The Billion-Dollar Birthday Party
Part 1: The Ghostwriter
The icing on the chocolate cake was thick and uneven, a testament to my amateur baking skills and my complete lack of patience for perfection. I wiped a smudge of fudge from my cheek with the back of my hand, adjusting the “World’s Okayest Mom” apron that hung loosely over my gray sweatpants. To the world, or at least to the neighbors who saw me dragging the recycling bin to the curb every Tuesday, I was Sarah Reynolds: freelance writer, single mom, and connoisseur of boxed wine.
My house was a modest, single-story bungalow with a porch that needed painting and a lawn that was more clover than grass. It was comfortable. It was quiet.
And most importantly, it was mine. “Mom! Is he here yet?”
Leo, my ten-year-old son, bounded into the kitchen.
His face was already smeared with a pre-emptive taste of frosting. He was vibrating with the specific frequency of birthday adrenaline. “Any minute, bug,” I said, smoothing his hair.
“Do me a favor? Try not to wipe your hands on the sofa.”
The doorbell rang. Leo gasped and sprinted toward the door, his sneakers squeaking on the hardwood.
I took a deep breath. I mentally armor-plated my emotions. Mark was here.
I walked to the door just as Leo threw it open. “Daddy!”
Mark stood on the porch, looking like he had stepped out of a GQ spread. His suit was a charcoal three-piece, tailored to within an inch of its life.
His shoes were polished to a mirror shine. On his wrist was a Rolex that cost more than my car. Hanging onto his arm like an expensive accessory was Chloe.
She was younger, blonde, and dressed in a way that screamed “I have money” without whispering “I have taste.” Logos were everywhere—Gucci belt, Prada bag, Chanel sunglasses perched atop her perfectly blown-out hair. “Hey, kiddo,” Mark said, patting Leo on the head without actually hugging him, careful not to wrinkle his jacket. He checked his watch.
“Happy double digits.”
“Hi, Mark,” I said, leaning against the doorframe. “Chloe. You found the place okay?”
Chloe wrinkled her nose as she stepped inside, her eyes scanning the living room.
She took in the scuffed coffee table, the pile of laundry on the chair, and the general lived-in chaos of a home occupied by a ten-year-old boy. “It wasn’t hard,” Chloe said, her voice thin and airy. “Though the GPS kept trying to take us to the service road.
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