Waking was a rude stream of light into my eyes. I blinked, rolled to the other side of the pillow, but the stream of light followed me. No, there would be no sleeping now.

Grudgingly rising, I opened my eyes to see that the curtains were open. Clark must have opened them when he got up, which seemed pretty inconsiderate when I had clearly been trying to sleep. Where was Clark, anyway? I scanned the room, then walked out of the room into the hallway, but there was no sign of him.

Hearing a far-off voice, I went back to the room to pull on my dress, and then went down the marble stairs in the direction it was coming from. I found Clark in a dark office room, his tense face lit up by the laptop he was furiously typing on. Catching sight of me, he smiled and nodded, before returning to his typing frenzy.

I stood there for a moment, the heat rushing to my cheeks, wondering what to do.

“I guess I’ll be going, Clark,” I finally said, turning on my heel to go.

“Kristin, wait!” Clark said, and I paused.

“You never gave me your bank account number,” he said.

I gaped at him, at his crass easy smile, then came to the desk and scrawled it on a piece of paper.

Putting the pen down, I looked up, only to find him focused on his laptop, typing away.

“It was great to catch up with you,” he said to his computer.

I said nothing. I padded upstairs, grabbed my purse, put on my bra and panties, pulled my dress over my head and left.

As I walked away from the massive wooden house, the light streaming on my dress revealed that it was still pure white and clean. Which was funny, since I felt as dirty as ever. I felt dirty and disgusting and stupid. I felt tricked.

The sun was beating down on me, burning in the realization that this morning made obvious, shoved in my face in all its undeniable form. Clark didn’t care for me in the slightest. I was just another distraction to keep him occupied when he wasn’t working. I was just a hit of nostalgia to beef up his already considerable ego. That was all.

As I walked along the road, my phone rang but I didn’t answer it, didn’t even look to see who was calling. Did it matter?

And here I had thought my humiliation couldn’t get any worse. This, here, now, having slept with a man who didn’t care for me, this was worse.

By the time I got to the end of the forest road, I called a taxi and waited. I was in no mood for searching out a bus. I just needed to go home now.

When the taxi pulled up, I threw myself in the passenger side. Avoiding the friendly blue-eyed gaze of the driver, I told the window my address, and then we were off. I held back my tears for the entirety of the ride, imagining the ruckus of paparazzi who would be waiting for me, who would somehow know what had happened already, who would twist the knife in my heart even more.

It seemed like hours had passed before we finally pulled up to the curb a block down from my building and I paid the driver. I approached the building cautiously, thankful that there was no press outside. I rushed up to my apartment and with a twist of the key I had done it. I was inside my apartment, safe.

Now that I was alone, the tears came. As I took off my shoes and sat on the floor, they rolled down my face and dribbled onto my stupid white dress.

Romeo and Juliet, roused from their sleep, trotted up to me to demand food, which, in an unthinking autopilot, I poured out for them. Then, the only thing to do was hurry to my room and throw myself in bed.

When I woke up it was dark out, and I had three voicemail messages on my phone. The first was from Clark: “Hey, you left without saying goodbye. Anyway, if you check your bank account, you’ll see that I transferred you the money. I had a great time with you Kristin, and I’d like to see you again. Would you be free to go away this weekend? Pack some clothes if you’re up for it!”

After staring at my phone for a minute, I replayed the message several times, each time trying to see if I was just imagining the eagerness in his voice, the affection.

Could it be that I had overreacted, that Clark really did care about me after all?

I opened up my laptop and opened a browser window. In any case, first things first: I had to see if Clark had really kept his word, if that impossible sum—one million dollars—was really in my bank account.

As soon as the page loaded, my jaw dropped. There it was, the impossible sum. Now, my bank account statement read: $1,000,075, courtesy of the big fat $75 I had had in there before. Clark had kept his word and now, my troubles were over.

I glanced at my phone and the litany of texts I had yet to respond to, some from work friends and a ton from Veronica. Thanks to Clark’s payment, all my money problems were at least over.

I stood up and walked over to my window and opened it. The fresh air brought me some clearer thinking, made this whole thing seem more real. Now, however, came the question of if I would take Clark up on the other part of his message—whether I would agree to see him again. He had acted rudely the morning after we had had sex for the first time—the morning after I had had sex for the first time at all—and I was angry about that.

I replayed his message again and sighed.

Perhaps Clark had just been unsure what to say that morning, or had had some urgent one-time business to attend to. After all, I had never asked him about what he had been doing, or even given him a chance to explain himself. Yes, that’s what I would do. I would get an explanation on Friday, and then make my decision then.

So, I texted Clark: Friday we can meet. Where? and then set about taking a shower and getting myself some food. The shower’s hot water was another wake-up boost, the little beads of warmth relaxing me and reassuring me that, as far as Clark was concerned, I had made and was making the right choice. The food—raisin toast with ample margarine—improved my mood even more. By the time I went back to check my phone, I was in such high spirits, that Clark’s quick response, Great, I’ll pick you up. I’m really glad I get to see you again! had me skipping around my room.

The next few days were more waiting and avoiding. I paid my outstanding bills and then I set to getting ready. I packed and repacked my suitcase three or four times, splurged on a few new outfits to see me through the weekend, and also tried out different makeup styles on myself. Romeo and Juliet were restless too, and had taken to pacing as I did. Meanwhile, I was still getting the odd call from tabloid reporters and Veronica, none of which I answered. My clients seemed to have accepted that I would be away from work for the considerable future.

By the time Clark’s red sports car pulled up in front of my building on Friday, I had practically gone stir-crazy from being all cooped up. So, I ran up to it and hopped in. As we took off, Clark turned to me with an easy smile.

“I have a confession to make.”