I'm in the penthouse suite of one of New York's most expensive hotels with a woman who has billions to her name. We've had half of a bottle of wine from her personal collection which I'm not even sure I could buy in America, let alone afford. My cheap lipstick is smeared on the lip of the expensive glass. Vivian is smiling at me with intimidating confidence. I'm forcing a nervous smile but can't meet her eyes for longer than a passing glance. Where was the confidence I'd found while we were flirting in the lounge? It seemed to evaporate as soon as she invited me up here. I'd said yes almost out of fear. You'd think the wine would be helping but I'm nearly shaking in my seat, legs together and feet turned inward like a schoolgirl. She sits across from me, legs crossed, one of her shoes dangling from the tip of her pantyhose-clad foot.
This huge room is suddenly getting too small for me. It's like the walls are falling in, approaching with some kind of ill-intent. The penthouse embodies austere opulence. New York is the essence of chaos. Vivian has an alien elegance. All I see is a contrast to everything I am. I feel I don't belong in this city. I know I'm not in her league.
By all rights, I shouldn't have even have been invited into this room.
This woman is in her early 40s and already has two CEO positions on her resume. She probably calls it a curriculum vitae, actually. She speaks 4 languages fluently and regularly visits every major cultural center in the world. She doesn't drive herself anywhere. She doesn't prepare her own meals. Vivian's job is telling people what to do. Her family has a fucking crest attached to their name. She's born into wealth that is older than New York itself. I bet that her personal net worth alone is enough to buy three blocks of the Upper East side and have enough left over to ensure the next three generations of her family never have to work. I think her outfit might be worth half my meager savings. Her personal residence is probably a chateau in France she only lives in for a few months out of the year. Penthouses like this one are her regular lodgings. Her idea of a getaway is probably renting a private island for a week.
So why me?
Driving a few hours from home to spend two nights in the cheapest room of this hotel is what I consider a memorable vacation. It's the most lavish thing I've ever done for myself. I have a little over a thousand dollars in debt for every one of my 22 years on this earth. I'll pay off my mortgage when I'm 60-something. I'm the kind of girl who would likely never have seen the inside of a penthouse suite in her life. I'm wearing my most expensive dress, a 500 dollar number with composite fabric. I was born to Sikh immigrants who sacrificed everything just to come to America. My family name is so common, that Vivian probably has hundreds of people working for her around the world with the same one. I'm the most successful person in my entire family as far back as my grandparents' grandparents and all I've done is publish two fantasy novels while working my way up to retail management. I'm from a small coastal town, where I'm considered super cultured just because my parents taught me a bit of Hindi and Punjabi, which I speak with a thick American accent. I live the simple life, and was raised to cherish the little pleasures I can find for myself.
None of this makes sense.
"You're overthinking, Manshi." The sound of my name surprises me. The sound of her voice almost makes me recoil. I realize I don't know how long I've been staring into my wine glass. I look up at her and see that intimidatingly confident smile hasn't changed. She's been watching me squirm in this lounge chair and it probably tickles her silly.
"Um... yeah. I'm sorry. This is just strange to me, I guess." I say, trying not to sound as pathetic as I feel.
"Why is it strange?" I think she knows why, but she's asking instead of reassuring me. I bet it's because she wants to find out if I'm honest enough to say it. I inhale what I feel might be the last deep breath I take in her presence. I want to be honest.
"Well, you... and I don't mean any offense... but you had me sign a non-disclosure agreement just to walk into the penthouse. You found me in the hotel lounge and had to dismiss your bodyguard after you spoke to me for 10 minutes." I inhale quickly. It's an almost shuddering breath. I feel like I'm about to hyperventilate, but I continue. "We hit it off but I'm not even sure why. The longest conversation we've had was about my vacation and the fact you just came back from a business deal in Dubai. Yes, we flirted. I loved hearing you speak French for me. Yes, said you're attractive. I even surprised myself at how comfortable I was being forward with you. But then, I didn't expect you to actually take a real interest. I figured it'd just be a cool story to tell my friends, you know? Like 'hey, one of the richest women in the world was hitting on me'. I wasn't expecting you to actually invite me up to your room... suite, I mean. I've never..."
I realize I'm talking way too fast and my voice is shaky. I look up at her. That smile is still on her face. I look away embarrassed.
"Sorry." That came out sounding so mousy.
"You've never what?" She speaks calmly but it sounds like a roar in comparison. Fuck. What was I even about to say? Her eyes leveled me.
"I've never... I've never been in a situation like this."
