This Crazy Rich Boy

This is crazy, Claire thinks, as she opens the door to her apartment. One moment, you're in a posh, incredibly luxurious mansion, the next moment, you're back to reality—here in this incredibly average apartment, in this average neighborhood, with people whose concerns never went beyond questions such as "What happened to the wifi?" or "What's on Netflix tonight?"

One moment you're in the seat of power; the next moment, you're back on the sidelines.

Ah, life, Claire sighs. What have I gotten myself into?

If you told her two days ago that she would be serving one of the world's leading, most famous captains of industry, Claire wouldn't have believed you. Not in a million years. But now. Everything that happened in the past two days is hard to believe. Her mother would never believe that Claire Monteverde is not engaged to Gabriel Tan—THE Gabriel Tan. She can see her mother's face exploding in a million pieces if she tells her. But then again, there's no reason to—it's a fake engagement after all. It's best if this comes and goes without altering so much of her life. At the end of the month, if she can survive all this, she'll take the money Gabriel pays her, and leave. Simple as that.

That's what she keeps telling herself. It's all simple. It's all a job. There are tasks she must do, and even the most complicated ones are do-able. Surely, she has done more difficult tasks like the present one. But more and more, she feels it's not really simple. There are intangible consequences to everything she does, to every task Gabriel ȧssigns her. And wait a minute—wasn't she supposed to only work as his "personal ȧssistant", his "girl Friday"? What happened, how did it all end up like this—and for only two days? It's a crazy whirlwind of events and circumstances.

It's late morning, so there's no one in the apartment. Lena must be in the city library or the nearest Starbucks, writing her latest tale of woe. Karen must be with Russell in some out-of-town trip, maybe in some beach enclave, shagging each other's brains out. While it's usually men who kiss and tell, but Karen's an exception: she loves describing to Claire even the smallest details of her sėxcapades, and she doesn't stop even when Claire flatly tells her to shut it. Karen has no self-awareness, and sometimes it drives Claire to the very brink of sanity. Add Karen's boyfriend, Russell, to the mix, whose idea of boundaries must be the same as Hitler's, and you have a truly incendiary situation in the apartment.

These rare moments of solitude are what Claire enjoys. She can do anything she wants. She doesn't have to be self-conscious of her behavior, afraid of being judged, even by the two girls whose own life decisions are not exactly good. Now, for example, she drops her bag on the floor and throws herself on the sofa. Her own version of "Netflix and chill" is literally just chilling while binge-watching Netflix. There's an old romantic comedy, 'Love Actually', that's on, so she starts playing it. After a while, she feels the munchies, so she goes to the pantry and rifles through the fridge for some left-over lasagna. But there's none, so she checks the cupboard, finds a large bag of Dorito's, and tears it open. She takes a can of Coke, and plants herself right in front of the TV. Ah, this is the life. Not the high-powered, jet-setting lifestyle of the likes of Gabriel Tan, but this: A few moments of alone time in front of the TV, with a can of soda and a big bag of chips. Claire's doesn't dėsɨrė more. She doesn't even feel guilty consuming junk food—blessed with an exceptionally fast metabolism, Claire has never piled on the pounds, except in all the bright places, such as the brėȧsts and the hɨps.

The Dorito's is gone just as the movie reaches its cheerful climax. Claire flips through the apps on the smart TV, and runs Spotify. Al Green's "Let's Stay Together" starts playing. Claire thinks: I've been so stressed out these past few days, why not let my hair down? Totally relax. There's no one else in the apartment anyway, so who will judge? Claire disappears into the bathroom and comes back in her bra and pȧntɨės, with beautifying gel mask on her face and a couple of cucumber slices, which she carefully places on each of her eyes as she lies on the sofa.

That's it. Total relaxation. She missed this. These quiet moments of undisturbed peace. Events of the past two days run through her mind. Gabriel Tan, the proposal, the sudden, awkward turn of events when suddenly she had to go to that party. Gabriel didn't even warn her she'd be playing as his fake fiancée. She would have strongly opposed that, but it all happened so fast that there was simply no chance to deflect it. As they say, opportunity unfolded, and she only had to rise to the occasion. Or was it? She had yet to know whether her decision to play along Gabriel Tan's bullshit would be for her own long-term good, or would it burn her and nip her career—if she had any—in the bud. But for now, all those worries are a thousand miles away. She doesn't even want to think about it. She just wants to lie here, on this sofa, wearing nothing but undėrwėȧr, with Al Green singing about love and longing and interminable sadness.

She must have been lying there for a long time. She has lost count of the minutes or hours. But at one point, she became aware of a presence—no, of someone breathing, standing nearby. She senses it even when her eyes are closed. Her arms feel like pins and needles, and yet, she wills them to move and maneuver towards her eyes to remove the cucumber slices covering her eyelids. She slowly opens her eyes and tries to make sense of her surroundings. Things start to pull into focus. She looks up and fear clutches her throat.

Russell, Karen's boyfriend, is standing there, watching her, with that half-assed grin on his face.