I was kind of surprised that Karen had invited me to her upper Manhattan brownstone Manhattan apartment. Yes, I had been there once before, but at night and in the dark, so I hadn't really gotten a good look at it, or her neighborhood. I had been interested in other things at the time. I had not taken any notice of her darkened apartment as we headed for her bedroom and a few hours of drunken revelry on her bed.

No doubt about it, her apartment, though only separated by miles geographically, was as different as night and day for my own studio apartment in Brooklyn. Even my cheap ass studio cost me two grand a month. My view? A cinderblock wall I could touch if I cared to open my crank windows and the backside of a bricked multi-unit apartment building dotted with window-mounted air conditioning units. I had done some checking. Her address on the upper west side, overlooking the northwestern boundary of Central Park, averaged over four grand a month. I shook my head. Must be nice to have that kind of money, where you didn't particularly have to worry about paying rent. Then again, I wondered why she didn't have a condo.

I sat in the back seat of a surprisingly clean and fresh-smelling taxi, contemplating the rationale for meeting her at her apartment, especially after the argument - quiet argument – we'd had nearly a week ago after she had finished "shopping" for me and we'd gone to have a drink at a downtown bar. The argument, if it could even be called an argument rather than strong disagreement, had started after she began to "explain" a rather convoluted background story for me. Of course, she wanted me to play the role of a billionaire businessman, but she had also proposed that I have a history of world travel, for my business of course, which would be the reason why I had no semi-permanent address in New York City that her father would supposedly check up on. She had me staying in a suite at one of New York's more expensive hotels uptown.

I had disagreed. "Let's keep it simple," I said. "The more details you and I have to remember, the more chances of us giving it all away."

One thing had led to another, with her once again reminding me that she was the boss, that she was paying me to play the part, and that she had complete control over the back- story because, after all, she knew her parents better than I did.

Finally, we have come to a semi-compromise. We agreed that my background story would be to, like her former fiancé, 'dabble' in imports and exports from Asia while I also 'dabbled' in the stock market, making a good bit of money from 'dabbling' in stocks for cutting-edge medical equipment, and that I had pretty much grown up in Thailand, only recently returning to live in the states full-time.

I still wasn't convinced that this was going to work. I mentioned that it wasn't difficult to check on someone's background; after all, these days, everybody left a digital footprint. Her response? That she knew someone, who knew someone, who again, knew someone who could create some "creative" documents for me; driver's license, credit cards, and so forth. That's where I put my foot down, and what led to the bulk of the argument.

"Absolutely not," I said, shaking my head. Was she crazy? "No way in hell am I going to be on the hook for any kind of fraud, you got that?" She had stared at me in startled surprise. "Seriously? I'm keeping my own identity, thank you very much."

"But you're working for a commodities trader! My parent's will find out if they so much as type your name into Google search!"

"No, it won't," I assured her. "I'm not even listed in the company's employee directory."

I sighed, striving for patience. This whole plan was growing more convoluted and ridiculous, almost to the point where I felt like backing away. Then again, between the money and well, her, it wasn't like I wasn't going to be rewarded for my troubles. Because, despite some of her less-than-desirable personality traits, and her impression that she could lord herself over me, I couldn't help the fact that I was attracted to her. Not only her physical beauty and voluptuous curves, but her. The more time I spent around her, the more aggravated she made me, the more I wanted to know her. Who was Karen Queen? Will the real Karen Queen please stand up?

I was fast gaining the impression that she kept so much of herself hidden. Self-protection? Lack of confidence? I had no idea, but I wanted to know more. I sighed, wondering how this was all going to turn out. By the time the cab dropped me off in front of her apartment building, I was once again wondering what the hell I was doing. Why had I allowed myself to be talked into this? I was allowing myself to be literally transformed into someone I wasn't.

I paid the cabbie, got out, and walked up the steps to the front door wearing faded blue jeans, a dark blue T-shirt, and Converse tennis shoes. When I wasn't wearing my cheap monkey suit for work, this was me. This was how I felt most comfortable. And why not? I hadn't grown up here in New York City. I had grown up in Oklahoma with a close-knit family. Actually, I had arrived in New York City two years ago to get away, to escape, to become invisible in the mass of humanity that tens of thousands called home. Tens of thousands of people, brushing by each other every day and yet so isolated. A year later, my parents had sold their house in Oklahoma City and moved to New Haven, Connecticut, and I knew why. Mom wanted to make sure I was okay. They weren't intrusive in my life, but they wanted to be nearby. Coming from such a close-knit family, I hadn’t been surprised by the move. Actually, it was nice to know my parents were nearby… a two-hour drive from the city in good weather.

I had broken up - or rather, she had broken up with me - two and a half years ago. I hadn't been in a serious relationship since. Helen had been the woman of my dreams, at first. But I had allowed her to take charge, at first because I didn't mind. But then, as she grew more controlling, more suspicious of the time I spent away from her, and even clingy-jealous, I had hesitated. I didn't admit it to anyone, not even to my parents, but I was a romantic at heart. I was idealistic, believed myself sensitive but not a pushover, and I had my standards. I am also particularly observant of human behaviors. That's why I knew Karen was putting up a front, a front behind who she really was and who she really could be.

I'd confronted her and she had laid into me like nobody's business. She showed her true face then, her true self. It was ugly and jealous and petty. She'd fooled me, hook, line, and sinker. Thank God, I had discovered the truth before she'd reeled me in. So, she'd dumped me and I left town. And here I was, struggling to 'make it' in the Big Apple.

Sure, I was frustrated by my boss's apparent efforts to hold me back from advancing, but for now, I wasn't bucking the system. I had quietly begun to put out feelers, and if nothing came of them in New York City, well, there was no law against me moving somewhere else, was there? My parents had sacrificed a lot to put me through college. Middle-class and hard-working, they had always been supportive of me. I hadn't lost sight of my goals and aspirations, but, and this was something that I had to admit to myself, this little interlude with Karen Queen had not only seemed like an interesting endeavor, but had turned into something much more personal. For me anyway.

After I was buzzed into the building and made my way to Karen's apartment, I decided that, for the time being at least, I would just go along with this and see how things played out. When she opened the door to her apartment and gestured for me to come inside, I did so, surprised. The apartment was large, by New York standards anyway, opening into a living room with wood floor, large glass windows overlooking the park, and furnished with modern, sleek furniture. Chrome, glass, and gray fabric. The kitchen to the right was just as austere; sterile mostly, nothing on the marble countertop. Not even a coffee machine. The place looked… generic. Immaculate. She probably had a maid. But the place lacked any sense of personality whatsoever. Nondescript landscape paintings in fancy frames on two of the living room walls. No photographs, no knickknacks, nothing that gave an indication of who Karen was or what she liked.

When I turned toward her, I saw her giving me the once over. Her expression didn't reveal any emotion whatsoever. She glanced up and met my eyes and then simply pointed down the short hallway that I did remember led to her bedroom. I felt a niggle in my groin. Really? We were going to dinner with her parents tonight. I wasn't looking forward to it, but she was offering a carrot…

I walked down the hall, she following just a few steps behind. I paused in the doorway and looked at the bed. No carrot, but obviously clothing that she had picked out for me, lying on the bed. I gritted my teeth. It bugged me that, at times, and more often than not, she attempted to treat me like I was her peon. A slave. A child. Just because I was playing this role didn't mean that she could treat me like this. Then again, if the drunken tryst that I had enjoyed, and that I was positive she had enjoyed, was anything to go by, the payoff would eventually be worth it.

The fact is, before that night I slept with Karen, I hadn't been with a woman since my breakup with Helen. I wanted this. Karen was a challenge, but despite the challenges, despite the wall she had built up around herself, I felt incredibly attracted to her. She had spunk. I almost laughed. Anyone who would stand up in the middle of a wedding ceremony, stone cold sober, and protest that wedding, was definitely a person worth getting to know, at least in my book.

"When you've finished dressing, we'll go over our story one more time before we leave."

I nodded and she closed the bedroom door. I quickly changed out of my comfortable clothes and into the clothing that I—we had chosen at the first men's clothing boutique we had gone to last week. At least the pants I wore weren't those God-awful skinny jeans. They were nice clothes, no doubt about it, but jeans were jeans, weren't they? I could've gotten them for fifty bucks at a local department store rather than her paying over three hundred dollars for them at the boutique. Oh well, it was her money to spend, wasn't it?

By the time I returned to the living room, Karen was pacing restlessly back and forth in front of the windows. She looked nervous and agitated. "What's wrong?"

She looked at me, her eyes wide, almost scared, until she gained control of her emotions. She waved a hand. "We can't mess this up."

"Nothing is going to get messed up." I assured her. "I've got this. Really."

"Tell me again a bit of your background."

I almost grumbled, but then realized she was truly nervous, probably more nervous than I was. The pressure was on me to make a good impression, to play the part. I did so. After all, I had done most of the research. "I grew up in the Khong Toei district of Bangkok, where my parents owned a modest medical practice. We returned to the United States and made our home in Oklahoma City, where I went to college, majoring in business. For personal reasons, I moved to New York City, where I have been whiling away my time working with a commodities trader."

"So how did you inherit billions of dollars?"

"Old family money. My great-grandfather was a silver baron who made it rich in Denver mining silver in the 1880s."

"But you're a millionaire… no, a billionaire. Why work?"

She had insisted that I come up with an answer to this question, whether her parents asked or not. "Someday, I want to open up my own trading commodities business. I need to know the business inside and out." Although that wasn't quite true, as I wasn't quite sure exactly what I wanted to do for the rest of my life, it suited my purposes for now.

"What if they want to meet your parents?"

I frowned. "Isn't it a little early for that?"

She shrugged. "With my parents, you never know."

This is another point over which we have argued. "I’m not telling them my parents are dead," I mumbled. “They live in New Haven but they’re alive and well and I talk to them at least once a week. That’ll look good, won’t it?” I knew Karen disagreed, but no way in hell was I telling her parents that mine were dead. “The distance will prevent your parents from thinking to dig too deep, and even if they do, it will be truth, at least the geographical part.”

"Okay, what if--"

I interrupted. "Stop stressing." She was hyped up, growing more nervous by the second. "Karen, why are your parents trying so hard to set you up?" She waved a hand, turning away from me, as if the question didn't matter.

"They've always pretty much controlled every aspect of my life," she admitted. She gestured to her apartment. "Where I live, where I went to school—"

"You went to college?"

"Of course I did!"

"What did you major in?" I asked. "And come to think of it, why don't you have a job? What do you plan on doing with the rest of your life?"

The expression on her face told me that perhaps I shouldn't have asked, but I wasn't going to back down. They were logical, rational, and understandable questions. I continued to stare at her, waiting.

"We don't have time for this, Ben. We have to meet my parents in an hour."

I said nothing, but stood with my arms crossed over my chest, waiting.

"Fine," she muttered. "I majored in fine arts, okay? And why am I not working? Because I'd rather shop, go to fashion shows and hang out with my friends at spa treatments. Anything wrong with that?"

"Why fine arts?" She stared at me as if I was nuts. She didn't reply, but shrugged away my questions.

"We need to go."

"Fine," I said. "But don't you think that's part of your history that I should know? What if your parents asked me something along those lines?"

"They won't."

"How do you know?"

"Because they've never asked me themselves. So why should they care?" She stood and stared out the window at the park, early dusk casting the deeper parts of Central Park into shadow. "Growing up, I loved going to the museums. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Natural History Museum… I had aspirations of becoming a curator someday, of fine art, but…"

"But what?"

She frowned and then offered a shrug. A lame shrug. I let it go. No sense in getting her all twitter-pated before dinner with her parents.