even more than that? Maybe it's a typo. It has to be."

"It's not."

"I'm just supposed to agree to these figures?"

"It's not your money to spend," he said, the smallest grin cracking. "What Chloe wants, Chloe gets. I have more than enough to cover it."

A hard lump formed hot and tangy in my throat. "You have more than three million?"

"Has it really taken you that long to figure that out?"

"I need to lie down."

"Ray. I, alone, have enough money that Chloe's wedding won't make a dent in it." He stood, leaning forward on his desk. "My parents are funding most of it anyway. It's fine. Now can I go back to my meeting, please?"

It's fine. Three million dollars is fine. Never in my wildest dreams would three million dollars be an acceptable amount to drop on anythingbesides Mom. How did he have that much money and manage to be so nonchalant about it? How did anyone have that much money and not realize how absolutely horrible the rest of us peasants had it?

I stumbled back, retreating, and slammed the door on my way out. I didn't want to look at him, not when all I saw was someone so casual about his apparent wealth when I was barely struggling to get by. Not only was he an ass, but a rich one at that.

No wonder women wanted him long-term. They wanted his bank account.

Everything felt like too much as I shut myself in my office. My anxiety was peaking, burying me under wave after wave of stress and adrenaline, and all I wanted was to be alone and talk to my mom. I wanted the mom I had when I was eighteen, the mom who was knee-deep in love with my dad, the mom who knew who I was every day of the week and took care of me instead of the other way around.

I grabbed the string for the blinds, tugging it harshly, and watched as they cascaded down, blocking me from Wade's view. The potted plant that sat adjacent to my door became my doorstop, blocking him from coming in. My jacket, bundled and stuffed against my face, became a pillow to scream into. But I didn't have a bed to cry myself to sleep in. Didn't have a shower to wash away the sting.

I grabbed my phone from my desk and sat down, breathing heavy, hands shaking. I called my mom.

I watched on the monitor as the caregiver fumbled around the couch cushions for the ringing phone. Once found, she put it in Mom's hand, helping her swipe to answer.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Mom," I croaked. The backs of my eyes burned already. "I miss you."

"I don't think this is for me," Mom said quietly, her voice distant. On the monitor I watched as she turned to her caregiver, offering her the phone. The caregiver pushed it back. "Are you sure?"

"Mom? It's me, Ray."

The sound of shuffling leaked through the phone as she lifted it to her ear again. "I'm sorry, who?"

The knot in my throat flared. "Raylene. Ray. Your daughter." I sniffled and wiped the back of my hand against my leaky nose.

"I don't think I have a daughter," Mom said, the confusion dripping from her words like she'd lost her way in the fog. "I'm sorry, honey, I think you have the wrong number. My name is Jane."

"I know it is," I whimpered. "Jane Harleson. I'm your daughter, Raylene Harleson."

"That can't be right. That can't be," she murmured, turning to her caregiver once again. She only nodded in response. "Adam and I didn't have any children."

"You did. You do. Me," I pressed.

"I don't want to argue with you."

"I don't either, Mom." I fought against the hurt, forcing myself to breathe, forcing myself to try to be okay with it. "I love you and I miss you. That's all I wanted to say."

"That"s… very nice of you to say, but The Price Is Right is just about to start?—"

I couldn't do it, couldn't handle it.

I choked back my sob as I hung up on her, placing the phone face down on the desk. Such a conversation wasn't new or unusual, but every time it seemed to hurt even more. It was happening more frequently, at least a few times a day at a minimum, if not an entire day altogether. She wasn't Mom when she was like this. She didn't feel like the one who raised me, the one who taught me everything, the one who made me into the person I had become. The woman she was now was a shell of herself, and subsequently, so was I.